#A Rabbit Named Kyle

[thatsbelievable]

[a-couple-of-notes]

why write something for a movie you unequivocally enjoy when you instead can write something for a movie that deeply frustrated you on so many levels that you cannot bear to watch it even for research purposes and which only fits the prompt in the most insane of metaphorical stretches?

[arc-angel-o]

Cruel Coincidence

A drabble about the end of episode 5 from Dispatch's perspective, with a soulmate twist, similar to my older RabbitToad drabble, Karma

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | part twenty-two preview

Five days. They're still here. You realize what's taking them so long; they're collecting food, drying meat into jerky and simmering wild strawberries into jams that Nereida cans. They have quite a lot of supplies with them. One of Kyle's backpack's is filled with ammo and another is stuffed with medicine. 

Kyle is easy to talk to. Nereida, too. Price—however—seems like he doesn't know what to think of you. Or maybe you're too insignificant to have crossed his mind much. 

That's fair. You don't need to all be friends.

Blue seems to like Ari. He's thirteen, two years older than her, which is evident in the way her head reaches his shoulders. She doesn't even say hi to you in the morning. Instead she shows him all her magazines and even the rabbits. He decides to name one Rocky, a friend for Grim. You can't be bothered; she needs another friend. Ghost isn't keen about them alone together, though. You heard him mutter to Kyle—keep an eye on him, Gaz.

The threat of summer starts to invite more and more sweat down your neck. Your hair has gotten so long. After tossing and turning on Ghost's bedroom floor, it became a nest of tangles. When Nereida, Ari, and Blue go for a dip in the pond, you go with them and soak it, then let the water settle so you can stare at your reflection. Blade sharpened, you saw a few inches off. Better. More practical. 

"I thought you were going to cut more," Blue comments.

"I don't want it that short, or else it's harder to braid."

As the two kids keep swimming, Nereida finds bunches of rosemary and seems more excited than you'd be about it. 

"It helps fight off odors," she explains when you ask. "Like when I have my period, so the Greys can't smell it as much."

When she puts it that way, you grab some, too. Then you start wondering about her and John. Do they have sex? They must. You've seen the way they are. Kisses to their shoulder and neck, arms around each other's waist. You've stared a few times only to catch yourself and quickly look away. How do they avoid pregnancy? You highly doubt either of them want to bring a new child into the world. You wouldn't.

Ari and Blue lay in the sun together. You scoot away to give them space, but overhear some of their conversation, anyway.

"Your dad is so cool."

Blue plays with a piece of her hair. "Oh? You think so?"

"Have you seen him? He's a beast. My uncle told me he got his name because no one could see him coming before he killed them."

"He can be a pain in my ass sometimes," Blue mutters. Her nose scrunches. "But he's taught me a lot of things. I'm pretty good with knives."

"Damn, I gotta see that."

She is beaming. "I'll show you when we get back."

Then, she leans over and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is, he smiles and shakes his head in response.

She pulls away, sighing. "I wish you guys could just stay here."

Or maybe your dad will make us go with them, you think to yourself. In a way, it's comforting, that he is secretive with her, too. He still hasn't brought up the topic again. Either he hasn't decided, or he doesn't actually plan on keeping you updated. You try your best not to ruminate, but it's hard not to, especially when you have a hard time falling asleep on floorboards and are left with your thoughts in the dark. 

Which is why you're not feeling thrilled by the time you go into his room. He's already lying in bed, one hand bent behind his head while the other props open a book. He looks comfortable. Almost normal, even.

"How do you sleep with the mask on?" you remark, kicking off your shoes. 

His eyes lift from the page briefly. "Like a baby."

"How come Kyle has seen you without it and not me?"

His jaw flexes. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Twix."

"And mental sanity doesn't suit you."

A light huff. Then, "Nice haircut."

When the room is dark, Ghost must get tired of hearing you toss and turn. He flicks on the small lamp, and you squint from the sudden light, stuffing the pillow over your head. There's shuffling before a hand rips the pillow from your face and tosses it onto the bed.

"Just get in the fucking bed. I won't bite." The sight of him standing above you, sweatpants low on his hips, consumes your vision. His voice is low but demanding.

"What, together?"

"I want good sleep. M'not going to get it on the floor, or listening to you up all night, so get in." His eyes peer down at you, half-lidded, before he lowly adds, "I'll be a gentleman, if you're worried."

You lift up and ignore the offer of his hand. "I'm not worried."

To protest would be embarrassingly juvenile when both him and you know you want to sleep there. Yet—your heart thickens. He watches as you crawl into the bed where the ceiling slants, tucking yourself under the quilt and curling against the very edge so that your knees float over it. The springs groan to your left and then heady warmth spills over you. Ghost keeps to his side, flat on his back, with his hands lying on his chest. His elbow pokes into your back no matter how carefully you try to inch away, and his thigh just barely brushes against your backside. 

The bastard doesn't say a word, nor does he make an effort to give you more space so you screw your eyes shut and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. 

[godihatethiswebsite]

18+ – The 141 take bets on No Nut November

CW: alcohol, breeding kink, cam girl, edging, slight Ghoap

Frothy pints drip condensation onto tacky laminate in the back corner of the local pub. Four men glance around at their companions with self assured smirks, so sure it’s them going home with the generous wad of cash piled high in the middle of the table.

Only one of them is right.

John 'breeding kink' Price is the first to lose No Nut November, rutting into the pillow wedged beneath his hips less than a week in with a feral primality driven towards a singular instinctual purpose. Desperate grunts and growls muffled by soft plaid sheets mimic tender flesh trapped between drooling canines. All those years of self-discipline don't mean shit once he eyes a pretty young thing wobbling down the aisles of the shop with a basket full of formula and a ripe round belly – swollen, heavy, fixed to pop. Fertile.

Simon is the next to drop outta the race, earbuds keeping the siren songbird all to himself in the paper thin confines of his rustling tent; the shy dove with her dark flushed cheeks and whimpering mewls who posts on Thursday nights to get herself through university making his rifle-calloused palm keep pace with the sparkly battery-powered rabbit lewdly shlicking between her folds, the 'top donator' headline flashing victorious on his screen keeping her chanting his name with each shuddering orgasm. 

Kyle nearly makes it the whole month – stupidly proud of himself for it too. Stumbling out of the barracks last year at 3am wearing the evidence of the vampire he'd brought back from the bar (watch still stuck on Bogota time) having cut his chances off real quick. This year is gonna be different. Pure determination; a marksman’s precision. No more slip-ups. Too bad his cousin's stag night rolls around three days before December, the charming temptress spinning her seductive web in neon stilettos leading his intoxicated form behind a beaded gossamer curtain, a couple hundred poorer and his heartbeat in his pants.

Fast forward to the back of the pub.

A pair of twinned groans concede defeat to the youngest sergeant, muttered insults barked without bite into the dark malty liquid of their drinks with half hearted regrets at being bested. Yet while the other two may relent in their failed endeavors, the chastised clicking of a tongue stops Kyle’s outstretched hand from collecting his winnings.

Stunned eyes shoot towards the uncharacteristically chatterless Scotsman across the table. After all, no one ever suspects Johnny. Why would they? Big dumb mutt always flapping his gob, chasing after anything on two legs that’ll give him the time of day. The least serious member of the unit with a nose for mischief and a taste for easy women. Poor pup just can’t help it if he has trouble keeping his leaky red rocket to himself. There’s no point in even entertaining the idea really.

But that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? Ever since basic – when he was just some punk kid from the outskirts of Glasgow spouting too many words with too much nonchalance. Mentally writing him off as anything but the squadron’s class clown. Counting him out before he’s even had a chance to tap in. 

They forget he’s one of them sometimes; honed, sharpened, regimented to perfection. A sniper’s focus mixed with advanced pyrotechnic chemistry. Analytical interest bottled in an understimulated mind. There’s a stubbornness in his veins that begs for a challenge – that thrives in the environment of other people’s miscalculations. 

Think he can’t do it? Watch him surpass expectations. Tell him not to cum for a month? Fucking bet. Thanks for the hefty sum sitting fat in his wallet. Tough luck boys. Next round’s on me.

Besides, it’s not like the other members know about the long nights spent with his head tipped back against the headboard fisting his angry red cock, edging himself for glorious hour after hour to relieve the stress of a hard fought mission. 

Well, except Simon that is…

Masterlist

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Life's Sweet Bells

A COD Farm Sim AU with some omegeverse splashed in!

Meet the Town!

John Soap Mactavish - Clean and green, with a scent like shortbread and rose,  you can see how the wiley alpha Soap got his nickname. Soap runs the neighboring livestock farm. Soap specializes in critters big and small, from velvety eared rabbits to towering horses. He prides himself in his work, and his animals usually run best in show for the town's yearly festivals. When not at the farm, Soap can be seen chatting it up at the blacksmith's or having an evening pint at the inn. With a friendly smile and sunkissed skin, could Soap be your first friend??

John Price. Or rather Captain, formerly. John is an alpha that once ran the town's mines with a tight efficiency. Slaying the monsters therein and emerging with jewels and ores a plenty. Since the town's devastating earthquake the mines have since been closed. John stubbornly remains, clearing the mines on his own. Though his ink and coffee scent permeates the artifacts wing of the local museum, a responsibility he shares  with Alex. John is considered an expert in monsters and hidden treasures. During down time John is down at the docks with Farah and Nik.

Simon Ghost Riley. Formerly Price's right hand in the mines, and now the town's blacksmith, Ghost stands tall and aloof. Pale arms lined with scars, and soot stained fingertips. Some say his room is lined with awards for his craft. Ghost can make anything, and is responsible for a lot of specialty items for the whole village, special swords and crossbows for Price. Stronger tools and equipment for Gaz. He doesn't say much to you when you show up, and you assume the mask is to protect his face, though he never takes it off.  What's more odd is the syrupy sweet scent buried under all the brimstone. 

Kyle Gaz Garrick. Kyle is a master of his craft and does the bulk of the repairs and renovations around the village. (As well as some of its more charming cosmetics) With the help of Ghost and Price, Gaz is slowly but surely piecing the town back together after the earthquake. Kyle is renown in town for his delicate work and eye for detail. Despite popular beliefs Kyle is a calm and laid back Alpha, with a fresh and citrusy scent that's almost hypnotic. Kyle is one of the first to come to the new farm, providing a few extra tools he had laying around to help you get started. He's ecstatic to have a new face around town!

Nikolai? Nobody seems to know his last name, but he seems to be well liked in town. Nikolai was once a traveling merchant, never staying in one place for too long. He made his way by selling rare and unique wares. Since the earthquake the alpha has settled in town on a more permanent basis. Nik now runs a beautifully crafted bathhouse so those hard workers of the village can rest their weary bones, while still having a handful of new and rare items to sell each week. There seems to be more to the alpha that meets the eye. 

Kate Laswell. Kate is the town physician. A no nonsense beta who is chronically scraping townsfolk off the ground when they fail to take care of themselves properly. She's lovely, but so very tired. When Kate isn't at the clinic she assists her wife with running the inn. 

Farah is a fisherman extraordinaire, and has been a godsend with getting supplies in and out of the village while the bridges were out. While Farah doesn't brag, tales of her adventures are written on the scars on her toned tanned arms. While goods and services aren't her day to day now, Farah still heads out on her boat each day with Alex in tow.

Alex is responsible for a bulk of the collections at the museum, and when he's not there, he helps Farah out on the docks. In his downtime Alex writes stories down on the well worn pages of his journal. Harrowing tales of a strong and fearless pirate who saves the day again and again. So what if the long braided heroin resembles someone familiar?

(Not sure how deep in the weeds i'll go with this, but I'm having fun, I would love to make it a little series)

[kaitawrites]

Mind full of Task Force 141

AN: I only played the game once, and it wasn't the story mode COD, just regular COD. But I ended up in Task Force 141 rabbit hole on TikTok and Tumblr. Currently Obsessed

Pairing: Task Force 141 x Black Reader

I just imagine you are part of a different task force, you were honestly well-known for your victories when it came to cage fighting. You were vicious with your broad shoulders and thick arms. You were a force to be reckoned with. It would be very strange if the 141 didn't hear anything about you.

They rarely saw you on base as if you were a figure of their imagination. They wouldn't believe you were real if it wasn't for the news of your arrival from others. It seems they are always there when you just leave. Truly frustrating when they wanted to see what everyone was talking about.

Until one day, there was another cage fight, and your name was attached to the flyer. Finally, they would have the chance to understand what all the hype is about. There you were in the cage. Your stance was strong, and your head was held high. You positioned your hands before your face, a smug grin on your face as you carefully watched your opponent.

They didn't even know someone could move that fast. They were beyond shock as they watched you. Johnny watched excitedly, his eyes never leaving your sweaty body. He watched the way you dodged your opponent's attacks. He watched the way you bounced from side to side, awaiting an opening to land your final strike. Kyle's eyes danced with amusement at the sight before him. You had landed a hard right hook to your opponent. Simon's fist and jaw clenched, and many thoughts ran through his mind. It was the same for John. Once they had seen the way you held down your opponent, they knew that they needed to have you.

Hope you enjoyed, I am very open to feedback <3

Donations is Motivation

[s0uth3park]

Some of my random SP headcanons:

This is a long one.

Pt 2

Cartman just will never learn how to drive. Ever. He knows he has other people to ferry him around.

In a similar vein, when that time rolls around (teenhood), Kenny legally can’t drive but he can drive. He just doesn’t have a licence. This persists until much later in life when he can financially support himself.

Stan begged/bribed Cartman to not harass Red for being a daywalker to keep the peace in his and Wendy’s relationship.

Whenever Wendy and Cartman need to sit down to talk out some sort of dispute, they do it over a pack of Oreo’s. They call this Oreo Time.

Kenny and Cartman play GTA together a lot.

Heidi is part Jewish on her mother’s side.

Cartman’s natural eye colour is brown. He has blue eyes, now.

Cartman is short by the time he’s fully grown (probably because of his weight), and has naturally brown hair and blue eyes. Kenny is the opposite, with blond hair and blue eyes, and is naturally Cartman’s favourite.

Cartman’s coat is plain red flannel (it’s the closest thing to fuzzy felt we can get), Stan’s is canvas, Kyle’s is tarpoon cloth, and Kenny’s is synthetic material (it’s like that smooth thin material that makes a high pitched whirry noise when you scratch it?? Cannot find the specific name for the life of me).

Tweek and Butters are cousins. Either through both of their mothers or through Butters’ dad and Tweek’s mom. Let me know which one you prefer.

Craig and Cartman’s hats are from the same store / brand.

Cartman and Kyle wear opposite colours on opposite pieces of clothing (is this a headcanon or observation? Who knows, I just want to point it out). Kyle has a green hat, contrasting Cartman’s red coat. Cartman has a (primarily) blue hat, contrasting Kyle’s orange coat. Kyle’s original gold-yellow t-shirt also compliments Cartman’s blue t-shirt, and pairs with Cartman’s yellow puff, brim, and gloves.

Cartman sometimes hums the Dreidal song to himself. Rarely will he sing it.

Carol and Stuart put Kenny in a separate room to Kevin because they didn’t anticipate a third kid. When Karen came along, they didn’t bother to displace one of them, so just stuck her in with one of them (Kevin) at random.

Kenny carries the gene for red hair.

Either (or both) Laura and Thomas have brown eyes. This is why Craig has black hair. (Relying on a quick google search for this one).

If Stan looks a lot like Randy as he gets older, right down to the eyes, Shelley looks like Sharon, but with Randy’s eyes.

Stan sometimes feels like the outsider in the group because not only do the other three hold biological keepsakes of the others (Kenny’s eyes –> Cartman; Cartman’s kidney –> Kyle), Kyle and Kenny (K’s) both wear the same shade of orange, and all three are called by unvoiced guttural (“kuh”) vocatives. He’s just Stan. He and Kenny have the same last initial, though.

Out of all the moms, Mrs. Tweek has the biggest tits. I’m sorry I don’t make these rules.

She and Richard fuck like rabbits too I think

While there’s a massive gap between how Stan is viewed and how Cartman is viewed, but out of Stan’s Gang, Stan is held in the lowest esteem just after Cartman. Wendy and his looks boost his popularity a bit, but it’s still rather low.

Kenny is held in the highest esteem by the way, because people know he just joins the guys and doesn’t really instigate.

Craig has alexithymia.

Clyde picked up some mannerisms, like speaking with little affect, from Craig.

Clyde was a mommy’s boy, but Betsy was always rather eccentric and pedantic.

I’m not sold on this but I have thought about Betsy having PCOS.

Maybe I’m biased but I like to think that if Clyde outright said the words “I don’t like Janice and I don’t want her in this house” / “I’m not ready for a stepmom”, I think Roger would adhere. Probably just me being biased.

Sharon hates being filmed, and if she sees either a video or photo of her she will immediately pat her hair and say “oh look at my hair there” or touch her face and go “oh my, I look godawful in that”.

Cartman flexes his ability to eat bacon on Kyle a lot.

Craig has a fear of dressing Stripe up in costumes. Tweek has suggested it, but Craig shot it down immediately.

Wonder Tweek’s costume is from Craig’s closet, and the reason his is shit is because he was too busy helping Tweek’s with his because Tweek found organising his own costume too stressful.

Randy taught Kenny how to swim in Kyle’s backyard blow up paddling pool.

Cartman is a weak ass swimmer.

[pansy-picnics]

can ask that you spill everything about your Splatoon OCs? 😺

ABSOLUTELY i did not expect anyone to ask to be honest….goodness where do i even begin. Let’s see. I’ll start with my main little doomed love triangle thing i suppose

Cecilia Paek, she/her, 24 yrs old, aka: cece, celia, eight, whore, freak, slut, etc. My agent 8. born in the domes under the name Paek Seo-Mi, but renamed herself to cece post-memory loss. A freak both in the not-safe-for-work sense and just. In general. She says the most unhinged shit in such a passive formal manner. Marina has to consistently tell her she’s not allowed to eat the jelletons. She bites. A lot.

aside from being a freak cece is curious and observant, but incredibly blunt and fierce. In the past Seo-Mi was a much quieter and more repressed person, but hearing the Inkantation awakened a flame within her, so to speak. Cece is incredibly vocal about her thoughts and feelings, and she does not like to be pushed around. although shes always been a very nostalgic person, shes been trying to look forward more often than not. (she was on team future!)

cece has a very mature, almost sisterly presence, and is especially close with neo 3 (ikra) and her pseudo sister agent 4 (yottsu). she also has a daughter of her own, yumi! ikra and yottsu are my friends ocs so i cant say too much about them but ikra is like, basically her and kyle’s adopted kid

Kyle Lastname, (Actual surname to be determined Eventually) he/him, 25 yrs, aka three, cap, kyle, ceces silly rabbit /j. he’s my captain 3. has a stupid ass name bc he’s a stupid ass guy. Basically started as a joke oc but i put him through the Horrors. he’s the malewife of all time.

Grew up the only hearing person in a deaf/hard of hearing household so he’s fluent in sign language. He joined squidbeak when he was like 16 mostly bc he was a MASSIVE FUCKING LOSER with a huge ego who wanted the attention. Now he has Trauma and hates his teen self more than anything. (The egotistical little white kid phase is like, a rite of passage in his family. His little sister is still in that phase.) Now that he’s mellowed out hes just a sopping wet cat. Dating cece and is obsessed with her + will do literally whatever she wants.

Hes a lot more talkative than canon 3, hes the kind of guy who copes with humor all the time. he tries to be cool and mysterious but hes really awkward and gets flustered or worked up super easily. He’s overall a pretty boring guy and thats his charm. She’s barbie and he’s just ken. etc etc.

Hes SO dad coded btw. He and cece have a daughter together, Yumi. Since he was young he spent a lot of time looking after his little sister and he’s basically adopted his protege, neo3 (ikra). he makes me think of RTGame for reasons i could not describe to you, it’s just the energy somehow. He’s my babygirl. My little meow meow if you will (Cece voice)

Victoria Mendoza, she/her, 25 yrs, aka Tori. SHE is the fucked up one. Literally doomed by the narrative. Eye love her.

She comes from a long line of elite soldiers and was a child prodigy, but also the Problem Child. Got expelled from multiple schools for beating up other kids. from a young age she’s been incredibly critical of the octarian society and she was basically your average teen rebel. into alt music/fashion, incredibly vocal about her distaste for the system, fairly closed off with a cold exterior. the only person she truly cared for was Seo-Mi (Cece).

Seo-Mi was quiet and sweet and generally pretty average academically, so she didn’t have nearly as much pressure on her to succeed compared to Tori. the two were childhood friends and teenage lovers. The only ones who truly matched each others freak if you will. When they were little girls they used to dream of escaping to the surface together. this changed when they were about sixteen years old.

the most important thing to know about tori is that she is a pessimist and at her core a Coward. She’s all bark and no bite. She’ll scream her hatred of authority from the rooftops but immediately crumble at the sight of her leader. and as she got older and officially entered her career, she lost hope. she determined the surface wouldn’t have anything more for her than the domes did. she became complacent, while Seo-Mi, who had previously been more neutral, had heard the inkantation and only become more determined to leave the domes.

The two desperately tried to change each other’s minds but they were far too stubborn. both of them were crushed by the supposed “betrayal” of their beloved. Inevitably Seo-Mi left for the surface, eventually being taken in to Kamabo Co. while tori stayed behind to rot.

Since Seo-Mi left, tori became more bitter than ever before. she turns her focus to her career, and her family, but she never truly moves on from the loss. Unfortunately, Cece did. Cece met someone else, she’s started a family, she has a completely new name. she’s essentially a new person. and Tori is still the same.

Canonically i don’t think they would ever meet again and actually recognize each other, but i like to play with the idea sometimes bc if they did they would Hate each other. Tori is completely incapable of accepting that her Seo-Mi has moved on. She is clinging on to a version of someone that doesn’t exist anymore. tori is a deeply self destructive person and will never move on in any sense of the word. Sad!

Also this is Yumi. Age varies but shes like. Very young toddler as of the current timeline. She’s cece and kyle’s favorite surprise (Accident). They’re both freaks and shes the consequences of their actions. She and smollusk have playdates together. She’s obsessed with off the hook but doesn’t realize that her weird lesbian aunts pearl and marina are the same people. She’s baby

[oreosmama]

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It's how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you're not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn't take kindly to you avoiding him, and he's never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he's not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he's seen the proof that you've fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: idk man i accidentally googled who ghost was like a week ago and fell so deep into the hot cod men rabbit hole so here we are. Enjoy!

Word count: 8261

Gaz is pretty sure he’s in love with you. 

It’s a surprising discovery at 11 pm in an American hotel bar drinking the worst scotch he’s ever had. It’s even more surprising because he just discovered you existed all of thirty minutes ago. 

He’s got his glass swirling between two nimble fingers, trying to find that line between hating his drink and actually putting it down. And he’s watching you. 

You’re the same bartender who’d asked him (in a horrible imitation of his accent) if he’d wanted his neat scotch “shaken, not stirred.�� You’d flushed after you said it and promised to leave him joke-free for the rest of the night. He’d laughed, a bit hollow from his circumstances, and told you it was all right. That he liked it, and that made you flush a little more. 

Now, you scuttle like an ant past the other worker, a blonde who’s been making eyes at him all night. Your face is split into this unabashed grin, grippable hips bouncing off the counter as you sweep by and reach below for a bottle, giving him a view of the enviable dip between your breasts. 

At first, he thinks it’s just that. Too much American booze, not enough inhibitions; both sending him into that post-mission spiral that makes him touchy and want to touch all at the same time. And he finds it’s nice to watch you rattling glasses and wiping up spills; it’s soothing, the way your eyes are alight with life in this ritzy place, seemingly unbothered by the high level of customers. He especially likes the way you mock the spoiled sods when you can get away with it. 

The hotel must be experiencing the perfect storm of weddings, proms, and business meetings—not to mention one very unfortunate layover for one very unlucky special forces sergeant. 

He watches as teens keep stumbling back to the counter with pink cheeks, flashing their IDs every time they ask for a new drink. Despite their prom getups and obvious ages, they swear they’re just guests from Mr. and Mrs. Weddington’s ceremony. 

The girl you’re with now, stumbling from her heels but selling it as though she’s tipsy, begs and begs for another lemon drop before she “goes back to work on Monday.”

You nod either way, and he watches as you make a display of pouring alcohol into one shaker and juice into another, swapping them out when the teen looks back towards her friends. 

You send her on her merry way with a sugared rim and a lemon rind, saying something like “Go easy” as she wanders back to her table. You smile to yourself, amused at this little game you’re playing with half the customers here. 

You must feel the heat of his gaze, because you glance at him then. He hopes it’s burning you up as much as it looks, that nervous pinkening of your face as you give him a shrug like what else was there to do?

And Gaz, again, thinks it’s just that. Lust. He thinks about wiping that small smile off your face with his lips, stumbling with you into his hotel room, frantic fingers peeling off clothes. He thinks about how it would be—giggly, probably, despite his surprising coordination when he’s plastered. It’d be you and him swapping words back and forth, back and forth the whole time, silence only filling the room when you’re kissing him and when you feel so fucking new it steals your and his words away. 

He doesn’t know why he latches more onto the idea of the moments afterward, the biggest thing being that you decide to stay. Then it’s more back and forth, hobbies and pet peeves and every little thing that’s been on your minds since the 2000s. He gets to know you inside and out, inside again a few more times even as your conversation runs on. 

It’s no longer lust at that point. He knows that. 

He’s ruthlessly torn from the fantasy by the blonde bartender who, judging by the looks you’re swapping with her, has gotten the entirely wrong idea about the direction of his stare. 

He swears to God he was being obvious about it. It was you—it was fucking you that whole time. 

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

The first is that you’re quiet when your customers aren’t overwhelmingly sloshed; awkwardly so, for a bartender. You’re something of a mirror when they are, far more relaxed, laughing easy and cracking jokes, like you preferred your real self be forgotten the next morning. 

The second is that you’re soft. Around the edges, all pillowy at the hips and thighs, a sloping curve down each side. And you were soft with your words, no yelling, no arguing with customers, just easy little jabs that no drunk mind would ever cotton onto. 

You were only snappy with him the second his head started growing fuzzy. 

He wants more of it, even as the pretty bartender makes friendly conversation. 

She asks about his day, then his job, then his adventures. Three of the last things he wanted to think about tonight, let alone discuss with a stranger who wants in his pants. However, because she “loves a man with a British accent” and he’s too damn polite to give her the boot, he reveals a little. 

Yes, his job is hard. Yes, he’s jumped from an airplane. Yes, he’s killed someone. Of course they were bad.

Until they weren’t. But he won’t tell her that. 

However, above all things, Gaz is a planner. And though he’s caught the wrong fish with his bait, his plan B is working excellently. 

Gaz glances at you, brushing your hair behind your ear in the increasingly crowded room. The wide array of customers spread out among the limited seating are starting to flood the bar. You can’t pass out beers and shake cosmopolitans at the same time, and a wonderful warmth blossoms in his chest the second you glance at him too, growing desperate. 

There’s something like an apology in your eyes. You’re sad you have to ruin your friend’s chances; meanwhile, he thinks it may just be the best part of his night.

The third thing he discovers about you: you’re trying to be the wingwoman for your pretty friend here, and Gaz won’t have it. 

You’re going to have to come over here. Beg for help from your friend.

Ruin this little flirtation she’s got going on—what a shame. 

You’re too damn polite, just like him. The second he talks to you when you make your way over, you’ll think you have to stay. Humor him for a bit. He’ll ask you for a drink, forcing you to come back a second time around, when the bustle has slowed. He’ll rope you in for the rest of the night by then, and the wait’ll be over. 

He feels like a damn schoolboy when you take that first step toward him, and he’s practically vibrating when you get close enough that he can hear your voice for the second time today. It’s far less grating than your friend’s, he’s certain of it—he wouldn’t mind if it was you badgering him, is what he means.

After all, Gaz was on leave, and when Gaz was on leave, he liked things slow. Fresh off a mission, he liked to roll through the motions, order drinks and let the memories turn into static from the corner of the bar. He’d planned on calling Price and damning him for saying it was a blessing to get trapped in the US, set up at a posh hotel on the task force’s budget. 

But you stop before him, contrite eyes softening, and he’s getting better at seeing the upside of it all. 

“Hate to interrupt—I know you two are trying to get all cozy in the dark over here, but I could use your help, Jeanne. ‘Hugh Janus’ is asking for another beer and our non-alcoholic tap just ran dry.” You look off into the distance, frowning slightly. “I fear we may have genuinely drunk teens on our hands soon.”

Jesus, was her name Jeanne? Gaz hadn’t caught that. 

On the bright side, he’s able to confirm one of his sneaking suspicions. Your eyes really are fucking gorgeous up close, and they’re so expressive that he can read you like a book. 

But he hates the way you say “you two.” It’s so nonchalant. 

Was it too much to ask for a little envy? Just a hint of spite, to prove that some part of what he’s feeling, even a little speck of it, isn’t one-sided?

Your friend— Jeanne , apparently—gives him a disappointed sigh, looks at him like he and her are two conspirators planning on eloping any second. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

He nods, trying to find that balance between polite understanding and absolute relief, but his head grows foggier by the minute and all he can manage is a “sounds good.”

You dive into an explanation when the pair of you are far enough away to inspect the taps, gesturing at a couple of them, and then discreetly at a group in the crowd. 

From here, he can see it a little more clearly. You’re younger than the blonde, probably just by a couple years, which means you’re newer here. Younger than him, too, since he pegs Jeanne at around his own age. 

The blonde disappears into a storage door wedged between two shelves loaded with glass bottles and illuminated white-blue. A manager, maybe.

Only thing he knows for certain from observing this quick interaction is that you’re finally alone. 

He flags you down, and his chest floods with that warm, fuzzy feeling all over again when you hustle over, genuine smile on your lips—because you’re so damn easy to read.

“Know you’re busy, ’nd I hate to bother you, darling, but can you get me another scotch? Shaken, this time, if you please.”

The pet name lands perfectly. Even through all the chatter and music, he can hear the quick stutter in your breath. Then you laugh at his joke, like you think he deserves it. 

It’s cheap of him to force that laugh out of you with a shitty joke like that, but he’s feeling a little needy. Wants a preview of what the real thing would sound like. 

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

“Not right now. I’ll finish this one off while you work through that fresh hell–” he nods toward the anxious crowd “–then you can come back to me. You’ll find I’m pretty patient.”

A little less so, when it comes to you, but you don’t need to know that yet. 

The slight slur to his words must be comforting, because you give him that small smirk you’ve been conservative with all night. “I’ll hold you to that. I’ve heard Brits are perfect gentlemen; be a shame if you proved me wrong.”

“I’m all that and more, darling.” He winks. “You’ll see.”

He could be the bloody worst man on the planet, too, if you wanted. 

And he could come out and say that to you, all the things he could be for you tonight, if he wasn’t so keen on the instant change in you. 

Because here’s what he expected: a few more little flirtations back and forth, everything kept light and easy. He’d keep you smiling and smirking like that, comfortable in your own skin for just a little bit longer before you have to go back to the other customers and slither back into your shell. He’d get to see that breathtaking blush of yours, pink splotches that tell him he’s on the right track. And then he’d get your rapt attention for the remainder of your and his night, quite like he’s given you his. 

But that’s not what happens. 

Instead, you’re instantly sheepish, finding yourself leaning a little closer, so close he could reach out and run a finger along the back of your hand (a small touch, but it would certainly floor him). 

And then guilt. Pure, heart-wrenching guilt, like you’re taking every word of his to heart in the worst possible way.

Gaz panics. 

But you’re not wearing a ring, so no husband, no fiance. He guesses boyfriend or some long-standing crush he can’t—shouldn’t—burrow his way in front of. It’s a disappointing discovery, something he’ll be stewing on for the rest of the night or maybe week, depending on how long he’s stranded here. 

He’s not a fan of infidelity, and he sure as hell isn’t changing his opinion on that anytime soon. So he settles himself for a night at the bar cut short. Maybe he’ll order drinks up to his room from now on, praying the task force won’t try and shift the bill onto him. He can’t imagine coming down to the bar and seeing you will be nearly as satisfying anymore. 

“I shouldn—I mean, Jeanne really likes y—I mean, we kinda have this rule where we, um,” you fumble with the rag on the counter, suddenly invested in a stain he’s been avoiding all night. You swallow. “I’ll just, uh, bring you your drink later. As promised. I should go help her.”

And you dash off as fast as you can between the counter and the precarious wall decor, almost running into the storage door the other bartender whips open while dragging out a new keg for the tap. 

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

Were you feeling all that guilt over some “dibs” rule at your bar?

He wants to laugh. The whole first-come, first-served thing makes you look as guilty as if you clubbed a baby seal. So what if Jeanne wants to ask him out? If he says no, does that mean he gets you?

Then he actually laughs a little, because it’s so ridiculous that it’s honestly cute. You care about and respect your coworkers, and support them when they’re hitting on guys at bars. So cute. You’re like the ultimate wingwoman, he’s sure, but that’s not going to change the fact that he wants you. 

But the night drags on, and this half hour of patience Gaz promised you becomes paper-slim when you pass off his drink to Jeanne and avoid his end of the bar for far longer than is acceptable. 

But you’re still giving her reassuring smiles and manning the bar as she lays her interest on thick, asking how long he’ll be staying and telling him when she gets off. 

Gaz isn’t laughing anymore. And that little thing you do where you back off and play wingwoman? Definitely not as sweet as he’d thought it was. 

Fuck, it might be the one thing he hates about you. 

Because you avoid him for the rest of the night, and he still can’t take his eyes off you. 

Not to worry, though. Gaz is a patient man. More importantly, he’s a planner. 

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

Gaz barely sleep that night. Too busy thinking about the mission, the lives that were lost, all that blood that had coated his hands just three days ago. 

The way it bothers him comes and goes in phases. Some missions slip off him like rain water over a slick road, rivulets down drives, and he sleeps just fine. 

Others soak into him, further than skin deep, where his body becomes a subcutaneous cache of nightmares and gunpowder, and he wakes up choking, smoke filling his lungs, tearing at the tissue of his throat enough that water can’t soothe the burn. 

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

The hotel bar is unsurprisingly destitute but still oddly open at 11 am on a Thursday morning, and he takes a seat more daringly center-staged than he had last night. He glances around, letting thoughts of you, a bartender whose biggest issue was a dibs rule on men, swathe around him. 

Admittedly, a lot of it is foggy. He remembers wanting you—a lot , actually. Too much, he might even say, but after all he drank he’s surprised he even found his way back to his room. But the place, a little more aglow with the open windows (that make his head fucking spin, by the way), looks the same as last night, which means he can still envision you wandering over every inch of it. 

And he thinks no, you probably weren’t that attractive. Maybe your snipes weren’t that funny, and he’d had no reason to get so upset with you over a rejection. And every little wish he’d had that you were the woman who could warm his bed while he was out on missions and greet him when he came home was a bit over the top, even for drunk Gaz. 

Sober Gaz knows better. Sober Gaz knows that no other human being can have that much of an effect on him anymore, because he’s had to rebuild himself after joining the military, after seeing the most honorable and dishonorable things humans can do, and he’s just not fit for something unconditional. 

Drunk Gaz, though….

Hammered and horny. That’s all it was. A terrible mixture, and he’s damn ashamed that an innocent girl like you became the target of it. God, did he even tell you his name? Or was it just instant come-on and creepy watching from the corner of the bar? 

Gaz notices he’s not alone as he lets his eyes wander; there’s a group of three elderly women jabbering in the corner, waving too-friendly when he spots them. He tosses them a dashing smile, the one that makes his grandmother’s friends burst into titters and giggles. 

It has the same effect. 

“Who knew you’d be just as charming sober?” a familiar voice rings out. 

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

“In all fairness, you do have a shot with them too, if you really wanted to take it.” You lean a little bit closer over the counter, one-ended smile pulling at your lips, and when he catches a trace of that same perfume, his chest twinges. 

Fuckin’ hell. 

“She’s newly widowed,” you nod to the gaggle again, demeanor conspiratorial, “and happy to be, apparently. Why am I not surprised you’re popular to all ages?”

He’s got no clue what you’re talking about. Damn, he’s not even listening. Your lips look too soft to him right now, and it’s downright unfair how domestic you look in morning light, placid and playful, like the last thing you were made for was exacerbating nightlife. 

“All ages?” he mumbles, because he can’t quite think straight, and the best thing he can do is repeat the last few words he’d heard you say before his train of thought had caught fire, derailed, and crashed explosively against brick wall. 

He’s struck still, is what he means. He can’t quite think past the idea of you, coming a little closer to him, letting him trap you against his chest. Letting him breathe in the scent of your hair as you tell him about your day—boring, maybe, if it wasn’t you who was telling the story. 

But your voice and tone, that playful edge that sounds like the sweetness of cotton candy and would taste like fucking everything to him, it draws him in. 

Gaz comes to the conclusion that not everything was a drunken haze last night. 

And he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite the fisherman he thought he was, trying to catch you. If anything, he was the fish snapping after your line, bait or no, wanting to be yanked out of the water and gutted until everything he ever was was bare for those pretty eyes. 

And he’s that very same fish this morning, gaping and blinking wide-eyed. 

Fuckin’. Hell. 

“My God, those teenagers last night? And then Jeanne, and the bridesmaids? And, okay, I shit you not, even the bride. You’re a menace in this bar, you know that?”

“Are you included in all that?”

If he remembers anything from the night before, it was the way you clammed up after he made his first move. You’re the spitting image of it now, pursed lips and antsy fingers, even after all that big talk. 

It’s an absent thought that flies past him in that moment, but he recalls that you were only loose enough to joke around with people already tipsy. He lets a small consideration tag along, a half-thought, really, that maybe you felt as comfortable around him as he did around you.

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

“So what can I get you this morning…?” You let the tail end of the question drag on a bit, and he decides it’s because you can’t remember his name. He tries to stave off the gross pinch in his stomach by recalling there’s an all too real chance he never even told you. 

“Kyle.”

You shake your head quickly, mumbling, “No, I—I remember.”

Gaz, though he can’t help but feel like an asshole for it, grins at your stutter. 

“Surprise me, then.” He sits back, not remembering when he made the decision to lean a bit closer. “YN,” he tags on, smiling a bit more at your nervous laugh. 

You look him over, some short glance that stuffs his head full of cotton, and start working on a concoction with a small grin. 

He’s patient, minds his own business and fiddles with his phone as you shake and pour. 

No messages from Price, and Gaz shoves down any distant panic that he might have sent an aggravated text or two in his state last night. 

But no messages means no updates, which means it’s safe to assume he’ll be marooned at this hotel for another two weeks. 

Not as bad as he thought it would be, so far. 

You step away with a tray of drinks and return empty handed. Then you slip a glass in front of him, frosty and golden, slowly seeping red by a single maraschino cherry. 

He guffaws. “Mai Tai? What, no umbrella?”

You slip a mini umbrella into his drink. “You underestimate me.”

His headache is killing him. The sun’s too bright, and he’s thanking God that the music in here isn’t nearly as pounding as it was yesterday. The memories still haunt him, horizoning his mind. Every drop of blood, every plea, every blank-eyed stare. 

And then there’s you. Just you. You read like a sheet of paper, and you’re soft around the edges, and you couldn’t even comprehend half the things he’s seen. 

You spoon another maraschino cherry out of the cooling jar and pop it into your mouth, laving your tongue over it before biting down, the juices dying your tongue red. 

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

He wants you to taste the Mai Tai on his tongue and sigh happily, eyes rolling the exact same way. He might die if you don’t.

“It’s on the house, only because you were true to your word.”

He gets peeks of that red tongue of yours and shifts in his seat. “What d’you mean?”

“You were patient, as promised, and I’m afraid I’ll need a little more of that today.”

Any of it. All of it, for you. Fuck, he could be so patient for you. 

Gaz furrows his brow anyway. “Didn’t know you were so greedy. Why d’you ask, love?”

“I guess you couldn’t tell from last night, but I’m a pretty shitty bartender. That’s why they got me working mornings.”

He glances at the Mai Tai. “So you’re sayin’ I’m shit outta luck.”

“I’m saying that if you’re going to let me pick your drink, you’re going to keep getting whatever’s left in the mixer from formerly Mrs. Jones’ group of three. I should warn you, they party hard.”

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

“More mimosas. That was their warm-up. You wanna catch up?” You frame a carton of orange juice in your hands enticingly. 

Fruity drinks from here on out. Gaz doesn’t exactly mind the idea, though he’d come down to the bar for something with more of a kick. But he’s wondering how long your shift runs if you’d worked the night before and the morning after. 

He’s got a chance here; without your friend present, your guilty conscience must feel balmed.

Gaz shakes his head, tearing a finger at the mini umbrella’s ridges. “I’ll stick to their schedule. Have a feeling I should be pacing myself with that crew.”

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

The air of silence that settles is comfortable. There’s the rattle of ice and champagne, the slow slosh of orange pooling in three going on four glasses, and Gaz watches you through it all. But he can see the way his gaze makes you nervous. Your movements are all rickety, and you can’t quite find that rhythm between shaking the mixer and making eye contact. 

Gaz wasn’t lying. Most if not all the women he’s met (sans a few of his targets) agree: he’s a kind man. Chivalrous, soothing, amiable. 

So he’s not sure why seeing your nerves gets a lovely thrill rattling its way down his spine. Sure, he wished you felt a smidge less timid, a lot more loose and sunny in his company. But, he guesses, it’s because with you, he’s willing to settle. Take what he can get; it’s not unlike a stakeout, really. He’s parked here, waiting for you to come out of your shell on your own time. 

Can’t really help that he’s greedy when it counts, though, and when you set the mimosa in front of him, he reaches before you can pull away, getting that warm slide of your fingers against his. 

“So what are you doin’ here, in a place like this, if you’re not a good bartender?”

He has to salvage your courage before you slip into the backroom for space to think. He can’t let that happen, overthinker that you are, and you’re too nice to abandon him mid-conversation. 

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

“Gap year. Several actually, but I don’t like to think about that.” You’re fidgeting with a rag, twisting it until the damp cotton creases under your fingers. 

“What are you gappin’ to?”

You huff out a laugh. “Med school, hopefully. Grad school, possibly. Just want to do something more, you know? Since apparently a bachelor’s gets you nowhere nowadays, and I’m just thirty grand in hole for nothing.”

“It’ll work itself out. For you, I’m certain of it.”

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

Look. Look at all he can say and do to make you feel comfortable. And look! He can make you laugh and smile. And his touch was nice, right? Warm, gentle, everything you’d want. He’s got it right here. Waiting for you.

And then you blink, long and slow, eyes on the counter. Then…

“You know, I’m really jealous of Jeanne. I mean, she has it all figured out.”

Gaz fights the urge to grind his teeth, but he drops his elbows to the counter and cups at the mimosa. Not good enough, doesn’t burn enough. Too easy on the champagne, and he distantly wonders if you pull what you did last night all the time. 

That thing where you go easy on drinks by coming around less, or neutering them completely before you pass them out. 

That thing where you’re trying to do better for everyone , where you think you know better. He can only guess that it’s come so often with a cost to you that it’s all you know how to do anymore—giving, no taking. Helping always; never, ever hurting, no matter what you want. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, but you’re reaching for another red cherry. Chewing on it as it dyes your teeth pink. 

“She’s one of the managers here, did she tell you that? And she’s only a couple years older than me, and she’s just… she knows what she wants. And goes for it, too.”

Is that what it was? You weren’t willing to go for it? 

He’ll build that bridge for you, dammit. He’d hold you hand across the whole fucking way if you’d just let him. 

“She’s the only person in the whole area willing to give me a chance, even though I’d never bartended before.”

He lets you ramble, lets the sound of your voice sink into him, gives encouraging responses when he has to. 

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

Sure, yeah, okay. But do you like any of that?

You don’t. You hate it all, actually. You even have a fear of drowning, heights, the whole works. You’re very much a homebody, curled up on your couch reading, drinking tea—not a huge fan of wine, or alcohol, actually, but don’t laugh! It was the highest paying job you could find, and yes, you do see the irony. Yes, you make a good cup of tea. Why?

Trying to find out even that much about you was like playing a damn tennis match. You won’t stop shoving the topic away, getting all insecure when he asks what you like. What you want. 

He plans to change that. 

But for now? Fine. You won’t talk about you. But he’s not going to let you talk about Jeanne. 

So you’re talking about him. 

“We don’t get much of your type around here.”

“Special forces?”

“British.” You give up on wiping the counter, instead leaning on two hands and watching him sip at the piña colada you’ve just made. He’d offered you the pineapple slice. After you’d said no, he watched you watch him bite in, wiping off the juice off his lips with his thumb. 

He had to remind himself that it was patience you were looking for, even with your lips parted in a daze like that. 

“Special forces, though, huh?” You glance around with faux wariness. “Should I be worried?” 

“Depends. How many people round here are up to no good?”

“I mean, there’s the occasional bad tipper but, between you and me,” you lean in, give a small shrug, “I deal with them in my own way.”

Gaz raises a brow, smile growing. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”

“Depends. Are you going to be rifling around for a five or a twenty-five dollar tip in that wallet of yours?”

Gaz sighs, “The best company always comes with the highest price, don’t it?”

“Not as high as you think,” you laugh. 

If there was ever a groove to find between you and him, he’s finally located it. 

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear rustling in the storage room, and the blonde bartender that’s bloody haunting him now pushes through the swinging door. 

 “Jeanne.” You voice is a wonderful mixture of fake enthusiasm and slight disappointment. “Look who’s here.”

Trapped. That’s what he is.

And you leave without a goodbye or a glance in his direction, too. 

He tells himself you’re shy, insecure, delicate little thing that he keeps pushing the boundaries of, trying to find the edge of having you and scaring you off completely. 

Like taming a wild animal. 

Fucking patience. For all his years, all his adventures, he never knew he’d run out of it in the most civilian of circumstances. 

He sticks around a while longer, humors Jeanne’s interest. Amazingly enough, they have so much in common, who would have thought?

And who would have thought that after last night, that was the last thing he’d ever want.

~~~~~~

You’re doing that thing again, where you ignore him. 

He’d think it’s cute, how shy you were, if you only didn’t sic your friend on him each time you did it. He’s fairly certain his interest is clear. 

He’s been going to the bar for the last few days. Sometimes he sees you, sometimes he doesn’t. He prefers the former, and when it’s the latter, he’s reminded of just how shitty the alcohol is in the US, and that he’s trapped here, and how it’s starting to become hell. 

But he won’t tell you that. That your home and this hotel are the last places he wants to be on the whole planet, present company excluded. 

Despite the fact that present company feels like she has to include her friend in every conversation. He loves how selfless you are, no man left behind and whatnot, but he wishes you could see the failing attraction right before your eyes. 

You try to slip off, leave the pair of them alone, but Gaz won’t have it. If you wander too close, he’ll drag you in, call your damn name across the bar if he has to, wrench on that ever-guilty, ever-pleasing heart of yours to go and answer him, talk to him, pay him the attention he needs nightly, apparently. 

As of late, you’ve started playing this game. Gaz’ll bring up a topic, anything from the horrors of war to butterflies. 

And you think there might be some upsides to the horrors of war, maybe. And butterflies are ugly and gross, always. 

Gaz loves how beautiful the mountains are up north; you despise them. They look cold. 

But he thought you loved cold weather?

Well, you don’t like cold weather when it’s… on mountains. You guess. 

 An interesting play, he quite thinks. Such odd tactics you have running in your mind. But you’re trying so hard to be this good, loyal friend. You want so badly to find the middle ground here, please Jeanne and Gaz, let them both be happy. 

But when push comes to shove, Jeanne had dibs. And Gaz has to bear the brunt of it. 

Two weeks have gone by before Price contacts Gaz again. Tells him the 141 had lain low long enough that he can come back home and get some well deserved leave. The news makes him fucking ecstatic when he first hears it. Thank fuck he’ll never have to use the launderettes here again, never have to listen to the damned click-click-click of the aircon or the mini fridge. 

He misses so many things from home. 

Shepherd’s pie. Good cigarettes and tea. A whiskey sour from that bar just three blocks down from his flat. 

And his flat. His bed. His sofa, the kitchen he barely uses, the door that whines because he can’t bring himself to oil it; gone too long, too often for it to really matter most days. The toaster he doesn’t plug in ever because it damn well almost burned down his flat last time he was out for two months. 

All of it empty. Cold and bare. Too unused to really miss. 

Gaz slows while packing his things. He stops, grabs his phone, then lowers to the bed. He stares at the recent calls list, Captain still at the top, call ended twenty minutes ago. 

Home has a different taste in his mouth than it used to. Not horribly bad, but different enough to notice. 

It’ll be quiet. Gaz used to love quiet. 

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

A pondering floats down on him, comes to his mind and makes the rest of his body tighten, a coiled spring waiting, wondering. It’s such a small question, too, but things with you always seemed so small and insignificant, until he got a moment of quiet to consider it. 

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

Really, it’s not life-changing. He’s just trying to consider never having it again, never having it flood his senses when you get too close, lean a bit closer to slide him his drink. 

Then it’s you not leaning in close ever again. Then no you, ever again. 

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

But home is no set place anymore. Home could be two poles repelling each other but attracting him, pulling at each half of him, waiting to tear him down the middle while he tries to decide. 

Two fucking weeks? Gaz has to check his phone to make sure. Has that really all it’s been?

Bullshit. 

Tell him why it feels like it’s been years. Tell him why he can’t imagine going home as anything other than a misstep, one bad fucking decision away from sealing his fate. 

A slice of shepherd’s pie and a nice cup of Earl Grey—it can wait. 

A little longer, at least. He needs some time to make certain on some things. A month, maybe. On his own dime now. After all, what’s four thousand dollars compared to a missed opportunity for something better?

…He’ll see if they have deals on extended stays. 

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

You’re avoiding eye contact and maintaining a six-foot radius at all times, like he’s got the damn plague. 

It’s been the same setting for the past four weeks; corner of the bar, closer to the same dark shit that swirls in his glass now, aiming for privacy and good company. 

He used to think he was a good shot, but his accuracy’s been bloody terrible as of late. 

Twelve times. He’s tried asking you out twelve times. 

After the most recent attempt crash-landed with you interrupting to tell him about your sister’s obsession with popping zits, he considered it. Oh boy, did he consider giving up, asking himself why the hell he ever got so desperate in the first place. 

Tonight was supposed to be some last hurrah of sorts. His flight leaves tomorrow morning, and his patience with you has become so thin it could snap with a single breath. 

But he gets here, sees you. 

Sees you bustling around the bar—which, in his mind’s eye, is his flat. And you look right at home, by the way. Wandering in and out of his room, his kitchen, the living room. Curled up on the settee, your soft thighs winking at him from beneath his own sweatshirt. Then you’re dancing in the same way, hips swaying to the obnoxious beat, leaning in closer instead of pulling away when he grabs onto you like he ought to. 

For all that’s good and pure, you never distance yourself like you do now.

There’s no easily spooking the you in his head that wants him just as badly as he does you.

Your name falls from his lips an unavoidable number of times from the corner of the bar, and you finally fold.

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

Not so painful if you’d just give in and go on a date with him now, too. 

You saunter over, a world-weary sigh falling from your lips. “My God, Kyle, you sound like a damn cockatoo over here. Or my mom, which was a bit unsettling. Need I remind you I regret telling you my middle name.” 

“Then you won’t be surprised to know you’re getting a good scolding, with the way you’ve been avoiding me.”

That same look takes up your features, pouty lips and wrinkled brow, like he’s barking up the wrong tree all over again. Might be his favorite expression of yours, second only to that little grin when you see him each day. 

The same one that keeps him barking. 

“You know it’s for a good reason, Kyle. I’ve told you this.”

“Remind me again, darling. Is it a boyfriend?”

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

“What?” You stare at him wide-eyed, and he shrugs. 

“Just makin’ sure my bases are covered. So what is it, then?”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m also dead fuckin’ serious,” his voice raises when you try to walk away. He can barely refrain from swatting out at your wrist, spinning you back around to look at him. Over the weeks, he’s discovered your biggest weakness is his eyes, and he puppy-dogs them now. “Out with it. Please.”

His white-knuckled hands ache from where they grip under the bar’s ledge, and he’s trying blessedly hard to keep still as you look him over. Every scar, every bag under his eyes, every premature wrinkle. You can see it all and more, probably even see the nightmare he had three days ago, where it was you tied up, enemy’s gun pointed at the pliable skin of your temple, your cries echoing in the empty warehouse.

Where, a building over, in sniper-position, Gaz’s frozen. His fucking trigger finger won’t twitch, and he can’t breathe, can’t move even as the gunshot lit up your skin, and he rolled out of the same hotel bed, coughing on the floor, wheezing. 

He tops off his eyes with a dashing smile, pleasant like his mind hadn’t painted the picture of you bloody and dying, still haunting him. 

Gaz isn’t as easy to read as you are. You wouldn’t be able to tell. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like I’m whipped?” As if he could look like anything else.

“No, like…” You bite your tongue, and Gaz would give anything to know what you’d planned on doing with the hand you’d raised toward him just then, only to let it drop down at your side. “Never mind.”

“C’mon.” God , his hands ache. “Just tell me. Thought we were friends?”

“We are friends, Kyle.” You ignore how smug he gets, fixing him with a look. “But that’s all we are.”

Gaz scoffs, “I don’t get it. Just because your friend has, what, a li’l crush on me, and she doesn’t even know me, this can’t happen?”

You know what this is. He knows you know what this is. And he knows you want it, too. 

“It’s…” you bite the inside of your cheek while avoiding his gaze, and he knows it’s because you can’t think when he looks at you like that. Pleading. Desperate. And so damn breathless at the sigh of you that it makes it that much harder for you to say you don’t want him. “It’s a whole big thing we agreed on when I started working here. It’s how the peace is kept, not just between Jeanne and me—but for everyone. That’s just how we do it.”

“YN…”

You ignore him. “And I like this job, Kyle. I do. I don’t care that I’m horrible at mixing drinks, and that I can’t handle drunk people to save my life. It feels good to have something to do when I don’t know what else to do with myself, and I can’t have some little lover’s quarrel ruin that.

“And Jeanne is a great person. And I know you don’t like it when I bring it up, but it’s true. She saw you first and called it. So I’m stepping back, not getting in the middle of it because I owe it to her, and I don’t get why you won’t just do me that solid and give her a chance. You two are a much better fit than you and I would ever be—”

“You hate camping.”

You fall silent, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

“You hate camping. And the woods. The outside, really. You told me that. Then you told me your daily circuit is the bar, then your home, sometimes to the café down the street from here, but that’s rare. And that you like books, but I know s’not the cute, adventure-y ones you pretend to like. I googled a few of yours, ones I caught you sneakin’ on your breaks—dirty little bird, you are, by the way. But I like that about you. All of it. Everything you think you have to keep under wraps.”

“Kyle…”

“I like the way you say my name, too. And how soft your skin looks, and those thighs—fuck me. Is your perfume cherries, by the way?”

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

“That too. I mean, every little thing, darling. I swear, I want it. Don’t care that we’re complete opposites, that you’re scared of what I do, what I’m built for. I need you to know that I want you because of that, not in spite of. I don’t need you all the time, I promise. But I don’t think I could handle it if I didn’t have you at all.”

You want him. He can see it. You’re melting into a goddamn puddle before him, wandering nearer and nearer like you can’t help it. 

What else can he say? What the hell else does he have to do to prove that he wants you so bad it’s driving him up the walls? Gaz is wrenched so tight in his seat that he could snap and hurdle the counter, drag you out of here and show you everything he’s willing to give. 

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

“God, Kyle, I didn’t…” your breath stutters, but you won’t pull your gaze from his. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were so serious about this.”

You didn’t know? You couldn’t fucking tell? After a month of him puttering around here, begging for your attention, doing anything he could to get you to look at him—

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

Messing with you? Teasing you? That’s all you thought it was?

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

What could he have said during the past five weeks that would make you think that?

He runs through every conversation, every interaction, every whipped, needy look he couldn’t hold back because he couldn’t stop them around you.

And then he thinks about Jeanne. How you’ve been pushing her on him. And how he’s a perfect fucking gentleman and entertained her interest with polite conversation. 

Then there’s you, his shy little rabbit watching from the other end of the bar, so damn skittish that he can only draw you back in after she’s long left him alone. Not even surveying or passively watching, but crafting wildly inaccurate conclusions in your little overthinking head.

No. 

No, no, no, because, fickle as you are, you’re a giver. 

And Gaz’s been stealing that role from you this whole time. 

He hasn’t let you show your worth. He doesn’t need to see it, no, but you think you have to prove it. You like your trials by fire. You don’t like winning by default. 

You don’t think you could be wanted for wanting’s sake. 

In all fairness, Gaz didn’t think he functioned like that either—unconditional terms and all that. So he thought he’d had to give back. Give back so much that it frightened you, and you couldn’t hold up what you thought was your end. 

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

His little American rabbit plays by different rules. In the UK, women in bars are so straightforward, so honest. 

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

His flight leaves in nine hours, and he hasn’t packed, hasn’t slept. 

Too busy thinking about you. How much of a wrench you’ve been in his plans.

He didn’t think wanting you would be like asking the world to spin the other way. 

And, hell, what’s he supposed to do when he does leave, gone off on the mission Price’s hinted to him, the one that’s halfway across the globe, and you’re back here, trying and probably succeeding at forgetting he exists. 

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

And if you want an opportunity to show what you can give him, he’ll give you just that. While he’s on a mission, mind on worse, far more horrible things, he’ll give you that chance you’ve been itching so hard for. 

“Your phone.”

You’ve been watching him go through phases, even refilled his glass while he was out. Scotch on the rocks, this time. Like you thought he had to start taking it easy from here on out, like you think he deserves it.  

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

To your credit, you have a healthy amount of wariness. In several jerky movements, you pull your phone from your pocket, open it to a new contact, and pass it to him, eyeing up every little thing he types. 

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

Then he texts himself quickly, saves your number too, and holds your phone out. 

When you grab at it, he holds tight, tugging for your attention. 

Like he hasn’t, in a most wonderfully heady way, already got it. 

“No funny business with this, love.” His features turn grim. “No giving it to your friend so she can woo me—”

“Woo you?”

He gives you a stern look. “A phone call. A text. A fuckin’ pocket dial, I don’t care. But I want it from you, or no one, yeah?”

Only after you nod, slow and unsure, does he push himself out of the barstool for the last time, nodding to you. Eyes soft as he whispers, “Have a good night, darling.”

Your eyes don’t leave him as he walks away, phone still gripped tightly in your hand.

~~~~~~

Part 2

[boolger]

bloody love☆ Gaz x F!vamp!reader

☆ fem!reader x Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick☆ explicit. MDNI. ☆ 1,200 words

☆ Summary: you're Price's secretary and the Captain had been clear: nobody fuck the secretary - and nobody offer their blood to the secretary or he would get you a muzzle. It wasn’t unusual for vampires to be muzzled but it was fucking humiliating. But a certain Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick was making it really hard to follow those two rules - you had already broken the first with him, multiple times, and he wanted you to break the second.

☆ Tags: smut, p in v, vampires, gaz being beautiful, friends with benefits to lovers, hiding a relationship, vampire x human, blood, biting. kind of Dub-con to blood drinking? not dub-con for anything else

MDNI MDNI MDNI

“I don’t - fuck, Gaz, stop,” you pleaded, eyes rolling back as he rolled his hip in a perfect way, your mind turning into nothing but static for a moment. The sight of his pretty neck exposed like this, head tipped back, offering himself to you - it was so tempting. But you couldn’t. Shouldn’t.

It was bad enough that the two of you were fucking, you weren’t supposed to be. Price had been clear: nobody fuck the secretary - and nobody offer their blood to the secretary or he would get you a muzzle. It wasn’t unusual for vampires to be muzzled but it was fucking humiliating.

To be fair you had tried. Kept your distance, remained professional, but what the fuck where you supposed to do when Kyle fuckin’ Garrick fluttered his lashes at you - and after one too many drinks, admitted that you were the hottest thing to ever walk the earth? As if it wasn’t him? He had legit cried when you didn’t want to have sex with him that night, his drunken mind taking it as an entire rejection, meaning that you didn’t even like him. So yeah, you tried, two months had passed by now… and while you did fuck like rabbits, you hadn’t drunk Gaz’ blood. Not that he didn’t want you to, because bloody hell that man could beg prettily.

His hands were on your hips, fingers sinking into your soft skin; you could hear his pulse, it echoed through your ears. He moved his hips again, pulling you back to the moment.

“Holy fuck,” you whispered, focusing your gaze down on him again; he was smiling smugly, brown eyes taking you in, tongue swiping along his bottom lip slowly. He was fully naked beneath you, like an adonis, a man that could have inspired every artist to create their masterpiece. His eyes were blown from the lust and you clenched around his cock.

“Please, sweetheart,” he asked, moving you up a little, urging you to ride him again, so you did – one of the advantages of being a vampire was the fact you could continue to ride him forever, without your legs hurting. His cock filled you up so nicely, stretching your hole, the sound of your wet pussy almost felt too loud in his little room - knowing it would be bad if the two of you were caught but you didn’t care. Your fingers rested on his chest, feeling the heat from his body against your slightly cooler one, helping you keep your balance. 

The sounds of pleasure leaving him were addicting to you, something you wished you could get to hear all the time. 

“Gaz,” you moaned his name softly, riding him harder, your bodies colliding harder and harder, the thrust making thrills of pleasure shoot through you. So close to the edge, yet so far. The fangs hidden inside your gums arched, wanting to slide out, wanting to bite him, mark him - drink that sweet blood you could smell beneath his beautiful skin.

His grip hardened - and he suddenly moved, sitting up, impaling you fully on his cock, making you mewl out loud and curl your toes. His hands moved to rest on your ass, following the stretchmarks on your skin that he had chosen to memorize, kissing and licking them whenever he had a change. You grinded down on him, getting some friction - one of his hands stayed on your ass, while he licked two fingers on his right hand, before sliding it down in front of you, playing with your clit. 

“I want it, sweetheart,” he said, pupils blown with lust as he looked up through his lashes at your red eyes, “want it so badly, want you to bite me–”

“Can’t,” you whined, grinding against him, his cock filling you perfectly, tip of his cock teasing your cervix, pubes tickling against your own, sweat being shared between the two of you, “Price will muzzle me.”

You wouldn’t be able to kiss him then; wouldn’t be able to lay down with your head against his chest in the same way, wouldn’t be able to sneak off with him, spend the time with him that you shouldn’t.

“Won’t tell,” he whispered, “promisepromisepromis–”

You whined in despair.

“I know, but what - ah fuck - yes - right - what if he finds out?”

“He won’t,” Gaz promised, somehow managing to hump up into you even when sitting like this, “I wan’t it anyways, nothin’ wrong with it then.”

“Kylekylekyle,” you mewled his name like a prayer, again and again, as if he was a god you could worship, as if nothing else mattered; it didn’t really. The last two months, despite having to be around each other in secret, had been the best in your otherwise long life. It was as if Kyle had made colors appear in your gray world again, making you laugh, cry, feel. Feel good, bad, happy, confused, silly. You wanted everything with him and god if you didn’t want to sink your teeth into his skin.

Wanted to show him the pleasure that one could get from being bitten, wanted to taste the nectar of his body, wanted to mark him; letting every other vampire now, just from the smell, that he was a taken man. That he was yours.

You felt high on the pleasure he was bringing you and your hands dug into his shoulders a little, as you grinded against him, the pleasure blossoming between your bodies. You could feel his cock twitch inside you. 

“I’m close,” you whined, one of your hands moving to cup his cheek, resting your forehead against his, “I’m - ah - so fuckin’ close, Gaz.”

“Please,” he whispered, stealing a small kiss from you, continuing to rub your clit, sendings sparks through your body, “I need you.”

You kissed his lips, his nose and cheek, his eyelids as the two of you moaned and panted, a slow sensual dance towards the edge. His chin, his jaw and oh, Gaz did it again, tipping back his head, offering his neck to you - whispering your name. It dripped from his lips like honey, hypnotizing to your mind, whispering consent for it.

“Please, sweetheart,” he rolled his hips again, pressed a little harsher against your clit, “want - ah - want it so badly.”

You couldn’t help yourself, leaning down a little. You licked a stripe up along that pretty throat of his, tasting his sweat on your tongue - even that felt addicting and he moaned, even if you had done nothing but licking him. Again and again, covering his throat in a layer of salvia while the two of you began fucking a little harder.

It was so tempting. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t, but then another pleading whine left Gaz and oh, how had you denied him for two months? How had you turned him away?

He was the most precious being you had ever met - your fangs unsheathed themselves, ready for you to choose a spot on his neck. To give in, just like the both of you wanted to.

Your hands moved to cradle his head, licking one last time. Then you opened your mouth fully, sinking your teeth in.

It was euphoria. 

[perotovar]

ásjá - a winter solstice story

Ásjá by Heilung (i highly recommend listening to this while reading)

Our second single release is a love song. Maria sings to the listener of love, recovery and prosperity, chasing away evil and welcoming love. The piece contains a quotation of some lines of “Hávamál”, combined with a selection of blessing words meant to provide help to the listener in a troubled time. Kai brought his vocal part of 'Asja' back to us after a month of isolation, fasting and meditation in nature. Only the spirits know the full meaning, but we do know that the context is love, prosperity and protection.

pairing: pero tovar/ofc!helga (but this is mostly a character study) rating: T word count: 7.4k (idk what happened here) warnings: minor swearing, google translated spanish (sorry), historical inaccuracies in favor of fantasy/magic, my american norse pagan perspective of these practices, if i missed anything else lemme know! dividers by @saradika-graphics beta and norwegian translations by the lovely @chloeangelic thank you, honey ♥

summary: Pero picks up a contract that leads him "somewhere up North", but what he finds instead is unlike anything he imagined for himself. Or, what would happen if Pero encountered the Vikings during their winter celebration?

this is apart of @hellishjoel's 12 days of pedro. thank you for including me, kylee, and make sure you all read the other presents!

god jól, everyone🌲❄️🌙🐺

It was fucking cold.

With shaking hands and numb limbs, Pero made his way further up the hill. The wind picked up the further he went into the trees. 

The contract he’d taken up was for a man by the name of Ingvar. A strange name to Pero’s ears, but that hardly mattered to him. This Ingvar was to be taken care of, and Pero had to show proof. 

Not a problem.

The problem, at least for the moment, was the fucking weather and his own lack of foresight. He was told that Ingvar was “somewhere up North”, and that was it. He didn’t exactly plan for just how cold it would be. His fingers were going numb and red, and he saw every breath that left his lungs. If William were here, he’d tell Pero to quit his “bitching” and to make camp.

The camp, he could do. The bitching? Unlikely. 

Pero and William separated after the… events in China. They stayed together to do a few jobs together, but William decided to make his way back to China and meet up with Lin Mae again, possibly even settle down. Pero didn’t fancy seeing the people that had arrested and almost killed him, and black powder wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. At least not to him. He rather liked the uncertainty of his job. Found comfort in it, in fact. His future was set for him in this line of work. He would live doing the things he loved most; fighting, fucking, and drinking. And the ending was always the same. At least, that’s what he told himself.

A low whisper brought Pero out of his thoughts. He snapped his head towards the direction of the sound and furrowed his already heavy brow. The sound of a raven cawing caught his attention, making him hum skeptically to himself before deciding this was as good a spot as any for a fire. 

Once settled on a fallen tree and attempting to warm his hands with his meager fire, Pero dug into his travel pack. He grumbled at the pitiful excuse for food he had left. He grabbed a piece of thick, dry bread and started ripping off chunks and eating that. Perhaps he could hunt? Find a rabbit, or something a little bigger. He remembered to make a bow this time. Swallowing the last chunk of the bread, he picked up his bow and arrows, and threw his cloak-slash-blanket over his shoulders. It was going to be dark soon, and he didn’t like the idea of starving his first night in this frozen Northern hell.

Another whisper.

Pero’s body went taut. He looked between the tall trees and the endless sea of white ahead of him. Nothing. A rabbit hopped by, distracting him. Before he could think too hard, he knocked an arrow and let fly. The arrow landed in the snow just after the rabbit hopped away.

“Mierda,” he grumbled. (Shit.)

He crouched low and slowly followed after the rabbit. He made his way toward a small clearing, which seemed to be in the center of the forest, if his tracking skills were getting any better.

There was a large stone in the middle, towards the top of the clearing. There looked to be a large blood stain in the center of it. Pero raised a brow and grunted quietly. This was none of his business, clearly.

Suddenly, the rabbit made its way to the middle of the clearing, next to the large stone. Pero sighed and lined up a shot, hoping for the best. He released a breath at the same time that the arrow left his fingers, and another whisper passed through his ears.

He gasped quietly and time seemed to stop as the arrow traveled through the cold air. A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. He closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath, trying to make himself as still as possible. 

The sound of the arrow piercing the rabbit startled him out of his frozen state. He blinked a few times, the white forest coming back into view as he looked down at the dead rabbit in the clearing. He exhaled and slowly stood, settling his bow on his shoulder. He looked around again, and when he saw nothing, slowly made his way down the hill and towards the center of the clearing.

He picked up the dead rabbit and removed the arrow, tucking it into his belt to clean and use again later. Standing in the center of the clearing, he looked over at the bloodstained stone and felt that shiver go down his spine again. He looked up at the gray sky and decided it was time to go back to his camp. He hooked the rabbit’s carcass onto his belt, pulled the cloak over his shoulders tighter, and shoved his hands inside the fabric.

“Maldita nieve,” he grumbled to himself. (Fucking snow.) As he climbed back up the hill, he felt a sharp pain in his foot and lost his balance, catching himself with his hands in the snow. He hissed loudly and looked down at his boot. A small spike was poking out through the top, meaning the sharp rock was piercing through his foot. He groaned and leaned against the hill, steadying his breathing. He counted to three in his head and yanked the rock from his foot. “Fuck,” he exhaled loudly, a few drops of his own blood covering his palm as he looked at the rock. A small symbol was carved into it, making him squint his eyes, trying to decipher what it was. Pero shook his head and sighed, pocketing the strange rock to inspect later.

On his way back to his little camp, limping the whole way to not put too much pressure on his foot, he grabbed some branches to make the fire last a little longer. Once the meager fire came into view, he swore he saw someone sitting on the log he was using before. He froze in place, heavy boots landing in the snow abruptly. He squinted his eyes and grew confused. An old man? What would he be doing out here? 

Pero looked around the frozen forest to see if there was anyone that could be with the old man. When he didn’t see anyone, he looked back at the campfire, and the old man was gone. He’d completely vanished. Pero grunted quietly and rubbed his eyes with frozen fingers. He shook his head to snap himself out of it and made his way over to the campfire.

After putting the rabbit on the spit and it started to cook, Pero made his bed for the night. He’d do his best to sleep, but didn’t have high hopes. Once the rabbit was cooked, he stabbed it with his knife and started eating it messily. He groaned at the taste of fresh, hot, cooked meat and enjoyed it, even if it was pretty bland. It warmed his bones a little and made him more comfortable, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders.

The sound of a branch snapping behind him went unnoticed by Pero’s ears, too focused on the food. He hadn’t eaten in days. The second snap, however, was heard, and it made him drop the rabbit onto the ground and grab his sword, brandishing it in front of him as he stood.

“¿Dónde estás, bastardo?” He grumbled under his breath, his heavy breaths puffing out into smoke. (Where are you, bastard?)

He sighed in frustration when he didn’t see anything. He was seriously starting to consider if this contract was even worth it. And if it wasn’t, would he be able to make it back without dying? Either from the cold, or whatever it was that was playing with him. He mumbled obscenities to himself and sat back down on his fallen tree.

He picked up the rabbit and groaned at the dirt now covering it. He blew off what he could and decided to continue eating it, dirt be damned. He was hungry.

Once full, he looked up at the moon in the sky, trying to figure out how late it was. He rubbed his hands over his arms to keep warm and added a branch or two to his fire. He grabbed a piece of spare cloth from his travel pack and quickly wrapped his foot. He laid down next to the fire and pulled the cloak up over his shoulders and shut his eyes. He didn’t feel tired, but he couldn’t help closing his eyes. He tried to fight it, to keep his guard up, but it was useless. 

He started to feel lightheaded and turned onto his back, looking up at the moon again. The moon and the stars, so bright he almost didn’t need the campfire, were swirling around and moving in close and further away. The trees surrounding him looked to be moving side to side. 

What was happening? Did the old man poison him somehow? Who was that old man?

His vision went blurry and he felt like he was spinning in place despite laying on the ground, completely still. He let out a weak groan and tried to move, reaching for his sword. 

The last thing he saw before his vision went black, was the silhouette of a large dog, or perhaps a wolf, in the distance hidden behind the trees.

Warmth. He felt warm. And a pounding headache.

Pero slowly blinked awake and groaned at the light that hit his eyes. The smell of cooked meat and root vegetables hit his nostrils. His stomach whined in protest. 

“For en merkelig fyr…” An older male voice said, somewhere behind him. (He is a strange one…)

“Kjekk, da,” A younger, female voice replied. (Handsome, though.)

He didn’t understand any of it. It wasn’t a language he’d heard before. Eyelids fluttering, he slowly opened his eyes to a small gathering of people all looking down at him. He startled and reached for his knife, and grunted when he didn’t feel it.

“Vi har våpnene dine. De er trygge.” (We have your weapons. They’re safe.)

Pero turned his head in the direction of the voice and squinted his eyes at the woman. She looked to be in her 30s, with a baby attached to her breast and drinking.

“No entiendo,” he grumbled, voice hoarse from lack of use. “¿Dónde estoy?” (I do not understand. Where am I?)

He took in his surroundings, now sitting up, and saw that he looked to be in a small room cut off from a much larger group of people. He heard laughter and song outside the cloth separating the, assumed, larger hall from where he was now. He furrowed his brows. A celebration? What for?

“¿Dónde estoy?” He repeated, voice slightly harsher. (Where am I?)

“Har ikke hørt det språket før,” one of the men said. (Haven’t heard that tongue before.) Pero looked up at him and squinted his eyes slightly. The man was large, with a full beard, and an even fuller middle. But there was no denying his strength; age hadn’t stopped this man from doing well in a fight, Pero assumed. Not that he couldn’t take him, of course. He looked at the man’s belt and saw a one-handed axe attached to his belt and thought better of it, especially without his own weapons. 

Suddenly a small sting came from his foot and he snapped his head down at the young woman tending to the wound he’d gotten on his way back from the clearing. He’d almost completely forgotten about it, too cold to even really feel it. The young woman startled and blushed, keeping her head down as she cleaned the cut. 

“Det er et vakkert språk, da, er det ikke?” The first younger woman’s voice came through, a slightly entranced tone to it. (It is a beautiful tongue, though, no?) He looked to his left and saw her batting her eyelashes at him. He huffed a breath in amusement. He’d had his fair share of women giving him looks like that, almost always with a payment in mind, but his thoughts were elsewhere, even if it did feel nice. And she was a tad too skinny for his own tastes.

Pero exhaled. This was clearly getting nowhere. Fine. “Where am I? You know English, yes?” He asked, exasperated, in the general direction of anyone who might be able to answer him. 

The shy girl cleaning his wound lifted her head and smiled softly at him. “I know a little,” she said quietly, her voice heavily accented.

“Finally,” he sighed. “What is going on?”

“A few of our men found you in the forest, passed out. Your lips were blue.” She won’t make eye contact with him, bur her brows furrowed like she was worried for him. “We have lost some of our own men in a similar way before. It is not pretty.”

Pero hummed softly and nodded his thanks. “Did any of them see an old man? In the woods?”

The girl tilted her head and asked the man next to him, the one with the axe in his belt, if any of them had seen such a man. The man raised a brow and shook his head, looking at Pero skeptically. 

“Ingvar says–”

“Yes, I understood, thank you–” Pero cut himself off and looked back at the man with the axe. This was Ingvar? Pero looked back at the girl and nodded his head as she bandaged his wound, his own cloth wrapped around his ankle. He would have to be careful if he was to carry out this contract. “Thank you,” he repeated, the words foreign on his tongue.

The girl nodded, cheeks pink, and stood to leave. As she left, the cloth covering them moved to show a large fire in the middle of the hall with an even larger feast around it. The girl came back with a tankard of something for him and he took it gratefully. As the sweet liquid hit his tongue, he coughed slightly.

“What is this?” He wheezed a little, looking at the cup like it slapped his mother.

The girl giggled before saying, “Mead. It is honey wine.”

Pero rolled the words around his tongue for a moment. “Interesante,” he hummed to himself. (Interesting.)

“Vel, han er våken. Tilby ham noe å spise, men hold øye på ham. Han ser ut som en leiesoldat, og jeg stoler ikke på ham,” Ingvar grunted, leaving the room and rejoining the festivities. (Well, he is up. Invite him to eat, but keep an eye on him. He looks like a mercenary and I do not trust him.)

Pero watched him closely as he left, and took another drink of his mead, eyes hard. 

“Would you like some food, mister-”

“Tovar,” Pero grunted. “Yes. I am very hungry.” He turned on the cot and got to his feet quickly, but quickly lost his balance, a couple of the women catching him as he stood on shaky legs. He sighed in frustration and stood on his own, shrugging off their help. The girl held her arm out to him, and didn’t seem too offended when he just stared at it.

“Tovar. This way,” she smiled, her face a little pinched. 

“What are you celebrating?” He asked, looking around at all the food. His stomach roared at the smells.

“It is the third night of Jól. You have heard of Jól?” She asked excitedly, turning to him as she found a place for him to sit. He slowly made his way down at a long table nearby where Ingvar sat at the head of the table. A leader. This contract was getting more difficult by the second.

“I have not,” he grumbled. “What is this… Yool?” 

The girl giggled again, this time at his attempt at the word. “Jól is the celebration that welcomes back the sun from the harsh Winter. Our crops start growing as the sun comes back, and the snow melts away.”

Pero hummed as he listened, nodding his thanks when she handed him a full plate of different meats, root vegetables, bread, and cheese. “You are farmers?”

The girl nods. “Most of us. Some are warriors.”

Pero hummed again, chewing on a piece of meat. “How did you learn English?”

The girl turned a little sad, but smiled anyway. “We used to have a man that came from… Eng-land? He died last year,” she sighed. “He taught me and a few of the children how to read and speak English. How did you learn?”

Pero frowned around his food and sighed.

“I am sorry, forget–” Pero held up a hand to stop her. “Apologies. I am… unused to kindness from strangers,” he grunted, not meeting her eyes. “A dear friend of mine is from Scotland. We have separated so he could be with his woman. He taught me.”

“Scotland?”

“It is near England.”

She nodded, slowly picking at her own food. The two of them grew quiet and just ate for a while. The celebrations continued around them, and it gave Pero a chance to take it all in.

In the center of the hall was a large hearth, with an even larger tree in the middle, lighting up the hall. It looked like the one he was using earlier as a bench, so they must have gotten it from the same forest. He can’t be too far from there, then. There were candles and flames everywhere, lighting up the hall brightly, but warmly.

He looked back at the girl and found her already staring at him. She startled, cheeks going pink again, and looked down at her food. He smirked a little, but hid it well. She was amusing.

“What is your name?” He asked.

“Sigrid,” she said softly.

“It sounds strong.”

“Yes. I am more drawn to medicine, so I suppose the name is ironic.”

Pero chuckled. “Hardly.”

Sigrid smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

A comfortable silence fell over the two of them again before Pero asked, “Who is Ingvar? He seems like a powerful man.”

“He is our Jarl. Our leader.”

“Is this like a king?” Pero furrowed his brows. He didn’t think this contract would be finished.

“Not exactly. But no less powerful.”

“I see,” Pero grunted. As if on cue, Ingvar stood from his seat at the head of the table, a large grin on his bearded face.

“Venner! Kvelden er ung, og festen er rik. Vær så snill, nyt, for mine gamle beindekk. Jeg ser dere alle i morgen tidlig.” Everyone raised their drinks and shouted… something, but Pero didn’t catch it. Sigrid leaned over and translated what Ingvar said for him. He nodded his thanks, but he was skeptical at best. Ingvar left through a door behind the throne that sat in the center of the hall. (Friends! The night is young, and the feast bountiful. Please, enjoy, for my old bones tire. I will see you all in the morning.)

“He cannot be that old, no?”

“He has been around much longer than I,” Sigrid shrugged. Pero laughed softly, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You are a child, of course he has.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. “If seventeen winters makes me a child, then yes.”

Pero choked on his mead and hit his chest to keep from coughing too hard. “Yes, it does,” he wheezed, laughing quietly. Sigrid laughed, too, eating some bread and cheese. A small child ran up to Sigrid and asked her a question as he tugged on her dress. Sigrid looked back at Pero apologetically and he waved her off, eating some more meat.

This was hardly the setting he expected for himself when he took the contract, but he couldn’t deny it, it was a pleasant one. The food was good, and the people seemed friendly enough. He couldn’t help but be confused by the contract; who was dumb enough to put a hit out on a powerful leader like Ingvar?

Sigrid mentioned that some of them were warriors. That didn’t surprise him at all. Just by looking at the people around the table, men and women alike, he could’ve figured that out on his own.

He sighed to himself and chewed thoughtfully. Suddenly, he remembered the small stone that pierced his foot. He looked around at the people around him to be sure no one was watching before he felt around his pocket for the stone. When he didn’t feel anything, his body went taut and he froze. Shit. They probably found it when they grabbed his weapons. Where were his weapons?

Sigrid came up to his side with the small child from before holding her hand and looking at him from behind her. “Tovar?” She asked softly. He looked up at her, heavy brow still pulled down. She gave him a quick once-over before clearing her throat. “We have sleeping quarters for you, but Lord Ingvar wishes to speak with you first.”

Pero chuckled humorlessly around his food before putting it down on his plate. He grabbed the mead and took a drink, making a face at the taste. He wasn’t sure he’d get used to that anytime soon. “Of course he does,” he sighed. “You will translate for me?”

Sigrid nodded, braided blonde hair swinging with the movement, and looked like she was trying to steel herself. He admired her mettle.

Pero followed after her, keeping light pressure on his foot as they went through that door Ingvar went through before. It led down a short hallway and ended up in a large bedroom. Ingvar was sitting on the edge of the bed before standing tall and fixing Pero with a hard look. Pero grunted and rested a hand on his hip as he leaned on the uninjured foot, waiting to get this over with.

“Hva heter du?” Ingvar grunted. (What is your name?)

“He asked your name,” Sigrid said softly.

“Tovar,” Pero narrowed his eyes. 

“Hvorfor er du her?” (Why are you here?)

Sigrid translated quietly.

“Your people brought me here. I was wondering the same thing,” Pero shrugged with an attitude. Ingvar gave him a look, clearly unimpressed. Pero rolled his eyes.

Ingvar looked at Sigrid and she blushed, nodding. “He didn’t mean–”

“Yes, I know what he meant,” Pero sighed. “I had a contract. I came to fulfill that contract.”

Sigrid spoke quietly and Ingvar seemed tired as he nodded.

“Var navnet mitt på denne kontrakten?” Ingvar sighed. Pero gave Sigrid a look as she quickly translated. (Did this contract have my name on it?)

“It did…” Pero raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. Ingvar nodded again, but Pero spoke up before he could say anything. “I decided not to complete the contract when I saw your celebration and… status. I may be a mercenary, but I am no fool. I do not go after lords or kings.”

Ingvar raised a brow and chuckled quietly before letting out a loud, hearty laugh. “Jeg vet ikke om du er smart eller dum,” Ingvar smiled, cheeks flushed with mirth. “Jeg takker deg, men tilgi meg for at jeg ikke stoler på deg helt, Tovar.” (I do not know if you are smart or stupid. I thank you. But you will forgive me for not completely trusting you, Tovar.)

Pero nodded and shrugged. “I understand.”

Sigrid looked between the two of them, looking much less nervous. She quickly spoke to Ingvar quietly, asking him a question. Ingvar nodded, a small smile on his lips.

“Nyt festen, Tovar. Vi diskuterer hva vi skal gjøre med deg om morgenen.” (Enjoy the festivities, Tovar. We will discuss what to do with you in the morning.)

“I wish to leave,” Pero grunted, looking between Sigrid and the Jarl. Sigrid looked a little crestfallen, but took one more look at Ingvar before he waved them off. She pushed Pero out of the Jarl’s quarters and back out into the celebration. “Sigrid?” Pero asked, confused.

She sighed before looking up at him. “The Jarl wishes to keep you here until Jól ends. To keep an eye on you, make sure you keep your word.” She started wringing her hands together and bit her lip.

“How much longer is Yool?”

Sigrid went quiet.

“Sigrid.”

“Nine more days,” she sighed, looking down.

Pero’s eyes went wide before he shut them and sighed heavily. He looked up at the ceiling and mumbled, “Joder yo,” under his breath. (Fuck me.) “Fine. Nine more days and I will leave.”

Over the course of the first four days, Pero was treated like he belonged with these people. He still didn’t quite know where he was. If someone were to give him a map, he couldn’t tell them, but he knew he was probably at the top somewhere. He was shocked at how much he liked it there despite the bitter cold.

He felt eyes on him the whole time and he didn’t like the feeling, but he understood it. 

He taught Sigrid and some of the children some Spanish words and in turn he was taught some words in their tongue. Norse, he was told.

Pero also found himself helping the warriors Sigrid mentioned before, called Vikingr. Their job was to sail to faraway lands, raid strangers of their belongings, and bring it back home. He didn’t judge. He’d done worse, and frankly, it sounded like something right up his alley. He mostly helped with keeping their longships cleaned for their next raid when the snow thawed.

And he ate. He ate a lot. There was so much food at the feasts in the evenings. He tried to eat as much as he could in the hopes that it would carry him on his journey home. Wherever that was. Every feast started with a chant and “offerings” to their Gods. Some of these “offerings” came in the form of the mead Pero had - reluctantly - grown to like, and other times it came in the form of one of the farmer’s poor goats. 

While he didn’t understand a lot of these people’s customs, he couldn’t deny it, they were a hearty people. 

He’d also caught the eye of some of the women there, too, but he mostly ignored them. They were all too young for him, and he was too busy not getting killed. He still wasn’t given back his weapons. Or the strange stone. His wound would take a while to heal yet, but he could put pressure on it again.

On the fifth day, he was helping chop wood for people’s homes. During the feast, everyone in the village congregated in the Jarl’s home to be surrounded by the fire given by the Jól Log and enjoy the food, but they all needed wood for their own homes as well.

He stopped to take a break and wiped the sweat from his brow as a cool chill blew past him. Pero looked to his left, the feeling of someone looking at him catching his attention. When he saw it wasn’t one of Ingvar’s men, he startled a little. It was a woman. Older than the ones that mostly watched him, and far more… Interesting. To him, at least. He raised a brow as she turned and left, clutching her basket closer to her body. He’d seen her around during his time there and she seemed to keep mostly to herself. She was unattached from what he could tell, and wondered why. She was beautiful. 

Pero snapped himself out of it and shook his head, going back to chopping the wood.

On the sixth day, he saw her again. He’d asked Sigrid what her name was as he saw her making her way through the market, and she said it was Helga. 

Helga.

He liked the name.

Helga was a thread-weaver. She made blankets, scarves, anything to keep one warm and covered. Pero was given clothing that suited the temperature better, and he felt strange without his armor, but he was never given a scarf. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted one before now.

He asked Sigrid if she could ask Helga for him for a scarf, and the girl giggled, pushing him toward the woman. He sighed and walked over to her, looking at the weapons and tools surrounding them at the market. He tried not to make himself too obvious, and it mostly worked, he thought. He was genuinely impressed with the craftsmanship of the weapons.

Pero sidled up to Helga’s side, but before he could say anything, she stepped away from the stand and walked back to her house. He watched her go and frowned.

This was going to be tougher than he thought.

The seventh day was much like the day before, but instead of chopping wood, Pero was asked to help around the Jarl’s home. He noticed a lot of the young women that stared at him worked there, so he tried to keep mostly to himself. He’d never cleaned linens or blankets before, but found it to be quite relaxing. There was a rhythm to it, and he could do it without much help.

“Tovar,” a young voice asked from his left. He looked up, finishing the fold of the blanket he was holding. He grunted in acknowledgement. “Jeg og noen av kvinnene har lurt på noe,” the girl was blushing hard up to her ears and biting her lip. (Some of the women and I have been wondering something.)

Pero smirked a little and nodded for her to continue. He picked up on the gist of what she was saying, thanks to Sigrid’s teachings of Norse.

“Hvor fikk du arret fra?” she asked meekly. (Where did you get your scar?)

Pero’s face pinched slightly and he shook his head. “I do not wish to talk about it.” The girl’s eyes went wide and she started scrambling out apologies, her hand pressed to her chest. A sad smile crossed his features before he shook his head. “It is okay,” he said quietly.

The girl frowned, cheeks bright red, but nodded as she turned and left. Pero exhaled quietly and looked down at the linens he was folding. 

“I do not believe she meant any harm,” a low, feminine voice said to his left. He hummed in acknowledgement before he froze, realizing that she spoke perfect English. He turned his head and nearly jumped out of his boots when he saw Helga standing there. She smiled and started helping him with the linens. “Tovar, yes?”

Pero huffed a laugh and nodded. 

“I have noticed you watching me.” She had a soft smile on her lips, brown hair pulled away from her face in a braid. She turned to look at him, blue eyes full of heat as she looked over his face and chest. 

Pero blinked, eyes slightly wider. He went to speak, but all that came out was a croak, making him cough. “Apologies,” he wheezed, the side of his fist pressed to his chest. “I am sorry for staring,” he mumbled, turning back to his own linens as his cheeks flushed. “I am still getting used to the customs here. There are two days left of your celebration, and I will be gone.”

Helga hummed noncommittally and pushed her small stack of folded linens toward him to add to his pile. “That would be a shame.”

Pero furrowed his brows and added her stack to his. He looked at her incredulously, but her head was faced down as she continued folding. He didn’t say anything and continued as well, his thoughts running a mile a minute.

“I thought only Sigrid and a few of the children spoke English,” he said after a few moments of silence.

“They are not the only ones.”

Pero snorted and shook his head. “Clearly not,” he hummed to himself. He cleared his throat and glanced at her before continuing. “When I arrived at this place, I was in the forest. I am not sure how far it is from here, but I saw an old man,” he started, keeping his eyes downward. “I was hoping I would see him here in the village, but I have not.”

Helga hummed a noise for him to continue. 

“He wore a cloak, the hood covering his head. He sat in front of my campfire, but I only saw one of his eyes,” Pero’s brows furrowed further, confusion filling his head. “I am not sure if he was missing one or if it was covered.”

Helga stopped folding and looked at him, a small smirk on her lips. “Did he have a long beard?”

Pero looked up and blinked. “Y-yes. You have seen this man?”

“Once or twice,” she said. “He is a wanderer. He does not stay in one place for very long.”

“Who is he?”

Helga bit her lip and shrugged. “He has many names. We cannot be certain which he likes best.”

Pero sighed in frustration. “Why was he at my camp?”

Helga smirked again and finished folding her linens. “Perhaps he was looking out for you,” she shrugged again, leaning over to pick up her basket of fabrics. “Enjoy the feast tonight.” She grinned and left the Jarl’s home, leaving Pero quiet and watching her retreating form.

Pero exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. When he looked down, there was a scarf folded on top of her pile of linens. 

“Du får tingene dine i morgen, etter den siste festen,” Ingvar grumbled. (You will receive your belongings after tomorrow’s final feast.)

“Must I stay the whole time? I wish to return home,” Pero growled, crossing his arms over his chest. Not that he had a home to return to.

Ingvar rolled his eyes and waved him off. Sigrid grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of the Jarl’s bedroom. Pero grumbled obscenities in Spanish to himself until he was sat at a table in the hall. It was the eighth night, and he was getting tired of being watched constantly. He had no intention of hurting anyone here. He might if they didn’t give him his things, though. The people around him continued to have the same energy this night that they always seemed to. He supposed that came from actually understanding what you were celebrating, and not having to worry about death or arrest at every corner.

“You leave tomorrow evening, yes?”

Pero startled and looked to his right. Helga sat next to him, a plate of food in front of her. She smiled warmly at him and he softened. “How do you do that?” He huffed a laugh and shook his head before grabbing a piece of meat and eating it.

“You do not pay attention,” she said simply.

He squinted his eyes at her and grumbled around his food that he did too pay attention, thank you very much. She laughed softly and it made him bite his tongue. She had been nothing but kind to him while he was there and she didn’t deserve the frustration he felt to be forced on her.

“Where do you live?” Helga asked softly. “Where will you go?”

Pero bit his lip as he tore a piece of bread in two. “Nowhere. I am a mercenary. I go where the work is,” he shrugged, shoving the bread in his mouth. 

“You enjoy this?”

Pero raised a brow as he chewed. 

“You like not having anywhere to call home? You do not have to leave,” she hummed around her own food, taking a drink of some mead.

“What do you mean? Of course I do,” he scoffed. “Ingvar wants me dead. His men are constantly watching me.”

Helga rolled her eyes. “You really do not pay attention,” she sighed, setting down her cup and turning to face him. “You have not heard how people talk about you?”

“I am still learning the language,” he frowned, chewing messily and lips greasy.

“Why are you learning the language if you want to leave?”

Pero blinked and looked down at his plate. He frowned, thinking about it. Why was he learning the language? 

“Because you like it here, Tovar,” she said softly. “We like you.” It went unsaid, but he got the feeling that she liked him, too.

“Pero.”

“What?”

“My name is Pero.”

Helga smiled, pink dusting her cheeks. “I do not think you will have many people protesting if you stay. The children love you. And I think you would make an excellent Viking.”

Pero raised a brow and exhaled, thinking about it. Having a place to call his own would be nice. And he was familiar with the kind of work the warriors did, from what he’d heard. 

“You do not have long to think about it, Pero,” Helga hummed. She picked up her plate and stood before leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “I would like it if you stayed,” she whispered into his ear. He looked up at her with soft eyes and she smiled down at him with her hand on his shoulder before turning and leaving.

Pero shut his eyes and exhaled once again, then looked in the direction of the Jarl’s personal quarters. 

Would it be such a terrible thing to stay?

On the ninth day, Pero woke with a startle. He thought he’d heard a whisper next to his ear again. He’d been mostly dreamless while he was in the village. Last night, after his talk with Helga, he dreamt about the old man and the wolf in the woods. He didn’t understand any of it, and he barely remembered what the dream actually entailed, but he remembered the feeling. He felt… odd. Not bad or wrong. Just… different. Comforting. 

As he got dressed in the clothes that were given to him, he looked over at the scarf Helga gave him. It was a brown color and the material was rough, but also thick and soft. It kept his ears warm. He wrapped it around his neck before slipping his feet into his boots, making sure to be careful of his injured one. He made his way over to the Jarl’s quarters and knocked on the door.

“Er du sikker?” (Are you sure?)

Pero nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “Yes.”

Ingvar sighed and crossed his arms, too. “Du forvirrer meg, Tovar. Men hvis dette virkelig er det du vil, tror jeg ikke at jeg ser noe problem med det.” He shrugged and looked at Sigrid’s smiling face. “Gå og hent tingene hans.” (You confuse me, Tovar. But if this is truly what you want, I don’t suppose I see a problem with it. Go get his things.)

Sigrid nodded happily and ran from the room. Pero and Ingvar awkwardly avoided eye contact. Even if neither of them were enemies, the circumstances of their acquaintanceship were less than ideal. When Sigrid returned, she was carrying Pero’s weapons in both arms and looked to be struggling to do so.

Pero furrowed his brows and gently took the weapons from her. She sighed in relief, but smiled shyly up at him. “I am happy you decided to stay,” she giggled.

Pero smiled down at her, then gave a grateful nod to Ingvar before leaving the room. Sigrid walked next to him while he attached his sword and hunting knife to his belt. He carried the armor under his left arm. “Me too,” he grunted awkwardly. “I am unsure how I will fit in, but…” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck.

“I think you will be fine,” she nodded, sure of herself. One of the small children, a younger brother of hers he found out, came up to her and tugged on her dress. He mumbled something Pero didn’t quite catch. Sigrid tapped on his shoulder to get Pero’s attention, making him look down at the two of them, dark eyes intimidating, but soft. “She lives at the end of the village,” Sigrid winked, then took off with her younger brother.

Pero’s cheeks flushed, but he chuckled to himself. He made his way through the village, waving or nodding to people as he saw them. It was strange, being accepted as he was. He wasn’t the only gruff and hardened warrior here, and no one seemed scared of him for his scars or his accent. The feeling was so foreign to him.

As he walked up a small hill toward the end of the village, he heard a quiet thud against the grass. He looked down and saw the strange stone from the forest laying there. Right, he’d completely forgotten. It must’ve fallen from his belongings. He picked it up and looked at it, thumbs running over the strange markings. It was almost shaped like a fork, but with three prongs. Maybe Helga would know what it meant.

When he made his way in front of the door of the last house in the village, he hesitated before knocking. The sun was slowly setting and it was getting a tad colder, so he eventually knocked. 

“Et øyeblikk!” (One moment!)

Pero smiled to himself as he heard her voice behind the door. Once the door opened, he raised his head and smiled sheepishly, the shape on his face still foreign to him.

Helga’s face softened as she saw him and rested a hand on her hip. “Well, come on in, then,” she grinned, opening the door wider for him. He nodded gratefully and stepped inside her home, the smells of burnt leaves and the feeling of a warm fire engulfing his body. 

“I will find my own home, you need not keep me here if–”

“Hush,” she chuckled softly, taking his armor from his arms and putting it in her bedroom for cleaning later. “You are more than welcome to stay here,” she looked up at him with a bit of shyness. The first time she’d ever looked at him like that. “If you want to, that is.”

Pero took two steps closer to her until his face was mere inches from her own. “I want nothing more,” he said softly, rubbing the knuckle of his index finger against her cheek. She shut her eyes and exhaled softly, nodding. 

“I was just getting ready to go to the feast,” Helga smiled, looking up at him. “Would you like to join me?”

Pero’s lips quirked up into a soft smile of his own before he remembered the stone he was holding. “Yes, but first,” his brows furrowed in thought. “It is silly, but… I found this strange stone while I was in the forest.”

Helga hummed and tilted her head to the side, letting him continue.

“It has a marking I have never seen before. Do you know what it means?” He asked, showing her the stone lying in the palm of his hand. She picked it up and rubbed her thumb over the marking like he had before.

“Where did you find this?” Helga asked, face pinched in confusion.

“In the forest. There was a small clearing with a bloodstained stone, and–”

“The ritual site,” she smiled up at him, clutching the stone in her hand. “We sacrificed one of the cows on the first day of Jól there.”

Pero blinked down at her, hands holding her arms and rubbing softly. “I see…”

Helga laughed softly. “You’ll get used to it,” she winked. “This is one of the runes. It seems we forgot one.”

“What does it mean?” He hummed, cupping her face in his large hand. He rubbed his thumb against her cheek.

“Protection,” she said softly. She looked at his lips, then looked back up at his eyes. He did the same and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. They stayed there for a few moments before he released her and pressed his forehead against hers. 

“Surely the feast can wait a few moments,” he growled into her neck, kissing against the soft skin there. Helga bit her lip and smiled, fingers tangling into the thick curls at the back of his head.

“It can,” she gasped, startled by the small nip he left against her shoulder. Pero slowly walked them toward her bedroom and laid her on top of the bed. The curtains in front of the window were drawn. Something caught his eye in the window and he looked out, hovering over Helga’s body. 

In the distance, on top of a hill, was a large black wolf. It seemed to make eye contact with him before it turned and left.

A chill ran down Pero’s spine.

a/n: if you're at all curious, here's a decent idea of what i imagined the stone to look like 🥰

[arc-angel-o]

Platonic Natalie/Toad in Natalie/Tommy/Toad would be so good, I love the idea of Rabbit freaking out about his worlds colliding while the other two are just gushing about cute boys they like (Tommy and Rabbit respectively).

[unsoldd]

TADC Prompt

AU: Escaped, as well as Human Caine + Bubble

Relationships: Bunnydoll, Showtime, Gangle x Zooble, and Kinger x Queenie

<•>

In this alternate universe Caine was actually the first human trapped in the digital circus game by his own brother, Able, because he wanted their company all to himself. But Caine figured out that if you twist the ear piece of the headset then you could leave the game. But to make sure Caine would not try to escape they trapped his six year old daughter Bethany (Bubble) in the game as well. They manipulated Caine and Bethany’s minds to make them believe they were AI, and so when new victims were trapped and were confused why Caine was an AI but could not do anything they gave him admin commands. They also made sure Bethany (Bubble) had no arms so IF Caine did end up remembering he would not leave because he would be leaving his daughter behind.

Caine and Bubble do end up remembering that they are real people and not AI thanks to all the members of the circus glitching into what we see Pomni enter in episode two with Gummigoo. They then leave thanks to Caine and enter the human world…

That’s when we learn that when one day passes in the digital world it is only an hour in the real world, so they haven’t missed much… if you don’t count Caine, Bethany and Kinger, as well as the rest which have been abstracted (and we also learn that when a human is abstracted they actually leave the digital world). That’s when we get everyone’s real names:

• Caine the Ringleader is actually Caine Eden, co-founder and head game designer for C&A, as well as a single father to his now (whatever age) year old daughter Bethany.

• Bubble the Assistant(?) is actually Bethany Eden, only daughter to Caine Eden.

• Kinger the Chess Piece is actually Kenneth King, AI specialist for C&A (thanks to the 7 years of computing science in episode 3), husband to Quinn King and father to Paige King.

• Queenie the Other Chess Piece is actually Quinn King, curator of insects (because she likes bugs), wife to Kenneth King and mother to Paige King.

• Pomni the Jester is actually Paige King, algorithm developer for C&A, daughter to Kenneth and Quinn King.

• Ragatha the Rag Doll is actually Ruth Ann, solutions architect for C&A, younger sister to Arthur Ann and Randy Ann.

• Jax the Rabbit is actually Jackson Burrow, app developer for C&A, older brother to Jane Burrow.

• Gangle the Mask is actually Gabriella Satin, team behind the design in making for games characters at C&A, twin sister to Gabriel Satin and girlfriend to Zara Parts

• Zooble the Rubix Cube is actually Zara Parts, games developer for C&A, partner to Gabriella Satin.

• Kaufmo the Clown is actually Kyle Smiles, machine learning engineer for C&A.

<•>

Appearances can be all up to you and you do not need to keep the names or jobs I have listed on top.

Of course like my other prompts this is free to use and credit is not need. I was just bored and thought this was a good idea. And I’ll gladly take in suggestions that you think will be a good story and expand upon it.

[mack-timelines]

BOYBAND AU!!

Hey ya'll how are ya, SO HERE'S AN AU OF MINE, kinda still in the works but designs are mostly finished so

Lore stuff ig down here FDBTSRAFES I love their designs so much, Thaila is a more "recent" Sam&Max Oc of mine nydtsgrrtnsr Also both versions of the logos are in the pics as well-

This au is about Max being apart of a Boyband with his brothers. He's the drummer of Killer Rabbits, a punk band started by his older brother. As much as he loves playing and practicing, he would like a change or someone to spice up his kind of repetitive life. One day, during a concert, Max caught his eye on someone in the crowd. The guy(Sam) wasn't having a great time, but Max found him interesting anyway, like "he doesnt wanna be here but jeez hes hot". Now Max wishes to know more about him without seeming creepy, he has high hopes since he's famous but he doesnt know whether he'll see him again. Or so he thinks.

So the fella with the shark tail is his older brother Kyler/Kyle for short (The singer), and the other tall fella is his younger brother named Billy(Main guitarist). They're British LMAO RGJAWD, Kyle as the accent more tho, Billy over time lost his. and Max goes back and forth. Kyle is the whole lover's boy of the group, Billy and Max could care less otherwise. Kyle started the band from when they were teens, it took them awhile to get this famous as they are now TDSRDBFD

Sam got a lil sis who is like a big fan of them and he so nerdy and works at a instrument store or whatever. Thaila is so fangirl and is always dragging Sam to their concerts, he is being tortured willingly at this point ndthsrgefs. Sam is an adult apart from his teen sister so their dynamic is kinda shifted and somber as they're not really close due to Sam's age.

Me after posting this:

[quartergremlin]

Rizz part 2 (prev)

a look into a world where leo didn't meet the love of his life early. rip to the hidden city's leo-adjacent population.

prev

transcript:

Donnie: What?

Leo: What was that?

D: As a rule, I don't mess with people who look like you. They're too likely to ve an ex of yours. On top of - ugh - looking like you.

L: What does that mean?

D: Percy the witch, stewart the kappa, riggs, that guy you never learned the name of, kyle, therka- , 2-day tom, reg- the- and his brother, -ush there's that rabbit you've been pining over forever, blah blah blah b-

L: Okay. Shut up.

Meme:

Simsons kid: STOP HE'S ALREADY DEAD

Donnie: Your love life's a mess, terrible taste, you date like dad, you're ugly, etc etc.