#Crop Cord (Crack)

[expvrgction]

Is disrespect towards 'flame-like' hair colors that common?

[ranticore]

Compilation of Cuinn POV Writing (part 1)

These bits and pieces are older than this blog but I forgot they existed until last night. First part is intended to be a direct follow up on Cuinn's initial capture by Mikalai, second part (in a different post b/c it's long) is a few years after that when he meets Ilya :) And I'm too lazy to put them in a google doc so it's going into the body of this post enjoy

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He gazed dispassionately down at the sleeping human. What on earth was that strange one thinking? To bring him here to this madhouse flock of babytalkers and ground-bound humans who seemed hardly better. Nobody made sense when they spoke and nobody did what they meant. Why give food and bare your neck so respectfully if you were then going to tie your captor up like a piece of prey?

He tested the bindings again, an agitated ticking under his skin. Still tight, made of two leather pieces sandwiched on either side of a metal woven cord. Cuinn's beak still ached from his attempt to chew it. He'd sliced through a tiny bit of leather, triumphant, and that metal had immediately cracked a notch into the hook in his mouth. It would take weeks to grow out. Why hadn't they warned him? The baffling mix of hospitality and imprisonment made Cuinn's crop seize up and his feathers prick. Was he little more than a farm animal to these humans? Something to be cared for so nicely, right up until the moment of its slaughter?

Let that human come closer, and… and… Cuinn let out his puffed up breath, his feathers flattening again. The man had turned over on the furs he'd made into a nest, and the makeshift blanket fell off his front. Beneath there was a thinner tunic, something woven. His chest rose and fell slowly, in unhurried sleep. Killing someone in their sleep was not the action of a king, but the temptation was ever-present. Cuinn's mouth watered.

Yet the tether still held. Cuinn could not step closer. He instead hunkered down into the ragged nest as if to warm an egg and silently observed.

The human yawned and tipped his head sideways, away from Cuinn, and bore more of his pale throat. That was soft too, though Cuinn would have to step closer to confirm. He reminded Cuinn of the tiercels at the coast, the flightless ones and plump waterbirds, though he knew that assuming delicacy or weakness was a mistake. Cuinn had felt the iron strength behind the binding ropes.

He pulled one of the stripped sheep femurs closer for an early morning snack, gripping the bone with his talons while he used his beak and long, barbed tongue to scrape the marrow out.

A low grunt from the human stilled Cuinn briefly before the hunger became more important. The human said something and sat up. What an odd creature he truly was; close enough to a harpy that Cuinn could find him familiar, even attractive, but strangely proportioned, short-armed and blunt. Had he been smaller, the size of a hare, Cuinn would have not hesitated to rip him apart.

His monstrous captor opened the rear door and stepped out into the light. Other harpies craned their heads to see through the doorway before it shut again. Cuinn licked more marrow out of the sheep's long bones, waiting for the next indignity. Surely that human was preparing to drag him around again, the spoils of his hunt.

But no. The human returned with a hare and a pheasant, warmed but not fresh-killed. He set them on the floor and simply walked out again. He even left Cuinn his privacy, letting the door become a welcome barrier between himself and those chattering mudhawks ready to snatch away any food he got.

It helped Cuinn eat in peace but it didn't lessen the sensation of capture, of being kept like livestock. But he was still weak and likely couldn't have flown any great distance on his ragged wings, his heart in palpitations at the dual effort of pulling wasted muscle and digesting this new glut of food which would only weigh him down more.

The voices of men and the odd harpies pressed in from all angles. Dust shook down from the wooden roof as manicured talons settled upon it. The harpies spoke in exaggerated and strange tones, loud and dramatic no matter the subject, and oddly truncated in a way that flattened the meaning, the errors of a chick learning to speak for the first time. And at a permanently ear-splitting volume, no softer hisses or sibilant tones, only full throated screeches and peeping.

The effects of men on the harpy chicks they stole were legendary. Why would they care for anything, when their provisions were always guaranteed and their hunting little more than a swoop and catch, none of the hours-long stalking and waiting. Their flying skills, too, were roundly mocked by the harpies of Cuinn's flock. His ex-flock, he supposed.

And what hobbies did the humans deign to allow their captives? He'd seen no woven nests or bower walls, no artistic pursuits, nothing but these wooden man-made walls and straw.

The adorable human returned in the afternoon with a deep trough of some kind of liquid. Whitish and warm, the colour of an eggshell.

Although Cuinn had thought warmly about the human in his sleep, he was not so pleased to see the man in full wakefulness, wrapped in his heavy cloak, his face like iron. Cuinn saw again the figure of his captor, the source of his shame and indignity, and made a token effort to lash out at the man. He didn't expect to reach, and sure enough the tether snapped to shivering tension while his talons caught thin air, but it was the best way to send his message. He would not capitulate to this treatment. But the man shrugged it off so easily, sparking fury, and simply set down the container of liquid. He said something in his rumbling voice and gestured across at the trough.

Cuinn pointedly did not approach it. His hunger was dull for the first time in weeks, he would not debase himself for this lesser man. Cuinn was a king. A king of what? his mind said mockingly, and the resultant shame was enough to have him snapping and hissing at the man again, until he finally left.

Cuinn sniffed the liquid, but smell was not his primary sense and he didn’t learn much, only that it smelled somewhat like bone marrow. He slipped his tongue into the top layer and found it gelatinous as it cooled, a soft broth with bones at the bottom and other mysterious ingredients suspended in the tasty fluid. It was more sustaining than the dishes of water he’d been given but quenched his thirst just as well. As he lapped it up, lying on the awkward protrusion of his keel by the trough, he despaired that this was the best food he was going to be given. Lukewarm sludge, the type of food you might feed an invalid, or an elder. His talons flexed open and closed at the thought of real food, live food, something that struggled as it died. That way he could adopt its strength and will to live, not just the physical matter of its flesh. The broth, while nourishing, could not pass that vigour on to him.

Over the next few days, the man came and went. Cuinn heard enough from the others beyond the doorway to associate him with the sound ‘Mika’, which was likely a name. Mika was an odd prison guard. He brought food and water and showed Cuinn the midden hole under the nest platform at the back of the little den. He slept in the den every single night, no matter what, blithely revealing defenceless flesh and pale skin to the hungry gaze of Cuinn. Aside from that he did not seem to need or care to interact much with Cuinn. It was not respectful, not at all, but it was honest. It did not make any effort to convince Cuinn that he would be happy here, in his captivity.

As Cuinn’s exhaustion began to purge itself from his bones he grew restless. He managed to jump onto the elevated nest platform, where he ripped open the pillows and discarded the human fabric cases, rejecting its presence at his bed. He arranged the spilled-out straw and sweet hay in an oval, though it was not deep enough to make a depression in the middle, and tried his best to raise some walls in a basket-weave pattern.

The next morning, as Mika rose and pulled his cloak back on, his dark eyes flickered over Cuinn’s body. It was the first night Cuinn had retired to the platform, to higher ground.

Mika said something short and gruff, then opened the door and - rather than letting himself out, he left the door open. Cuinn roused himself, waiting for that opening to slam shut again, but Mika caught the tether instead. He clipped it onto the block just beyond the door, out in the gloomy morning sunlight. Cuinn did not follow. There was no point. What was he to do, stand out on that block perch, answering the human’s beck and call? Not at all. He stayed up on his platform, watching through slitted eyes the comings and goings of the falconers outside, the harpies flitting past. Horses appeared a few times, piquing Cuinn’s hunger, though that was a meal for many harpies to take at once, and he did not trust or respect any of the harpies around him enough to share a hunt with them.

He watched the younger harpies follow their humans around, gazing up at them with sickening trust and adoration. Some received food in reward for allowing the humans to inspect their talons, their keels. the anklets and bells around their legs. Mika moved among them, fetching and carrying but never interacting with a single young harpy long enough for Cuinn to link it with him.

Only when Mika had not been sighted for several hours did Cuinn decide to emerge. It was his idea, not Mika's. And he moved out slowly, hopping down from the platform and slowly emerging into the light. It made his eyes burn; he was already susceptible to bright light and this conspired with the time he'd spent in that den to almost blind him. He walked slowly, without revealing his lack of vision, and felt the character of the lawn change around him. The other harpies which had not flown off to their hunt that day grew quiet. His vision returned in patches, enough to guide him onto the block perch. He settled himself there and pricked his feathers against the wind. Snow swirled in the air but did not settle, not yet.

The dens were spread in a half ring that faced the large castle and smaller hall. Walls enclosed everything, even the lawn, though they were only tall enough to make a barrier to humans .

A brave harpy alighted beside him. A tawny spotted cob, jingling obnoxiously with bells. He displayed no signs of appeasement or peaceful greeting, his eyes making contact far too early for politeness. He stood straight, wings half open, and his tail fluffed out and high. He chattered something, a chick asking to play, and reached up a foot to try to snag one of Cuinn's white feathers.

Cuinn stepped away. The tawny followed. Cuinn hissed softly and this only elicited a surprised look before the tawny simply tried again. Cuinn's subtlety went nowhere and fell on deaf ears. As the inquisitive talons rose again, Cuinn spun and slashed, opening the younger harpy's thigh and scaly lower leg.

That got him. The harpy exploded into flight and fled to the roof of one of the halls, peeping obnoxiously in distress.

The humans returned one by one. They rode in on their horses and some had harpies perched behind them. Mika did not. He returned alongside the others and tied to his saddle was a coiled crawling beast. The monster's head hung limp and it lazily dripped blood and venom down its forked tail. Cuinn's feathers stood on end and he hissed at it as Mika took it past; what use would anybody have for one of those horrible things? Harpies killed them without eating for a reason! Mika rode past with his eyes forward, paying Cuinn no mind.

The harpies came in to roost. Mika was back, his burden set aside somewhere (in the fire, Cuinn hoped). This time he carried a pair of hares which he set down in Cuinn's reach.

The other humans looked uneasy, eyeing Cuinn as though he were as dangerous as the huge serpentine crawler. Why now of all times was he drawing their stares? They'd seen him on the block before he'd been fed.

He ate while continuing to peer around the place, eyeing up the sheer facade of the large building looming behind the hall. That place with its spires and many windows looked to house someone important. Maybe the lord of the land. Humans had leaders like everyone else, though Cuinn's mind wandered at the thought of what a human leader might actually do all day. Humans were lawless and uncontained, without any true king pushing them into their rank lines.

No wonder the place was so raucous and disorganised. They had food aplenty but no hunters catching anything but useless evil, and all sorts of harpies reduced to idle fluttering. The air of the place suggested a ruler but Cuinn had not seen him.

Mika's huff of breath sounded by his ear. Cuinn hissed softly, little more than a formality at this point. Mika paid it no mind, as ever. He unsheathed his fleshy pale hand from the thick furs he wore over it and touched it to Cuinn's front. The fingers delved under a tract of feathers, and the edge of one of the square fingernails dug in briefly. Cuinn's hiss was low and rolling, but stretched out into pleasure at the welcome scratch.

Mika felt the edge of Cuinn's keel. He made no attempt to hide it, not that it needed confirming at this point that he was trying to heal Cuinn's starvation for reasons unknown. The keel still made an uncomfortable shape through the skin, awkward when Cuinn wanted to lie on his front, but there was a new layer softening it just a little. Mika withdrew his hand and brought it up, briefly, to scratch under Cuinn's chin.

It was too much. Cuinn pulled his head away, straightening so that on the perch and with his long neck extended, he was not within Mika's reach. He brought his talonful of hare up higher to continue eating.

The meal was thoroughly mundane but the eyes on him sharpened until he had swallowed the last of the bones. After that there came a gradual lessening of attention, eyes turned away.

And Cuinn discovered why momentarily; the other harpies were fed similar meals and the yard was embroiled in a chaotic war. They mantled over their paltry meat scraps as if they would be attacked, and not even the humans they simpered over could come close. Hissing and screeching filled the yard, humans in thicker padding than usual ducking and flinching as their horse-drawn cart of meat was mobbed. The mudhawks behaved like infants, chicks who squalled and fought to eat before their nest siblings, as if the food would be yanked away. Cuinn slunk back into his den. No use in sticking around.

Up on his perch and with daylight still lying across his feathers, he found the will to preen for the first time in many moon cycles. He would not be shown up by those squalling chicks. Mika looked in more than once as he continued on his duties, at one stage bringing a bale of new straw for nest material.

While Cuinn wove the new straw into the downy depression of his nest, Mika shut the door behind him and bedded down against the door frame.

As darkness and cold gripped the den like ice crushing the outer bark of a tree, Cuinn's fluffed up feathers trapped more warmth than before, but not enough. The winter rolled in faster than he could recover, and after an hour or so hunched and shivering he dropped down from the platform. The swivel on the tether clinked softly as it dragged across the ground, but Mika lay still and on his side, ensconced in his thick furs. Cuinn stepped onto him, ignoring the grunt as Mika roused, and lowered himself down onto his front so that he lay on top of the human. Mika said something in a meandering, sleepy tone. Cuinn ignored him, perfectly satisfied to use the human as a massive heat source without being too sentimental about it. Needs must.

When sleep came he didn't notice it, drifting into a soft continuation of his waking state almost indistinguishable from it. In his dream, Cuinn's beak slid out of its holster on the roof of his mouth, and when morning dragged him back awake he was sharp and itching all over with mingled hunger and shame.

Mika nudged at him, a small, blunt hand that touched the curve of Cuinn's neck. He twisted and bit down on the hand, his beak piercing the skin, and Mika's other hand swung from nowhere to clout Cuinn hard on the side of the head.

Hissing furiously, Cuinn sprang up and retreated to the back of the mews, to the elevated nest. He sat there for the remainder of the morning, glaring at Mika and any human who dared peer in through the door. How dare they. He would batter them if they came close, and any overfamiliarity on their part would be their undoing.

But Mika's behaviour did not change. He returned with his hands gloved, setting down the usual morning bowl of broth, his eyes steady resting on Cuinn.

Wasn't he angry? Cuinn was angry. His talons had gouged tracks in the wood of the platform from his compulsive gripping and scratching. Mika simply set down his bowl and stood up again, leaving the door open once more so that Cuinn could go out to visit the block perch.

Cuinn went out, but not very soon after Mika opened the door. Whether or not Cuinn left his den was not the human's decision. The swirl of bracing air that twisted through the doorway beckoned Cuinn. He hadn't flown in so long.

Out on the block, he drank from the bowl of steaming broth. As ever the humans were bustling around with their horses and the harpies. Any time those creatures got even a scrap of food they became so oddly aggressive that the shrieks had Cuinn desperately scanning the sky for any signs of attackers.

One, a pale grey pen with scarlet eyes, alighted with a flip of her tail on the ground by the block. Her vivideyes fixed on Cuinn's bowl.

Instead of asking or indicating that she would like to share, she instead continued to stare at the bowl. She made a piteous begging noise. Cuinn turned away. He was not a parent and this overgrown chick wouldn't sway him.

His voice rose into a shocked screech but he was too slow to yank the bowl away in time. She caught it in one foot as she shot past him and up, into the grey sky. Broth spilled out over the rim and rained down over Cuinn’s back. The disgusting mess slithered down between his feather tracts as the harpy landed on the roof of the big house.

She sat there forlornly peeping until Cuinn's attention strayed. Mika had appeared on the edge of the yard, a straw fork over his shoulder.

A blur of stony grey, and suddenly the pen grabbed Cuinn's bowl.

He was stepping from foot to foot in his fury, gouging tracks in the block, when Mika returned from one of his unimportant tasks. Cuinn would have bitten him again, only Mika stepped away in time. He glanced down, saw no bowl, and cast Cuinn an expectant look as if to say where is it? Cuinn turned to glare at the harpy on the roof. She had managed to spill more of the broth down one of the shiny clear windows.

Mika hummed quietly and patted Cuinn’s front. He almost earned another bite for that, but Cuinn found it not unwelcome, after his initial shock. Mika was not here to steal from him, but to touch his keel again. It was still prominent, but no longer so pointed that it felt like a blade about to slice through Cuinn’s skin from the inside. Mika pointed at the female harpy and the bowl and said something in his low soft tone, diffusing the prickly agitation just a little.

Then he left to bring Cuinn another bowl. This was much the same as the first, and as Cuinn snatched it off him, Mika produced a damp cloth, and stretched out towards Cuinn. Distracted and satisfied by the broth, Cuinn tolerated the damp patting of the cloth against the feathers of his back and shoulder. Mika, it seemed, was grooming him.

Immediately, Cuinn lunged at her. Stupid creature, to have fallen for obvious bait. He caught her by the wing and neck and forced her down onto the ground by the block, under his talons. She was screeching, her wings thrashing, but she was uncoordinated, accustomed only to attacks from the crawling things on the ground and her flock-mates. Her voice shifted from angry screeching to piteous mewling and subjugated peeps, her eyes on him squinting with defeat.

After another sip from the bowl, the rustling movement on the roof again caught Cuinn’s eye. He set the bowl down, a little away from himself, on the very edge of the block. Mika queried it but received no response other than Cuinn turning away as if disinterested.

Talons scraped against slate roof tiles. The pen harpy was sweeping down and low across the lawn, her feet already swinging forwards in a practised snatch, reaching for the bowl. Mika’s voice rose into a gruff warning sound, telling her no, but he was no match for her speed. She caught the bowl.

Mika shouted something. Another human was running over, the pen harpy’s makeshift parent. Cuinn had no need to press the point. He folded his wings with a satisfied huff and hopped off of her, back onto the perch.

The second human, whose name was Yuriy, helped his harpy up from the sleety lawn. She hid behind him at first, still peeping in confusion, though when she caught Cuinn’s eyes she gaped her beak as if he were a hunting sphinx and not one of her own kind. As well he might have been, to her. Cuinn turned his back. She would not bother him again.

Mika had to speak to Yuriy about the incident. Yuriy was upset at the mistreatment of his harpy - they called her Mriya - and seemed to want Mika to do something. But Mika’s voice was so level and so calm, one hand still on Cuinn’s side as Cuinn sipped from his untouched bowl.

Finally Yuriy thew up his hands and walked away, with the pen, Mriya, trailing along beside him. Mika said nothing. Then, as Cuinn set down the empty bowl and began to clean himself, Mika abruptly reached out and caught the tether clipped to Cuinn’s anklet. It came loose, Mika’s dextrous fingers making short work of the mechanism. The heavy tether fell away, only revealing what a burden it had been in its sudden absence. Cuinn lifted his foot - his tarsus was still bound with an anklet - and cast Mika a long look.

Mika pointed at the sky.

Cuinn’s eyes widened. Another trap? No, it didn’t seem that way. Cuinn could rise into the sky and never see this wretched place again. Mika’s hand drifted close again and tapped Cuinn’s keel, as if to explain his behaviour. Cuinn was no longer on death’s door, the gesture reminded him. Mika had nursed him back to health, enough so that he could toss around the likes of Mriya.

Cuinn had not flown in weeks, beyond the hops up into his nest at night. He spread his wings, still shabby despite his improved health. The first leap into the sky was laborious, his chest muscles pulling down with not quite as much strength as he was used to. Well, he would recover. After a short horizontal drift he got a good few beats in, and the lawn blurred into a wash of grey and brown as he swung upwards. His wingtips clipped the wall of the big house and then he was over it, his wings spread to their full extent to capture what little glide material might remain in the wintry air. There wasn’t much, and he sank again to land on the slate roof of the big house, to more easily plan his next venture.

Mika stood by the den, watching curiously. It occurred to Cuinn that if he left, he could not take Mika with him. And even if that were possible, he could not go back to his own flock, not without unseating Thunder Strike on the Ama, but that would be an impossibility in his current state. The forest flocks would not have him either. Like it or not, he had to stay here, among this flock, at least for the time being. Mika would care for him.

The other harpies were deeply distressed by Cuinn's new sentinel post on the roof for the remainder of the day. They would flutter up clumsily, ready to perch, spot Cuinn, and then veer away with alarmed squawks. Very different to how it had been in the forest, where other harpies avoiding him would have been an immense improvement.

But it couldn't last, not really. As the evening closed in, the harpies had plucked up enough courage to land two wing-lengths away from him with their meals to eat. He ignored them; they were nothing to him. He had already evaluated the flock for any that might have posed a threat, any that might have thought themselves future kings, and there were none. They hardly seemed to understand what he was. This place had no king but him.

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Four

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, PTSD themes, casualties of war, hostage situations, blood, gun violence, mentions of abuse, death, nightmares, mentions of scars/medical gore

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: thx for all the support so far!

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Ad Astra

Simon might’ve been handling the situation well, but you, on the other hand, have been nauseous all morning. The sight of his reddened wounds, paired with the squelch of the blood that coated you, all replayed in a loop.

He comes back during sunrise, clothes covered in patches of dirt and scrapes from the previous night. Limping to the shower to wash off, he still looks at you like an alien from another planet, yet he’s the one disposing of a body before breakfast.

You look up from the paper plate below you—some stale muffin and a coffee you snagged from the lobby. He’s wearing fresh clothes again, probably on his last pair of those, and he’s changed the dressings himself, thank God.

“Where’d you take him?” Rather than eating it, you’re smushing crumbs of the stiff baked good in between your fingertips.

“Nowhere important. We’re leaving today.” As if he’s going to tell you that. He zips up his duffel, not before stuffing in the bourbon first, naturally.

You’ve packed up next, casing the room one more time to ensure you got everything. Once you’ve reached the kitchenette, you spot your ring, still laying where you’d thrown it the previous night. You scoop it up, rinsing off the crimson caked in the crevices. The thought of slipping it on again comes as quickly as it leaves—immediately.

The diamond is placed atop the tip you left for the maid. Hopefully, they’ll appreciate it, or pawn it, either way, it’s a piece of mind. Taking that ring off was one step closer to healing, but now being on the path for vengeance has manhandled you two steps back.

The town is several miles behind you now, and it’s back to silence. Not a peep from the radio, nor his mouth. Just the sound of the idled engine when he stops, the repetition of the blinker, and his sighs of discomfort when traffic becomes heavy. It’s half-tempting to reach into the glove box and start reading the owner’s manual, or start solving calculus problems to pass the time. At least when there was a body in the back, your mind was too packed to allow boredom.

“You seem to be healing well, at least.” You have to say something, or you’ll jump out of the moving vehicle yourself.

“I’ll be fine,” he sighs again, only looking briefly at you as you’ve stopped in the next lineup, with his blinker puttering again. “You did fine.” His voice carries the usual dryness, like his vocal cords alone fought on the battlefield.

The compliment is delivered with passivity, to say the least, but coming from him it’s better than being ignored.

“Yeah, well, I was scared shitless,” a compromising chuckle nearly comes, but the memories of kneeling in the gravel push it away. “I’ve never done anything like that before...”

His eyes return to the highway ahead of him as he passes the traffic jam, going quiet again. The crop fields have instead turned to muddy grass, with somehow less civilization than before. He digs into the center console and pulls out a stray cigarette, only cracking the driver’s window slightly when he lights up. The chin of his mask is pulled up now, just slightly above his mouth. After his first deep inhale, he holds the cig out to you.

“No thanks.” You reply flatly, only watching as he exhales the smoke through the small crack of the window. His hum of amusement, or more so shock that you rejected it is next. You already have hired guns after you, what’s some lung disease to add to it?

Simon’s eyes make their way to your hands again—where you’d failed to scrub the blood from under your fingernails, a rookie mistake. Then, how you’re still fiddling with the ring finger of your left, despite still not wearing it anymore—that nervous habit he noticed the first time he saw you. The slight indent on your ring finger, where the skin has remembered the wedding band you’d kept on for so long.

The ring in itself is a scar of its own, only it’s an internal one—unlike the several that riddle his own hands. Knives, splinters, discoloration, fingers with the indents of the stitches he’d gotten years ago.

The questions had been eating at you the entire ride since he forced you to reveal his name. “What are we going to do with him?” A man so desperate for carnage, yet he’s sitting there so calmly as if he’s on this road trip for leisure.

“Nothing nice, and nothing you need to know about.”

Somehow, the thought of that isn’t as comforting as you thought. Cal was a hideous memory, but still a memory nonetheless. It’s not Stockholm syndrome or forgiveness for what he’s done, it’s the plausibility of someone you spent years with being snuffed out.

“He’s still my husband, Simon, I think I have a right to know.” You’re speaking in offense, yet the only emotion you feel is conflict.

Simon scoffs as if you’ve just insulted him personally. “Still your husband, huh? Should I turn around right now, and bring you back home, then? Hm?”

“I suppose you’ll go running into his arms, ‘n get scooped off into the sunset, then?” He tosses the cig out the window, and pulls down his mask again, still shaking his head.

You can’t stand it—the way he makes you sound like a delusional schoolgirl. It’s quite clear, you go home, and you’re in the ground somewhere before you can unpack. “I’m not an idiot. Do you think I’m expecting a warm welcome from him?”

“You’re not thinking at all, that’s your problem.” There’s that insufferable prick again, the one hiding beneath the half-assed attempts to act like a human being.

“Who are you to tell me what I’m thinking, you arrogant prick?” You turn to face him, despite being confined by the seat belt. “You have no clue what this is like for me,” you’ve twisted back again, this time facing your torso to the window now. If you look at him any longer, that idea you had about leaping out of the moving truck might come true.

His fury dissolves again, and now his cinnamon irises have flooded with the echoes of his past. He did understand. Simon understood every bit of it—the urge to kick and scream, and most of all the desire to self-protect when faced with disapproval.

You’ve practically ripped a page straight from his book, responding exactly how he would’ve if it was him in the passenger seat feeling provoked—like a wounded animal snarling because it’s been licking its own wounds for too long.

—

You’re nearly face-first into the dashboard when he punches on the brakes, not bothering to brace you, despite you dozing off in the seat next to him. This time, it’s not an apocalyptic town, it’s a bigger city surrounding you—an apartment complex somewhere on the outskirts. Nicer than yours, surely, and with tighter security.

It’s nightfall, meaning you slept through most of the day—also obvious because of the kink in your neck from the awkward scrunch your body was in for several hours.

“We’ll be hidden here.” Simon’s tone is reassuring as you’re peering up at the tall building. The place is decent inside, and more modern than your own.

Yet another place to hide, all while the law could be tailing you here. A body left behind, a duffel of weapons, and an ex-soldier doing mercenary work without authorization; how much worse could this look from the outside?

It seems the further you’re running, the closer Cal is to find you, in spite of how well Simon cleaned up the messes.

—

It’s a repeat of the first night he arrived—unable to sleep, and looking up at the stars. The roof gives a much more pleasing view, much improved compared to the window back home, which was full of chips and caked in dust.

Now, you could see the stars glimmer, how they were covered and uncovered by the passing dark clouds. If the noise from the city were to cease, the sight would be all the more peaceful. There was no interesting conversation down those stairs, where Simon had been glued to his laptop, probably digging up information on Cal—something that still contested your convictions. Up here, the breeze was freeing, and the smell of the rain overshadowed that of the bloodshed.

“Bloody cold out here.” His voice airs, fizzling out into the cloud of noise pollution.

You hadn’t noticed the bite of the wind, despite subconsciously tucking your knees up for warmth. He was only making conversation, probably because you’ve been more of a leech than a partner. Despite your lack of response, he sits beside you on the edge, roping his legs through two gaps in the railing.

The crinkle of a  paper draws your attention again, and the next thing you know it’s placed beside you, only he’s keeping his hand down to prevent it from blowing away.

“Nearest whereabouts, vehicle, and associates.” Above it all is his latest photo, smiling like a sleaze behind his executive desk—ripped from some article Simon dug up about his newest promotion.

His last line is delivered with more forethought, a stark contrast from what he said in the car. “Figured you deserved to know.”

“Put it away.” You whisper, sliding the paper back to him. Despite the wear on Cal’s face, that damn smile still remains spine-chilling.

The paper is folded again, and you only meet his eyes when the crinkling stops. You’d rather stare at Simon’s lack of face than look at another photo of him. There’s a stillness again, whilst you’re in the stars again, and he’s still eyeing you.

He’s returned to his feet now, and he’s rubbing his calloused hands together for warmth. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You can’t leave it at this, not after he’s found Cal’s whereabouts. You’re following him with your eyes, until he’s reached the door back to the inside of the complex, and you’re to your feet before you’ve rehearsed the words.

“I am thinking, Simon. That’s my problem.” His fingers stop as they’re about to turn the knob, and he’s now facing you.

“I know.” Aside from his gruffness, he speaks like someone who’s known the insides and outs of you for a century. You’re the closest thing to a picture of himself right now.

His patience is off-beat, and uncanny to him, only because it’s been buried beneath decades of his own pain. He could claw at himself, try to stop himself from giving you comfort all he wanted, but he’s been losing that fight since the supermarket.

You can’t comprehend why, or how, but you’ve embraced him—and he hasn’t resisted yet. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, giving it a tight hold, all while you’re snaking one arm around his uninjured side. You suppose it's been so long since you’ve been gratified, that’s the logical way of it.

The embrace only lingers for a few moments, his hand remands on your shoulder, peering down at your troubled expression. “We’re going to find him, and then you’ll be out of my hair, doing all the thinking you want. Understood?”

—

“7-1. Ghost, how copy?”

“Hostiles are not secured yet, Sir. Moving toward target building.” His boots thundered through the sand below him, coating all of his protective gear. He’s forced to ignore the chaos in the village around him, and only focus on the target. The woman screaming bloody murder, the crying disoriented children, and ensuing explosions in the distance.

Simon bashes the door and it comes to a crash, splinters of wood sent flying. Inside, is the target—one of the high-ranking Al-Qatala lieutenants. Inside the decaying homestead, he’s holding his family hostage, all while Simon and his Task Force are entirely focused on the intel, rather than the pleading faces of horror knelt in the cement—the true reality of war, all in a line, execution-style before him.

He’s posted behind one of the pieces of furniture, battling every urge to unload on the devil. Their pleads have overshadowed every comm, every bullet, every explosion, all in a language he can’t comprehend.

“Do not intervene. Secure the target and only the target. We need him alive.” Finally, he catches a piece of the radio transmission, quite literally ripping his finger from the trigger of his rifle. Simon knows himself; when a negotiation has become too personal, familiar enough that he may disobey direct orders.

He’s the lone soldier in there with the rest of him doing recon on the operation. Every bit of his being is telling him to take the risk, to make up some story of self-defense—but the hostages are too close to the danger zone. He wouldn’t forgive himself if his own stray bullet compromised their lives.

“Give yourself up,” Simon shouts, mounting himself on the cover, yet his finger still remains off the trigger. “Now!” He bellows, wincing as his crosshairs fall on the wailing woman, covered in scrapes and bruises, while her husband, the captor, his knuckles bleed.

The captor goes on a speech, something about how kind the SAS will be to him when he’s in custody—he’ll be sleeping like a king as long as he’s giving them actionable intel.

All whilst his wife and children will be left behind in this war torn country, picking up the wreckage his squad left behind as a morbid parting gift—rubble, remains, chunks of their heirlooms. He was right. So right about that aspect Simon wanted to choke the life out of him, or beat him bloody with his bare hands—give the fucker a taste of his own medicine, only without any teeth left.

The lieutenant raises his gun, and yet Simon is powerless. Unless he fires on a foreign soldier, he can kill any one of his hostages, and be snoozing in that cozy cell by the end of the day.

Another gargle in a language Simon can’t understand, and she’s down. The distraught woman, wife, mother, now nothing more than a martyr of warfare.

Lifeless, more bloody than before, and slumped at her spouse’s feet, all while that morbid grin is still written on his face. All while Simon could do nothing to stop it.

That flashback visits him often, always resulting in hands overtaken by tremors, and wide eyes, as if he was back there again. This time, he’s not in bed, he’s still in front of his laptop at the table, having passed out after hours of research.

Cal’s expression; the deadened eyes, familiar devilish smile, the entirety of it staring back at him, causing him to slam the screen shut. After that dream, the feeling of wrath has returned. Not only for the Al Qatala lieutenant, but Cal as well. Too personal, too painful, and awfully familiar, especially with you here.

He finishes off his glass, letting the bitter burn coat his throat slowly as the tremor subsides. He now knows he’s not there anymore, not in cover behind the furniture watching a hostage situation.

He has to move, or he’ll risk smashing the electronic to pieces. The echoes of that woman’s tear-stained cheeks contrasted with yours in the supermarket, and then flashes of her bloodied corpse distorting into yours, with Cal standing over it.

His silent steps carry him to the living room. He has to check, or he won’t get back to work anytime soon. When he reaches the couch, you’re curled up, slumbering peacefully—a stark difference to what his flashbacks tried to convince him off.

Simon lets out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly as he convinces himself this is the real reality, this is the spot he’s standing in, not that awful place.

He locates the small quilt kept inside the ottoman, gently draping it on your sleeping frame. He studies the scene for a few minutes, eyeing the rise and fall of your chest pushing through the blanket. Once he’s satisfied, and sure with his consciousness, he returns to his spot at the kitchen table.

He’s greeted with the intel on Cal again, flicking his eyes over to your peaceful sleep, and the sight of the devil before him, in comparison to you, is only unearthing that rage he felt in the hostage room. He couldn’t save that woman, but he’ll be damned if he makes that mistake again. No superiors, no comms, no bureaucracy to follow like a sheep again—his own two hands, that’s what he’ll use this time. No mistakes.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @bi-witch-bxtch

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 44

Kid x FemReader x Killer

This chap featuring Heat x FemReader. Skip to the break if you want to skip Heat smut (but why would you?)

Warnings: Sex (bit of cumplay ( involves licking the floor), reader dominant, degradation of Heat, role play)

Turning Up The Heat

Tight, white fabric hung to your figure as you waited, flicking the toothpick in your mouth with your tongue. Your coat covered the little costume you had on, the one Kid had assisted you with finding. It was the loosest interpretation of a marine uniform you had ever seen. Loose meaning several different things. There was a great deal of pleasure to be had teasing Heat, who had been told to come to the infirmary. There was a knock at the door and Heat walked in. You were turned so that he couldn't see your costume right away.

"Strip."

"Huh?" Heat had no idea why you wanted to see him and he was a bit flustered at your request.

You turned around. "Don't make me repeat myself, pirate."

Heat's eyes went wide. "Oh." The corners of his mouth twitched up. "Oh!" It finally clicked with him what was going on here. He didn't know why, but he wasn't complaining. This was one of his fantasies. Not only a marine, but the Sea Snake in the flesh. He started to burn under your gaze, fumbling with the cords on his corset.

You leaned back against the countertop, watching as Heat removed his clothing. He was taller than Killer and a little wider, just as muscular. His skin was tan in a way that was closer to gray than to orange. It suited him and complimented his blue-gray hair, which, you were now noticing, peeked out from his waistband and drew a line to his belly button. He paused for a moment before shimmying out of his pants and all that was underneath. He stepped out of the puddled clothes on the floor and looked at you, already half-hard. You motioned for him to spin and watched the counters of his body, making a noise of appreciation.

You walked over to him and made a slow circle around him, running a nail down his spine, watching goosebumps form on his skin. Your hand traveled to squeeze his ass, feeling how firm it was. Moving to his front, you pulled a riding crop from your boot, touching it to the base of his throat and moving it under his chin. You ran it over his cheek, applying light pressure to turn his head from side to side. Then you grabbed a handful of his hair and let it slip out of your fingers.

"You'll do." You took the toothpick out of your mouth and stuck it between his lips. "Hold onto that for me." You put the crop under his chin again. "And don't let it fall."

You spit into your hand and curled your fingers around Heat's still hardening shaft. Moving your hand slowly up and down Heat, you flicked your eyes up to his, which were avoiding your gaze. "That's right, pirate. Keep your filthy eyes off me." Heat's dick grew harder under your grasp. He liked that, did he? "Turn around, hands on the gurney."

Heat did as you said. He gulped in anticipation as he heard you walk away to get something. Heat almost lost the toothpick when he felt the crop crack against his ass, biting back a gasp. He could feel his tip leak with every swat you applied. Then, he felt you press up against him, the fabric of your miniskirt rubbing against his ass and your bare stomach touching the warm skin of his back. He felt your hand around his cock again, this time with lubricant. His lips were pressed together, only letting whimpers and moans pass through, though he almost dropped the toothpick again when he felt cool fingers slide between his cheeks, pausing to see if there were any complaints from his end, of which there were none. He groaned from his nose when he felt you press two fingers inside the tight ring of muscle. He couldn't resist moving his hips to slide himself further back onto your fingers and simultaneously move his cock within your hand.

"You're lucky my hands are tied up or that would earn you another smack. Stay still." You pumped your fingers in and out of him, trying to keep time with your other hand. "I bet you let anyone have their way with you. I bet you act as a whore for your captain, don't you? Your ass is eating me up." You curled your fingers inside him. "Well, you're my whore now, understand?" He nodded. "That's a good pet," you purred.

You worked a third finger in, increasing the pace. Heat's cock twitched in your hold and his ass tightened around your fingers as you rubbed against his sweet spot. He was close. "If you cum well for me, maybe I'll let you fuck my little marine pussy. Would you like that?" He nodded again. "I need you to give me all the cum in those big heavy balls of yours. I want it all over my hand, all over the floor. Prove that you can fill me up like the dirty pirate you are. Show me that you're not a worthless pirate, you can be a worthy pet."

Heat let out a primal grunt, sending a hot load into your hand, much of it spilling onto the floor.

"Uh oh." You put the cum covered fingers into his mouth, pulling his cheek so that he would face you. "Looks like you didn't do everything I asked of you. And I was being so kind." You held the toothpick up to him, which must have fallen out when he was panting after his release. "On your hands and knees. Make it quick."

Heat did as you commanded, very much enjoying this role play.

"I'm going to wash my hands of your disgusting fluids. I expect that mess to be cleaned by the time I'm done." You curled your tongue in a licking motion, giving Heat the hint. You washed slowly, observing as Heat cleaned the floor with his tongue. You guessed right when you thought he took pleasure in degradation and some power play.

When you were done, you sat on the gurney above, chiding him for not being finished. "Tsk. Disappointing. I don't think you know how to use your tongue properly." You motioned him closer, grabbing his face. "Which is really such a shame because this face was made to sit on." You smirked as Heat's cheeks turned red. You moved close to the edge, spreading your knees enough that Heat could see there was nothing underneath the very tiny skirt.

Heat felt his cock twitch back to life. He couldn't see details in the shadow of your clothes, but he could tell your cunt was dripping from the pheromonal scent that made his mouth water.

"You're aching for a taste aren't you?" You grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Your pathetic pirate cock can't stay down. What would your crew say if they knew you were fiending for the pristine, succulent, hot cunt of another captain?" He looked at you with pleading eyes. "Oh~ you do want it badly." You ran your fingers up your slit, gathering some of the slick, and offered it to Heat, who took your fingers in his mouth and sucked all of your essence off. You pulled the skirt up until it was bunched at your hips, looking from Heat's face to your center.

He didn't need any more of an invitation than that to brace his shoulders under your thighs and pull your cunt into his face with his hands digging into your ass. You were so wet and tasted so good. Heat's tongue bullied its way into your hole, lapping at every inch he could reach, groaning into you.

Truly, you were already pretty worked up from the previous activity, not realizing you would be into it as much as it turned out you were. Your legs threatened to snap shut as you felt Heat's teeth graze your clit. His tongue moved to swirl around it next. You didn't know how he did it or that he could have such fine control over his power, but you swear his tongue was much hotter than it should have been, not to the point of being uncomfortable. Actually, it was driving you crazy. His hot breath panting against you was tightening the coil within as well. You felt him pause and let out a strangled moan, muttering a curse. Glancing down, he had cum again just from eating you out. Fuck that's hot. Heat swiped some of the cum with his fingers and shoved them into you as he sucked on your clit. Nasty. He expertly found the spot you favored and repeatedly curled his fingers into it, watching his cum mix with your fluids until a rush of your juices flooded against his hand and your thighs.

The coil had snapped and your head was thrown back in a cry of pleasure. "Shit!" You moaned. "Fuck, Heat." Your legs quivered and closed around his head. Your chest heaved with your panting.

"How's that for a filthy pirate?"

______________________________________________________________

Kid's amber eyes were fixated on you, high up in the rigging making adjustments before the ship left for the next island. You had your leg wrapped into the rope in such a way that you were being held upside down to get a better angle at something. You looked very different from the first time he had seen you, scrawny, a bit feral. Now, your muscle had filled back out and he could no longer make out the shape of your hip bones. He was proud of how far you had come, even if the first half of your time with them had been... rocky. Although he was certain you could have pulled yourself back together on your own, he would like to think that he and his crew helped speed it along, more in that second half...

"Enjoying the view?"

Kid snapped out of his thoughts. "No! I mean... well, yeah... I guess." He watched Killer's shoulders move up and down slightly. "Shut up, Killer." 

The blonde loved how easy it was to fluster Kid. It was becoming more and more obvious that he had feelings for you and Killer was going to exploit every second of it. "I'm gonna tell her you said no."

"Don't." Kid narrowed his eyes at his best friend.

"But if I make her mad at you, she'll come to me," Killer teased.

"Not if I make her mad at ya first."  Kid took off climbing the mast, swatting at Killer, who was following him. 

You were greasing up some of the pulleys when without warning, Kid and Killer appeared several feet away from you on the mast. Killer was attached to Kid's back monkey-style so they were at the same level, otherwise Kid would have been higher than him. "Can I... help you?" 

"Kid had something to tell you."

Kid shot a look at the blonde, knowing damn well he had no ammo with which to make you mad at Killer. "Killer... told me yer bad at chopping vegetables." 

"Kid's been using your toothbrush."

"Nuh uh! The purple one is mine. I thought we decided." 

Not this again. What are they doing? 

"Ok, well, Killer, uh, Killer's been telling everyone that ya snore." 

"Kid farted yesterday and blamed it on you after you left the room."

"He jerks off with yer dirty panties."

That escalated quickly. 

"He eats off your plate when you're not looking."

"Killer leaves the toilet seat up."

"That's you!"

This was confusing. "Are you guys done?" They looked at each other and nodded. You started counting off on your fingers, still upside down, "Everyone knows I'm bad in the kitchen. Kid, your toothbrush is the fucking red one. I don't snore. I don't think you fooled anyone, Kid. Who do you think gives him the panties? I fucking knew it. And lastly, again, that's you, Kid." Your arms were crossed. "What the fuck is this? Couldn't it wait until I was done?"

"Killer was gonna make ya mad at me so that ya would spend time with him and not me."

You were trying not to smile at Kid's cute pouting face. "So you made up shit to make Killer look equally bad?" You shook your head. "You're both ridiculous." 

Kid started swatting at Killer on his back again. "Ya made me look like an idiot." 

"You don't need help on that front," Killer retorted.

"Hey. Guys." It was sort of charming that Kid got so huffy over the threat of you spending time with someone else. It wasn't jealousy. It was more akin to a dog forgetting about his bone until another dog started to chew it. As precious as it was, the two were arguing very closely to some of the ropes you were working with. "Can we do this on the ground please?" You were hurriedly trying to free your leg and get off the ropes before you fell. Turns out, you didn't have to worry about falling. 

Kid and Killer, in their scuffle, tangled themselves in the ropes and fell off the mast. They were fine. They had extra padding compared to you. Unfortunately, you were on the other end of that rope. Maybe you should have stayed upside down. You were jerked up, hitting your head on the crossbar of the mast so hard that your vision went black. It hurt so badly you thought you would lose your grip, and maybe you did for a second, but ultimately you were able to climb down on your own, already healed by the time that your feet were back on deck. 

Now, you really were mad, at both of them. Even if you could heal yourself, that was very painful. And if you were knocked out completely, you wouldn't have been able to heal yourself. You could have bled into your brain. Your power was useful and strong but you were, by no means, immortal.

You stalked off to your bunk, not even looking in the boys' direction. You were mad at them, though you didn't want to be. Instead of saying something you would regret, you chose to cool off alone. Truthfully, you had been enjoying their banter and their company. It was just an accident. You didn't need to yell at them anyway. You were pretty sure they felt bad about it. Not to toot your own horn, but you were kind of proud of yourself for not flying off the handle. That's called ~growth~.

Later, you found Wire at the helm. His presence had shifted from being unnerving to being calming. You were giving yourself space from Kid and Killer. Casually, you glanced over the maps. The next island wasn't that far away. 

"Leaving in the morning." Wire commented.

You hummed an affirmative. 

A minute passed before Wire spoke again. "What did you say?"

"Huh?"

"Kid didn't ask you yet?"

"Ask what?"

"Oops. Forget it."

"Wire." You pressed him. "You can't just say shit like that and not elaborate." It was kind of funny for a giant man to say 'oops' in the most monotone voice you'd ever heard.

He moved his hood to scratch behind his head. You hadn't noticed that the sides of his dark hair were silver. "Ah I fucked up." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Any chance you would leave me alone if I don't tell you?" 

"None." You thought for a moment. "One. Tell me what happened in the crow's nest with Killer."

Wire begrudgingly groaned. "I, uh, would actually prefer to tell you what Kid said." Wire muttered under his breath, "Ugh. He's gonna kick my ass." 

"Go on."

"It's already kind of an unspoken thing, but..." Wire folded his arms and pretended to be interested in the maps. "He was gonna ask officially if," Wire cleared his throat, "you would stay and be a part of the crew." 

What a change from several months ago when you had first met.

"Yeah the next island is a pleasure island so we were gonna celebrate. Or he was gonna drown his sorrows in drink and flesh. Depending on what you said." Wire ran a hand over his sideburn. "Ah maybe I said too much again." He shrugged. "Whatever. Now you know." He waved you off, hoping to be left alone again.

"And what do you all think?" Kid was the captain, however, you wouldn't be comfortable unless everyone was in agreement.

"Hm?"

"You, Heat, and Killer?"

"Who do you think encouraged Kid ask you officially?" There was the faintest hint of a smile on Wire's face, which was hidden by shadow when he put his hood up again.

Next Chapter

[magpie-writes]

Venus in Furs

Pairing: Helaena Targaryen x Fem!Reader x Aemond Targaryen

Rating: E

Words: 4.6k

Warnings: Targcest, semi-public sex, bondage, pain kink, explicit smut

A/N: Venus in Furs is a poly Helaemond au. We have no idea how many chapters it'll end up being, but the story will progress as the relationship does. Sometimes a chapter might be a little kinky drabble, other times it might be an epic 10k beast. This story has just become such a vulnerable little happy place for @acrossthesestars​ and myself and we hope you enjoy it! Tags will be updated as the chapters go on.

alex masterlist | emma masterlist | ao3

Part One - Seven Hells P.1 | Part Two - Seven Hells P.2 | Part Three

The sky above was clear, stars managing to peek out even from the thick veil of the city lights. It was loud, music blaring from cars and drunk revelers pouring out from the mouths of the surrounding bars and clubs. My heels clicked on the sidewalk, the noise echoing loud over all the others and my hands curled into fists within my coat pockets.

'Don't lose your nerve,' I thought. 'You aren't allowed to chicken out.'

A sharp gust of near freezing wind ruffled my coat, blowing up beneath the short skirt of the black dress I wore under it, and I bit down on my cheek to keep from yelping nervously at the shock as I neared the building I had been looking for.

Seven Hells was a privately owned club, the red brick facade blending into all the others on the block. The only clue that I had arrived at the right place was the small gilded placard by the door that simply read "7" in an ornate script. My chilled fingers wrapped around a thick brass knocker in the shape of a dragon's head, rapping it gently against the wood. The door swung open and a handsome bouncer stared me down, the moment stretching on forever. He was older, with a close cropped silver beard, a bald head, and a thousand yard stare.

"Password," he asked, his voice rich and deep. 

"Oh don't bother with all that, Harrold," a soft voice chirped from behind him. "She's with me. Isn't that right, Lady Grey?"

The door opened a crack wider, revealing a cloud of moon pale hair and the Cheshire Cat grin beneath it. 

“Honestly, you express a tea preference one time.” Rolling my eyes despite the amused smile tugging at my lips, I stepped up onto the landing, close enough for the club’s warm air to twine invitingly around my bare legs, beckoning me inside. With an apologetic shrug to the stoic giant before me, I gave the password Helaena Targaryen texted me earlier that evening. 

“Dreamfyre.” 

He granted me a nod, as if in appreciation of a fellow rule-follower, and threw the door wide. 

“Welcome to Seven Hells.” 

If I'd thought the grandeur of our Neo-Gothic university campus was extravagant, with its ivy-clad walls, peaked windows, and rolling quads beneath venerable oak trees, the sumptuousness of this club delighted in proving me wrong. Stepping down into its shadowy interior, I couldn’t help gaping at the luxury surrounding me. Sleek, black leather couches sprawled along the edges of the cavernous room, all subtly tilted towards a low stage, the obvious focal point of the room. No one graced it, not this early in the evening, but a St. Andrew’s cross stood waiting in the wings, eager for its first victim. It was the most obvious nod towards the club’s hedonistic character but the more I looked, the more secrets I uncovered. 

Steel hardpoints graced walls and furniture, looking like so much industrial hardware until I realized their presence went beyond simple aesthetics. Mirrors littered the walls, affording endless views for performers and pleasure seekers alike. Stacks of silken cord lined low-running shelves, all in easy reach. It was an opulent, unguarded promise of sensuality. 

A dare. 

A shiver of anticipation licked up my spine, despite the warmth winding sinuously around my legs, caressing my chilled skin and urging me eagerly to shed my heavy wool coat.

“Come on. I can’t wait to show you everything.” Helaena seized my hand excitedly while I was still unwinding the glittering gray scarf from around my neck. I shoved it into the pocket of my coat as Harrold quietly lifted the garment from my arms before withdrawing to his post by the door. 

My eyes weren't sure where to land. A pretty brunette winked at me from behind the bar and heat crawled up my throat at the gesture. My gaze darted from the couches to the stage to the people who had just started to trickle into the space before landing on the pale hand that grasped my own. 

Helaena was divine, a gods damned painting, a water nymph come to life. Her white-blonde hair hung in soft waves around her shoulders, her plump body sheathed in a tight powder blue dress, the hem hitting her mid thigh. When she turned back to wink at me, the light caught in the glitter she had painted over her eyelids, her pink mouth curling up at the edges. 

"I love first timers." Her voice was soft, but I still heard every word.

I raised a brow. "Do you bring people here often?"

She squeezed my hand. "No," was all she said as she dragged me to the bar. 

The energy of the club settled around us as I followed my new friend, all simmering possibility and the driving beat of music emanating from hidden speakers. When I slid onto one of the plush velvet barstools, Helaena perched alongside me, never letting go of my hand even as she raised her other to catch the bartender’s gaze. 

“Two of the Wild Gin Brambles please, Talya”

My eyes widened in surprise as she named the exact cocktail I would have ordered from the specials menu. Despite the crowd of people surrounding the bar, jockeying to place their orders, no one looked surprised when, in mere moments, the bartender slid two glasses towards the pair of us.

“How did you guess?”

Helaena only smiled her enigmatic smile and raised her own drink to clink against mine. 

Her violet eyes tracked every movement as I raised the sweating glass to my lips and took my first sip. Flavor bloomed on my tongue, tart and sweet, strong but clear, the blackberry syrup coating my mouth even as the gin traced a cool burn down my throat. 

“That is delicious,” I said, having to raise my voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the other revelers.

“Let me try.”

Rather than lifting her own glass, Helaena leaned in and kissed me. 

Startled, my lips parted on a gasp, but when I moved to cup the other woman’s cheek, she deepened the kiss. Her tongue slid against mine, a swift, gentle taste, and then she pulled back, her gaze searching. 

“What did you think?” My voice was deeper, roughened with the desire already surging in my blood. 

“Delicious,” she confirmed. Her starry eyes roved over my curves and I could swear they came to rest on the hollow of my throat. I wondered if she could see the eager jump of my pulse.

Helaena grinned when she recognized her stare was bordering on overwhelming, glancing down into the depths of her drink and taking a sip. I looked up, willing away the heat that had settled almost uncomfortably in my cheeks. My gaze settled on the mirror, a flash of silver catching my attention. From across the room, mismatched eyes pinned me like a butterfly to glass. The set of his full mouth was almost stern, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. My heart hammered against my ribs but when I blinked, he was gone. 

A wide smile broke over Helaena's face. Whatever had grabbed her attention lit her up from the inside out, a soft warm glow settling beneath her skin like a beacon. I turned and couldn't stop the soft "oh" that fell from my lips.

If Helaena was divine, then Aemond Targaryen was damned. He was her soul's twin and yet her opposite, hard and lean where she was soft and curved. He prowled toward the pair of us with all the violent grace of a predator stalking prey, the top half of his long white hair pulled away from his face, the rest hanging down his back like a curtain. He wore all black, a button down shirt tucked into fitted slacks. His face was hard, unreadable except for the flame in his left eye, the same shade of violet as his sister's. In place of his right eye, lost in some accident at the hand of his nephew, if rumor was to be believed, sat a sapphire, the facets swallowing up the low red lights of the club's interior. Helaena squealed and clapped her hands at his arrival, reaching for him. Aemond took her hand, pulling her close and bringing it to his mouth, his lips soft against her skin as he hummed in greeting. 

"I'm surprised she came," he said by way of acknowledgement, his gaze falling finally on me.

Heat bristled up my spine, righteous indignation at being referred to as if I was of no importance.

"Play nice or Lady Grey won't come at all and where's the fun in that?" Helaena replied, poking at Aemond's middle.

Something tensed in my gut at that easy, playful gesture. A reminder of how these two belonged to each other, pale and strange as binary stars and just as entangled. How could I ever hope to join their orbit? 

As if sensing that momentary flicker of doubt, Aemond raised one perfectly sculpted brow with all the cool poise of a marble god as if to ask “How indeed?” I bristled, drawing myself up to my full height, my spine set like steel. Damn him and his smug self-assurance. Helaena had approached me after all, invited me to join them in their pleasure den I’d only heard whispered about on campus, with all the dark, half-veiled insinuations that accompanied such an invitation. 

“You tell him, Hel.” I slid my arms around her waist, glaring a challenge of my own at Aemond over her shoulder. “She was just wondering if there might be any dancing on tap for the evening, or is that too frivolous for the Eyes Wide Shut crowd?”

Aemond’s mouth twitched. 

“Oh, I’m sure we could manage something.” 

In the end, all it took was an imperious nod and his sharp gaze to some nearby staff member, and then the music shifted, turning to a low, throbbing beat that pulsed through the crowd. People moved as if summoned to the dance floor, a tangled knot of writhing bodies and reaching limbs. Aemond sketched a half-mocking, half charmingly outdated bow and extended a hand to me. 

“Would she like to dance?” This time, the slyly intentional word choice felt less like a slight and more like an almost-apology, an unspoken admission of having chosen his words poorly. For the first time, I noticed how stiff his posture was. Maybe I wasn’t the only one unsure of how to navigate this evening.

I inclined my own head, amused despite myself, and said “She would.” 

It was easy enough to follow him to the dance floor, Helaena close at his heels. Aemond spun me once before drawing me close, his hand finding the small of my back. "Dance, then," he said in an amused tone, his gaze raking over my body. I narrowed my eyes as he just stood there, trying to get a feel for whatever game he was playing. It was Helaena who rescued me, her hands finding mine and pulling me further from the edge of the dance floor. 

She moved with a liquid sort of grace, the sort that left one utterly entranced. It was impossible not to move toward her, caught in her orbit as if she were the brightest star in the dark sky. Her lavender eyes were bright enough to light up the dance floor as her hands settled on my hips, turning my back to her front before pulling me flush against her. She smelled like violets and lilies and something earthier, something you would find in the forest after it rained. I wondered if later I would be covered in the body glitter she'd dusted all over herself, her skin shimmering in the glow.

"Can I touch you?" She asked, her voice low against my ear. 

There was literally nothing I wanted more in that moment.

I nodded and she ran a hand up my throat to grasp at my jaw, tilting my head back until she could catch my mouth with her own. She tasted like gin and sweet lip gloss, strawberry maybe. My hips followed whatever sinuous rhythm she set as she curled her tongue around mine. I felt her smile against my lips and couldn't stop myself from mirroring the gesture. With one hand I reached back, carding my fingers through the moonlight strands at the nape of her neck. 

One song melted into two and then three and I learned for a fact what I had already had an idea of: Helaena Targaryen was entirely captivating. She radiated a dreaminess, a sort of unexplainable out there feeling that I couldn't put my finger on but I knew I wanted to sink into. There was also an edge. She had teeth and claws and made a conscious choice to keep them sheathed. At some point I had turned back to face her and she smiled wide again, as if she had never considered not being so open, so real. Then her eyes drifted away, lighting up again when they landed on her brother. I looked too, because I couldn't help it. Aemond had taken up a perch on one of the large leather chairs, more of a loveseat, really. When our eyes met he raised his left hand and beckoned us forward with a crooked finger. Helaena drifted toward him as if pulled by gravity, her hand reaching back for mine and pulling me along after her. 

I mirrored her movements, lowering myself onto Aemond’s outstretched right thigh while she claimed his left. When I did, his gaze snapped to mine, startled. The intensity there, the banked violet fire, ripped through me like a summer storm, leaving heat and electricity crackling in its wake. Before I could shift my weight or draw back, before I could even form an apology for overreaching, he caught me around the waist to keep me still. Slowly, deliberately, curiously, he flexed his muscled thigh beneath my legs, shifting it just enough to drag against me and make me gasp. Pleasure kindled in his hawklike stare and I smiled, heat rising in my cheeks. 

We’d surprised each other. 

Helaena tipped her head back and laughed, her carefree delight so infectious even her brother’s lips quirked into something like a smile. Pure, wild joy beat like wings within my chest when her lavender gaze met mine at the same time that Aemond rested a hand on my thigh. As if some hidden key had turned, the tumblers falling into place, everything slid open, the night suddenly wide open and brimming with potential. Something was happening and we were part of it. We were all of it. 

The music fell away. All I could hear was the breath catching in Helaena’s throat when I leaned in and kissed her. The hiss Aemond sucked between his teeth when his sister’s hand slid up to cup my breast. I looked around, expecting shock or censure, but while the warmth of her palm moving over my dress made my heart race as if the world was ending, no one else seemed to even notice. Even so, I pulled back, heat flashing up my throat to settle in my cheeks. Aemond's hand tightened where it rested against my thigh and I turned to face him, my eyes downcast. He raised a hand, his forefinger catching me under the chin until I met his eye. 

"There's no need to be shy, Grey." The nickname sounded different in his mouth, sharper somehow, then when Helaena said it. "You're free to take what you want here, without judgment." 

My gaze darted between his mismatched eyes and his lips. "What do you want?" My voice was small. 

He hummed, a low noise in the back of his throat, before using his hand to tug me farther up his thigh, my hands flattening against his chest as I fell forward. His shirt was warm beneath my palms, soft and obviously expensive. And then he kissed me. It wasn't tentative or gentle. It felt as if he would devour me. Where Helaena took her time, sensuous and explorative, Aemond went straight for the kill, licking into my mouth when it opened on a whine, pulling my bottom lips between his teeth. He broke the kiss and looked up at me, his high cheekbones dusted with pink, and pursed his lips, as if he was hiding a grin. I couldn't help it and smiled back.

Helaena ran a hand up my thigh, squeezing just enough to get my attention and jerking her chin toward the stage in front of us. "The show is starting," she whispered. There was a peculiar happiness in her eyes, a sort of feeling I wasn't sure I'd ever experienced. She leaned back into Aemond's chest, his hand circling her waist to rest over her belly. The way they fell into each other was mesmerizing and I wondered if I'd ever felt that sort of easy acceptance before, the sort of muscle memory that had me sinking into someone else's softest parts. 

I turned away, suddenly feeling much too raw, and looked toward the stage as the lights lowered, a single spotlight shining bright in the middle. Lying prone on the ground was a slight brunette, her hair tied up in a bun. She wore a rose pink dress, the fabric sheer enough to see the dusky outline of her nipples, her arms laying relaxed over her head. As she slowly woke, blinking away the sleep, the light softened, mimicking the dawn, and soft music played through the hidden speakers. Fingertips drew mindless designs over the bare skin of my thigh and the feeling left me burning as they drew over my hip and up, up, up my back to massage the nape of my neck. The feeling was near sinful, my eyes closing as Aemond worked out the tension. When I risked a downward glance, I found his eyes on the stage, his face infuriatingly neutral. I raised my hand, placing it back against his chest, playing at the top button of his shirt as I glanced back toward the stage.

From the shadows of the audience on the far side, a hulking shape melted through the crowd, lumbering up the two wide steps before crouching behind a makeshift barrier, watching the young woman on stage sit up and stretch. Helaena reached forward from her perch and placed her hand on my knee, her skin warm against mine, grounding me in the moment as the man in the mask began creeping closer toward the girl on stage. A Beast on the way to claim his Beauty, I realized with a thrill.

“Is it always fairytale-based?” I whispered the question into Helaena’s ear, so close my lips brushed against her delicate skin. 

“No,” she shook her head, answering in the same respectful hush. “They do all sorts of things - exhibitions, demonstrations. But this seemed more… you.” 

Before I could ask what she meant, Aemond’s broad hand tightened around my neck.

“Pay attention,” he commanded in a low, firm voice behind my ear, turning my head back to face the stage. From Helaena’s guilty start and the way she also turned her attention back to the scene unfolding before us, I guessed he’d given her a similar reminder. Normally I would have bristled against his domineering tone, but it sent a shiver down my spine instead, making me feel as deliciously helpless as the beauty the beast prowled towards. As if he knew, Aemond trailed the tips of his fingers down my neck and between my shoulder blades. 

The task of watching the stage while he teased me like this felt Herculean, but I managed to keep my eyes on the performers, watching as the girl on stage finally registered the presence of the beast. Her brown eyes blew wide as he loomed over her and the two engaged in what could only be considered a dance. Their chemistry was a wild thing, crackling between them as they pushed and pulled, as she ran and he gave chase. The Beast reached for her, catching the pale pink ribbon that held her hair tied up, and it cascaded down her back just as he caught her, pulling her against his chest.

As his lips found her neck and his hands drew her skirt farther up her thighs, Aemond's fingers dipped below the hem of my dress. The touch itself wasn't indecent, was hardly anything more than innocent, but every nerve ending in my body lit up. He shifted his thigh beneath me, riding my dress higher, just as the beast shed the girl of her dress, her body now bare beneath the spotlight, and I fought the urge to reach back and pinch him for teasing me. But I was riveted by the performance as the actress finally gave in to the beast, succumbing to him and letting him lay her out over the stage, her back arched as he wedged himself between her thighs and devoured her.

Aemond's hand slid further beneath my dress and I couldn't stop the hitch of my breath. I knew, logically, that no one was watching us, too engaged by what was happening on stage, or what they were up to in their own seats, but my cheeks still heated at the idea, at the clandestine nature of letting this practical stranger slide his skilled fingers beneath the damp fabric of my underwear. I bit back a moan as he did just that, parting my folds, teasing at the wetness he found there. I wanted to roll my hips, to chase the pleasure his touch promised. But I stayed still, afraid to call any attention to us. 

In front of me, the Beast lay on his back, the girl, his Beauty, now straddling his hips, her face flushed from her earlier release on his tongue. She rode him, claimed him just as earnestly as he had claimed her, taking her agency and making him hers. They moaned in tandem, not the sort of practiced sounds I had heard in porn or made with partners I was more than eager to get out from under, but something more feral, more honest. As the Beast reached forward to clutch at her breasts, Aemond pinched lightly at my thigh, a hint to open my legs wider. I gave in, just an inch, and was rewarded with a lazy circle against my clit. All I wanted was to drop my weight back against him, to spread my thighs farther and see what his wicked touch could wring from me. But even as I saw other patrons doing exactly that, I knew I couldn't, knew I wouldn't.

This entire night had been totally unlike me. Taking Helaena up on the invitation had left me filled with nerves. We'd spoken often enough at school and I desperately wanted to call her my friend. She was impossible not to adore, and denying her anything felt wrong. We'd flirted and when I finally gathered the courage to ask her for her number, she'd slapped me right in the face with an invite to the most exclusive club in town. How could I say no? Especially when she mentioned the more mysterious of her brothers would be there too. 

The Beast had planted his feet on the stage, his hands gripping bruises against his Beauty, driving himself up into her. Her face bunched with pleasure as she fell forward, her hands landing on his chest to brace herself as he fucked her roughly. I felt my pulse quicken, my lungs constricting as Aemond slid a finger inside me, and then another. I couldn't stop myself, arching my back slightly to grind down against his hand. His fingers were long, slender and graceful. They felt divine inside of me and I knew it wouldn't be long until he worked me up and over that peak, the muscles of my thighs already twitching with it. 

Suddenly Beauty came with a low groan, the blood rushing up her neck to settle in her cheeks as the Beast beneath her roared his own end, their bodies going rigid. She had thrown her hands above her head in a jubilant gesture as the Beast spilled inside her, as if unafraid for anyone, everyone, to see her pleasure. Then the music died and for a moment the room was silent except for the sound of ragged breathing. I couldn't figure out where one breath started and the next began, which was mine or Helaena's or even Aemond's. The spotlight went dark and the melancholy instrumental music that had accompanied the performance melted back into the low, heavy bass from earlier. 

Aemond's hand was out from under my dress before the lights returned to normal. I hissed at the loss of him, canting forward as if seeking him out. The neediness of the gesture left me feeling more than a little pathetic, especially as he growled, "on your feet." But his voice was strained, rough even, and that gave me more than enough satisfaction. I blinked up at him, my mind hazy and buzzing after being yanked so abruptly from what had promised to be a wild sort of release. Helaena stood first and offered me a hand, pulling me up on shaking baby deer legs. She just smiled like she knew and reached up to tug at the ends of my hair. 

The crowd blurred around us as we moved past the stage, past the bar, and deeper into the club. I looked down, startled, when the click of my heels against the polished wood floors turned muffled, my footsteps suddenly cushioned by plush carpeting. We were in a hallway, the walls paneled in rich, dark wood, an expanse of wealth relieved only by a series of doors, each one different from the last. One a rich, blood red with golden accents, another gunmetal stark but littered with peepholes, the third a shockingly clear plate glass. I caught a glimpse of twining limbs and chains within and finally realized where we were headed. 

“Why a private room? I thought the whole point of this place was taking what we wanted and no one caring?” 

“I don’t like anyone seeing what’s mine.” Aemond turned to me, one arm around his sister’s waist. My heart thundered as his gaze pinned me to the emerald green door we’d stopped in front of. Helaena leant back against him, a look of feline contentment on her features as she gazed at me through hooded eyes. 

“What did you want when you came here, Lady Grey?” It wasn’t so much a question as a gentle prompting, an invitation to voice the desire that had drawn me to them like a moth to a bonfire ever since that first time I’d seen them on campus. They’d looked so out of place they might as well have been another species. Two fae royals slumming it with mortals for their own amusement, sampling whatever pleasures they wished to indulge in, and tempting the rest of us with wicked delights if only we’d be bold enough to seek them. 

I ached to be bold.

“You,” I breathed. “Both of you.” 

“Yes, that was it.” Helaena tipped her head up to meet Aemond’s gaze and said “See?”

“Hm.” 

Before I could worry that I was failing some unspoken test he leaned in with that sleek, predatory grace and twisted the door knob by my hip. 

“After you,” he purred. 

Part Two

[sombrashe]

my heart belongs to you, sólo tu

this is a repost because my original blog was deleted

relationship(s) valeria x reader

content the word mamita is used to describe reader once, angst, found family, childhood enemies to friends to lovers, alejandro x valeria mention, valeria x reader endgame, bad ending

Growing up on the streets of Las Almas was mentally and financially challenging. You were mostly alone due to your parents being deployed most of the year. Being dumped at your neighbors' house, the Garza's was frustrating enough. Their oldest girl, just two years your senior, was strange when interacting with you. She treated you like a child, and you felt the tight need in your chest to prove her wrong. Prove that you were a big kid just like her and the boys she spent time with.

So you followed her everywhere: playing fútbol until the ball flew into your face cracking your nose into a geyser of blood, spending your time sneaking and reading her books which sometimes confused you, trying to keep up with her filth-ridden Spanish, which had your face heating up every time you shuddered out a new curse. She always noticed this obsession to prove yourself to her. Your pudgy legs were trying to keep up as you went from single to double digits, your body and mind developing until you were on par with her.

Her eyes always rolled to the back of her head, even if her heart swelled every time your noses touched as your argued. The way your hands were so expressive as you growled in anger when she embarrassed you with sharp words about your obsession with her. How you tried desperately to deny her accusations despite the tinge of heat burning your face.

As you both grew older, she slowly pulled away from you, her emotions betraying her as she felt your pull become stronger. The anger you felt was always a mask for the pool of butterflies which ate away at your stomach lining. Your crush only heightened as she tried to ignore you. You noticed the way she couldn't look you in the eyes. Her face darkened when you caught her staring at you in your bathing suit, daring the boys to jump into the lake hidden behind the mountains.

On your sixteenth birthday, you received the "best birthday gift ever, time away from you."

Even if your heart melted and dissolved in your stomach as she announced her deployment to the army. No matter how hard you tried to keep up the appearance of annoyance toward the older woman, your body betrayed you. The grip you had on her during your goodbyes was reciprocated in abundance by the squeeze she gave your waist. In the privacy of her home, your shared home at this point, you cried into her chest. She was surprised. You were supposed to roll your eyes and push her out the door; instead, you begged her not to go. Stay here with you, protect you from the dangers of the streets as she has done all her young life. Her heart tugs against her vocal cords, and she wraps you in her warm arm, the lean muscles the last memory you have of her before she tears herself away and out of your life.

The months that follow have you easily irritated. Despite how used you are to being alone, many residents of Las Almas either join the army or the cartel. You never cared about someone so much. Finally, Miss. Garza announced her daughters' return, you were ecstatic at the news, and with speed, you didn't know you had, you tugged on an outfit and practically tumbled down the stairs. You knew this was Valeria, but she looked so different. Her skinny body, with meager muscles only formed from playing on the streets for years, is now toned in such a way that has you avoiding your eyes as heat spreads across your face. Her hair is cropped short to her head, and her stance is tall and imposing in the doorway. When she finally turns towards you, she's grinning at your slack-jawed expression.

"How have you been, Bombón?"

You roll your eyes at the childish nickname, your need for sweets earning you the name. You respond positively, keeping your composure calm even if you struggle to maintain eye contact. You spend your days glued to her side, your mutual childhood annoyance melting away until all that is left is the crush that never fully formed until now.

You two talk about everything, her annoyance at how the men in her troop treat her and your studies with a future at a full ride to a university in the states. In no time, she's whisked back to finish her training, something about her joining the special forces and not returning until you were a year into your advanced studies. The next few years are filled with a whirlwind of studying and letters. Miss. Garza is there for you every step of the way, your biological parents having not been seen for years.

"Estoy tan orgulloso de ti mamita."

These words echo in your head as you walk across the stage, face pretty and head held high as you accept the master's degree etched with your name. You were excited to see Valeria again, her pride-filled letters at your achievement. When you finally step off the stage, you're wandering in the hot sun looking for your family, Miss. Garza's voice fills your ears, and you rush toward the sound. You're whisked into her arms as she babbles praise and happiness to you in Spanish, you responding in such back.

"Bombón! Look at you."

You turn towards the woman who fills your heart and are met with the sight of her pressed against a taller man. He seemed to be a few years older than her, and you're taken aback. She talked about a man she met who belonged to another squad extensively. You assumed the whirlwind romance had died out, her letters including less and less of him until not a single mention for months. You try not to, but you feel betrayed, like she lied to you and got your hopes up. You give her a half-hearted hug and shake the man's hand with a smile.

"Nice to meet you... Alejandro, right? Valeria's told me all about you."

You know your voice isn't as excited as it should be, disrespect underlining your part of the conversation. You walk and talk back to the car, your dorm having been emptied and packed as you were expected to move back home. Each member, including Alejandro, seemed to agree to include your items in their bags to make the trip home more manageable, and you thanked them each for the help. On the ride to the restaurant you choose, a small place that reminds you of home, Valeria speaks of her deployment and a vital mission her troop was tasked with. You listen happily to her voice until Alejandro speaks, and your face drops. You turn toward the front of the car and give directions.

"Mami, dobla a la izquierda aquí arriba."

You respond to this man's words as needed, showing respect for the Garza's sake. Eventually, you arrive at the restaurant, step out of the car, and rush inside under the guise of getting you all a table. Your dinner is eaten with expected praise, conversation, and happiness at all being together once again. You notice Valeria's hot gaze on you the entire night, and you want to snap at her and tell her to quit looking at you like that. Instead, you excuse yourself with a smile, a quick kiss, and thank you to Miss. Garza, for making it out here. With a pinch to the cheek, you're walking off towards the bathrooms in the back of the building. You're washing your hands when you hear the door creak open and watch as black hair enters your peripheral

"What's with the third degree and disrespect?"

You ignore her as you dry your hands.

"I'm speaking to you."

Her voice is commanding, and she sounds like she did when you were both children.

"Why wasn't I informed he would be coming? It's my graduation, not a 'meet my boyfriend for the first time home visit.'"

Your voice is bitter as you chuck the used paper into the can in the corner. You want to leave, but with her back facing the door, you must endure this conversation.

"Don't act like a child over this. He's barely my boyfriend as it is. I don't know if I would even call him that. Mamá wanted to meet him, so he tagged along."

She's speaking about him so casually, and you know her heart is not in it with him, but that doesn't stop the angry pounding yours does in your lonely chest.

"But your letters. You stopped talking about him, so of course, I'm going to think you two were over."

You're pouting, your arms crossed over your chest, caging your heart. She sighs and cups your cheeks, her eyes big and doe-like as she speaks the following words carefully.

"We are over. That's what I'm trying to say. I can't have mamá knowing because she'll kill me if she finds out. I've talked too much about him to drop that on her. You know how sick she is, cariño."

You're taken aback by the nickname. She's never shown affection like this in person before. You convinced yourself the sweet poems and love-sick letters were written to ease your worry.

"¿Cariño? ¿Lo dice en serio?"

She rests her forehead against yours, and you breathe in her scent. She didn't smell like chocolate anymore. The scent of whisky and al pastor fills your nose, and you note the smell of lavender wafting from her shirt. Resting against her like this calms the violent beating within your chest, and you must tear yourself away from her.

"I can't, not while you're faking a relationship. For Mami's sake."

You shoulder past her and exit the bathroom leaving your crushed heart in the small room.

[subject-2-change]

I just went on some hot mess bullshit to the liquor store for a redbull. It is a few minute walk through some alleys. I go there all the time at all hours. The guys know me.

I've been on a major concert withdrawal since the show Tuesday. I need caffeine.

Threw on jeans over my Doctor Who briefs, which say "EXTERMINATE!" in bright red around the waistband, which rode up over my jeans. White band merch cropped tank with a tits-out woman on it. Bright blue hair that I haven't washed since the concert. Over the ear headphones with a cord that is held together with electrical tape.

Go into the store, straight to the back fridge, jamming to my blaring music, crack open the can with one hand before I get to the counter, slap down a $5 and look up.... it's a new guy.

I smile, he smiles, I take a sip, I know he can hear the bassline of this song. He hands me my change and I just raise my can in acknowledgement and slip out the back door.

Either I can't go back or he'll think I'm crazy. Or I have to go back more often so he knows I'm just like this and pose no threat to him.

[whumperstorm]

Zephyr drabble No. 1 - Whipping

(Note: Zephyr uses she/he pronouns interchangeably)

content warnings: mentions of past self harm, "it" as a pronoun ~~~

The rope on Zephyr's wrists rub painful marks into her skin. They took away her gloves, so the rough fibers dig directly into her flesh. It wouldn't be so bad if she stopped struggling, but she can't. She can't help it. She's tied to a pillar, her arms pulled up and around so her back is on full display and her chest is pressed against the pole. Her legs are free, but she's already tried kicking out at her assailants to no avail. She can hear them around her, their footsteps on the concrete and their hateful muttering, but they're too far away to hit.

A sharp crack has Zephyr flinching. He gasps at the sound, trying to discern its source. It kind of sounded like a...

"What- What do you want??" he asks desperately.

"Fucking freak," is the only response. "Pretending to be a person."

Zephyr sobs. He is a person! He has a family and a life. He was born and he can talk and laugh and live just like them! But all they see are his "additions". The animistic teeth and ears that mark him as "other". The magic he embraced so readily, thinking it made him special. Made him a superhero.

"P-please, I just wanted to help-" she says.

"You can help by screaming nice and loud for us."

For a moment, all Zephyr hears is another crack that echos through her eardrums. Then suddenly, a burst of agony tears across her back, ripping open her shirt and skin alike. She shouts in pain and surprise, spine arching away from the pain.

Yep. That's a whip.

Zephyr's struggles begin anew, wrists protesting his movements. He knows they aren't going to stop at one strike. He's read history and he knows how this works. There's a lesson to be learned, a price to pay. He feels something hot trickle down his back and knows he's bleeding. His thoughts flash back to another time, when his arms wept blood from a different kind of cut, all lined up in rows, and he chokes. I don't want to bleed anymore!

Another strike lands across her lower back where her crop-top doesn't reach. The pain doubles with no fabric to slice through, and she wails. A spark of electricity shoots out from her body, but wherever they’ve set her up  is made of wood and her tormentors are too far away.

"Look at that!" one shouts. "That coulda killed us!"

No, NO it was an accident! Please, stop hurting me...

The strikes speed up now. Lash after lash rain down on her until her shirt is in tatters. Distantly she's disappointed, it's her favorite one. Her entire back screams, and her voice follows along. As the pain stacks and the cuts begin to overlap and dig deeper, her screams turn feral. A growl crawls out from her throat and her voice becomes guttural as she writhes.

"It really is a fucking monster..."

"See? You can't hide what you are."

One strike goes too high. It hits his upper shoulder and wraps around his neck. He chokes as it slices through the delicate skin of his throat and snags on his collar.

"Ah, shit," says the one holding the whip.

The cut didn't go deep, but the cord is stuck. Zephyr whines. Help, I can't breathe! He's already lightheaded from the torture and blood loss and now he wobbles on his feet.

"I'll get it."

Hands touch him, fingers dig into his throat.. Zephyr panics and flinches away, but there's nowhere for him to go. His hair is yanked back to expose his neck and he cries like a wounded animal. Tears pour down his face.

"Fucking- Hold still!" the voice spits. Too close. The pressure on her neck is released and she can breathe clearly again. She gasps, and her legs buckle. She falls until her arms are pulled taut and she's hanging, her knees not quite touching the ground. Her shoulders burn from the pressure, and her flayed back sings as the skin is stretched tight.

She's losing grasp of the world around her. The pain rules over everything and her ears ring. After a minute, or maybe an hour, there's more lashes. The pain is as agonizing as before, but now all she can do is flinch. Her head hangs. She feels nauseous. Distantly she hears voices, muffled like they’re underwater.

"...no fun.."

"...eave it here and..."

"...nna die anyway."

Zephyr's wrists are cut loose and he falls. Unable to catch himself, his head smacks into the ground with a groan. There's a kick to his side, almost dull compared to the fire of his back. Then, with his cheek pressed to the ground, blood and tears pooling around him, Zephyr falls into blissful unconsciousness.

[expvrgction]

Nobody insults villain getup. A certain king deserves better than that shade the Slayer gave him.

Davoth already got called a stars-damned lobster because of his mech armor. It looks NOTHING like one-- It's more a beetle than a lousy sea creature!

[wheremermaidsdwell]

things i have done today:

made a crop top to go under my keyleth dress (no pattern. made it up.)

made a mask to match ariel (custom patttern i've been using since 2020.)

rewatch most of stranger things season 4

had to go buy a new computer cord bc mine finally gave out

those were my last two pieces of sewing for con so now i'm clear and i tried on costumes earlier this week and there's nothing really to fix, i just wanted to have the crop top option for under keyleth bc it's pretty cleavagey.

i technically have a repair to keyleth's staff i still need to do but it's throwing more plaster wrap to cover a crack and painting to match. shouldn't be hard. with the fourth off i have time.

[ruewrites]

Kinktober 2022 Day 4: Spanking

AO3

Ship: Mammon/Mephistopheles

Word Count: 1002

Warning: smut

A/N: Now that he's out, the world needs more Mephisto content and I am very excited to write for these two. I hope you enjoy! comments are appreciated!

It started off as something so simple. It was a way to get back at Lucifer, that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. He just had to choose one of his brothers, any one of them would have sufficed. After all, Lucifer was getting cozy in the prince’s bed, it would only be right for Mephisto to do the same. At first he thought about Asmo, it would have been an easy choice going after the Avatar of Lust. He had been on his way to proposition him when his plans changed. He was at a party, Mammon had been in attendance too.

One thing led to another and he found himself in the Avatar of Greed’s bed instead. 

 It hadn’t gone as planned.

 It wasn’t supposed to be good. 

 It wasn’t supposed to happen again.

 And again.

 And again. 

And again. 

A nudge on his shoulder shook him out of his thoughts, “We still on for tonight?”

It took Mephisto a moment to respond. Of course they were still on for tonight, why wouldn’t they be? “Unless you don’t want to for some reason.”

Maybe he would want out and they could put an end to this little game of theirs.

“I don’t mind indulging ya, but only if you bring that crop of yours. You forgot it last time.”

“And yet you still fucked me.”

“Don’t act like it wasn’t the best you’ve gotten in a while.”

They were both  silent for a while, letting the tension that led to countless passionate nights stew between them. It was a cord so thin that the drop of a blade could sever it in an instant. Yet they both kept coming back. There wasn't really a way to sever what they had going on between them.

“I’ll be there at eight.”

“Don’t be late.”

It wasn’t supposed to be that good. 

And yet as Mephisto ran his crop against his hand and looked at Mammon bent perfectly so over the table, he knew he’d be falling back into bed with him over and over and over again. He raised it up and brought it down on Mammon’s ass. His eyes followed his figure as his back arched. He was a model through and through, and there was no doubt as to why. He couldn't take his eyes off of him as he brought the crop down. Even as welts started to cover his body, he still looked stunning.  It was unbelievable.

This was only supposed to be a one time thing. 

"Is that all you got?" Mammon asked, "Harder."

Mammon wanted to be smacked like one of his horses. His words, not Mephistopheles'. And it was a bad metaphor at that. The goal was never to inflict pain upon his precious horses, but that was what Mammon wanted.  What type of demon would he be if he made a lousy reputation for himself? 

He took in a breath.

The crack of the crop echoed around the room. 

Silence followed in its wake and when Mammon turned around Mephisto was faced with all his glory. He was brazen, unbothered, and completely confident.

"I knew you had it in ya," Mammon grinned, "I don't know what encouragement worked, but it definitely got me what I wanted."

"I'm happy you think so, because you won't be able to sit for a week."

"Ehhhh that's a future Mammon's problem, I'd be more worried about if you could handle riding your horses after what I'm gonna do to ya."

Mammon fell back on his bed and mentioned the other demon closer. Crop still in hand, Mephisto wandered over to straddle Mammon's hips. He could feel every inch of his length pressed against his backside.

"But you know, you could really save a horse and ride a cowboy instead."

"I have half a mind to leave this room right now as we speak Mammon," Mephisto frowned. His jokes were corny, but even then, a small part deep within him couldn't help but chuckle.

"And the other half of yer mind wants to stay here and ride me."

Mammon let his hands wander along Mephisto's hips and the strong muscles of his thighs, "I really like the way these grip me, you do a good job of staying on."

"Please, you act like I don't ride as a regular hobby."

"Oh yeah?" Mammon raised an eyebrow, "You think you could use that crop while riding me at the same time? I like it when a person can keep control of a room."

Despite himself, Mephistopheles could feel himself grinning, "You might as well have asked me to go on a Sunday morning trot Mammon."

He let his crop crack down on Mammon's peck before dragging it down towards himself. "It will be easy."

Mammon's eyes were on him, but not the parts he deserved, yet. So he used his crop to lift Mammon's chin, "Eyes up here now. I wouldn't want you missing anything."

The impish grin on Mammon's face made something in Mephisto's stomach flip.

It had only been meant to be a one time thing.

It was only supposed to be a one night stand.

Some petty revenge against Lucifer for ruining his life. 

But he kept coming back over and over again. 

Good sex was good sex. As long as no one asked, neither one of them would have to answer to why they kept falling into bed together and staying the night.

And that was fine with Mephisto.

There was no label as far as it was concerned to them for what they were doing and that was fine by them. They were having fun and weren't hurting anyone so what did it matter to anyone else?

Mephisto was good at exposing secrets, which meant he was good at keeping his own dirty secrets. 

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that the stallion beneath him was a smooth ride, and he listened very well when the crop made contact with his skin.

[tvintedspvrkmoving]

closed // semi plotted // @bloodsalted

⸺  𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗗𝗘𝗠𝗢𝗡  𝗛𝗔𝗗  𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘  𝗢𝗨𝗧  𝗢𝗙  𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚  𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘  ,  getting  the  jump  on  dean  before  even  she  could  see  or  hear  it  coming  .  it  is  with  a  single  choked  out  cry  and  a  sinking  stomach  that  she  watches  him  fly  across  the  room  ;  that  she  hears  the  crack  of  his  spine  as  it  hits  the  wall  at  just  the  wrong  angle  .  ❝  DEAN  !  ❞ 

the  demon  cackles  ,  disappearing  from  the  corpse  of  its  vessel  in  a  cloud  of  black  smoke  as  she  screams  her  vocal  cords  raw  . she's  crossed  the  room  in  less  than  a  second  ,  by  his  side  immediately  as  tears  begin  to  carve trails  downward over  a  visage  which  fights  to  retain  a  stoic  composure  .  ❝  okay  ,  no  it  -  it's  gonna  be  okay  ,  ❞  elena  breathes  ,  shaking  hands  cupping  the  older  hunter's  cheek  as  she  struggles  against  the  panic  which  threatens  to  take  hold  .  ❝  everything's  okay  ,  it's  fine  .  .  .  ❞  but  she  can  see  the  spark  begin  to  fade  from  emerald  irises  ,  knows  there's  only  one  option  to  get  him  out  of  here  walking  and  talking  .  an  option  she'd  hoped  to  never  have  to  use  .

fangs  unsheathe  atop  her  canines  ,  the  flesh  of  her  wrist  torn  unceremoniously  to  allow  for  her  blood  to  drip  easily  between  unmoving  lips  .  in  only  seconds  he's  begun  to  heal  ,  relief  flooding  the  vampiress  as  an  exasperated  exhale  creates  a  small  cloud  in  the  air  before  her  .  ❝  you're  gonna  be  okay  ,  ❞  she  whispers  ,  stroking  his  hair  and  sliding  her  jacket  beneath  his  head  so that he can take a moment to rest .  ❝  i'll  be  right  back  ;  let  me  make  sure  there's  no  more  of  these  black  eyed  freaks  on  their  way  .  ❞

no  sooner  has  she  stepped  away  than  the  huntress  can  hear  the  laughter  which  peals  from  behind  her  .  a  quick  spin  reveals  the  same  demon  ,  back  in  the  body  of  its  victim  with  a  weakened  dean  in  a  headlock  .  ❝  he  has  your  blood  in  his  system  now  ,  doesn't  he  ?  ❞  the  demon  sing  songs  ,  long  ,  pointed  nails  pricking  spots  of  crimson  from  the  winchester's  neck  .  elena  refuses  to  say  ,  refuses  to  dignify  the  bastard  with  an  answer  .  ❝  let  him  go  ,  ❞  she  hisses  ,  nostrils  flaring  .  the  demon's  head  cocks  to  the  side  ,  a  sly  smirk  threading  across  flattened  lips  as  she  begins  to  nod  .

❝  as  you  wish  ,  ❞  she  grins  ,  toying  with  the  brunette  just  a  little  longer  .  ❝  let  me  know  how  he  reacts  . . .  when  he  wakes  up  a  monster  ,  just  like  you  .  ❞  she  disappears  once  more  in  the  familiar  haze  of  darkness  -  . . .  but  not  before  making  a  show  of  snapping  dean's  neck  . the scream which pierces the air is gutteral , the wind knocked from elena's lungs as she zips back to his side . seconds . it had taken seconds for her worst nightmare to come true . for the reason she's never risked healing him before , to come to fruition . all there is left to do is wait , continuing soothing strokes through cropped tresses matted with sweat and blood as she counts the passing minutes which lead to his new life .

[knightofnightmoo]

Welcome to Glance.

His Death.

The walls shudder ever so slightly as the wind outside blows in  a harsh tantrum. Pattering from the rain permeates the dark, silent house. Animals hidden in the barn and crops flapping around from the storm. Doors and windows locked and sealed. The boards over the windows creak. The day’s work and repairs run through his mind as he sits in the rocking chair with his shotgun on his lap. The chair groans and whines as he rocks and waits patiently. Not even a glint of light, besides the lightning outside, touched a corner of the inside. None was needed. Too much light may allow it to find him.

Time always seemed to slow on nights like this. Always agonizing. But he can’t risk it. Not after what happened to Pa. His mind jolts to attention as heavy steps hit the porch. Seems it has decided to come to the front this time. Screechy laughter hisses from the creature. He stands up slowly. His grip on the gun tightening as he lifts it to the door and follows it to one of the windows. Flashes from outside allow him to see those all too familiar eyes. Each gleamed dark and pupiless. Its mouth filled with an unimaginable amount of teeth. Sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone like it were chewing gum. The grey, almost human skin dripping from the pour. Devland doesn’t move any further. His focus completely on the creature. Claws fall slowly down the window. The sound rivaling the thunder. Devland’s shoulders stiffen.

Don’t move. Don’t give yourself away. It didn’t get you last time. It won’t succeed. Ever. Again.

This stalemate continues until light hits the window and seeps through the cracks between the boards. 

It’s gone. Did the rain stop?

He lowers his gun and lets out a shaky breath. His steps swift and as light as he can manage. Checking outside his eye graze over the wet grass and soaked porch and blood. Blood? Against all instincts and common sense he fumbles to unlock the door and swing it open. The slam of his heart falling into his stomach makes him freeze in the doorway. Damp morning air and a strong supplement of blood fills his nose and the home. 

Tears blur his vision. Blurs the scene. If only it could blur the pain. The tearing of his heart. The tearing of his vocal cords. His arms wrap around his cold lifeless body. His once perfectly warm and comforting body. Blood tainting his clothes. His hair. His face. That’s why it had gone quiet. That’s why it did so little. He should’ve listened. He should’ve. 

Ash circles about in the air as the fire crackles.

“You did warn him dear.” Her voice shakes with age, “Make sure you bury all his bones please. We don’t need the dogs getting ahold of them.”

His silence is all she needed to start her way back to the house. Once the hole was deep enough Devland climbed out and watched the flames cook and burn. 

The sun starts to say its goodbyes as Devland passes the stone marked with a knife the engravings read, “Here Lies Harvey Yavall. Blessing from the Gods and keeper of my heart.” 

Within the week word spread like a virus through their small town. 

“Heard it ripped ‘im limb from limb. ‘Course I know what I’m talkin’ about!” 

“Did you hear the tourist got eaten? I know. Should’ve read the warnings.”

“I saw Dev sitting on his porch all week after 6pm! It’s like he’s asking for it to come back!”

Can never escape their eyes and questions for very long. Information about an attack always seems to make its way from friends to the bars and storekeepers. Tourists are known to disregard the posters and concerned warnings. Normally costing precious, sentimental belongings, eyes, legs, lives. Depends on what they run into. They all knew the newest tourist was going to meet one of the supernatural residents at some point or another. It's always the reporters and journalists who stick their noses too far and find the consequences they were told to avoid. It doesn’t make it hurt any less for Devland though.

His drinking habits and risky nightly behaviors made the residents conclude he may have finally snapped. Finally started following in his father’s footsteps.

[spacedustandpirates]

See you on the soil..

I can’t feel my toes.

… oh, there they are. But.. what if I think I feel my toes but they are just phantom toes and my legs are really gone.

Am I dead?

Slowly her eyes opened, at least, she thought they were opening. There was nothing to see, no color, no pod, just black.

Great. No legs and blind. Now she’d never get a date. She exhaled and let herself sink back into nothingness.

Rust, the coppery metallic scent drew her from a dreamless sleep. Not rust! Rust on metal was a devastating thing, it spread and separated ship walls into layers before flaking apart with devastating results. How did rust get on her Jellyfish?

“C’mon me, get your shit together..” She stretched one arm out into the darkness before moving her hand to her head, dirty fingers sliding over an equally dirty face. “So we are blind - “ …fingers found eyeballs and white sparks exploded within her vision causing her to clap her hands over her eyes and howl. “FUCK ME. FUCK ALL OF ME. Right down to my legless body –”

Her eyes squinched shut, tears running over her brows and into her hairline.

At least she still had hair, that was a plus. And a good taste in music - can’t over look that. She was still a good catch without legs. She sniffled loudly, already thinking up nicknames Corso would call her. Oh hotstars- he’d call her stumpy. One hand gripped the release buckle and held, listening intently to what may be outside. Nothing? As she waited, liquid plunked onto her chin before sliding to the crevice of her lips. Rust.

No. Blood. It was blood. She needed to get out of this pod. She yanked the release cord and tumbled to the headrest, legs cracking against the wall to prove in yet another explosion of white hot pain that she still had legs.

Well. That was nice.

“E-enie, lights.”

When the pod’s computer didn’t respond she leaned forward and squished her cheek against the seat, it was still warm from her back, and for a moment she rested, reveling in the fact she had legs and she wouldn’t get the nickname stumpy.

“Eenie.” She tried again. When the computer didn’t respond she slid her palm against the leather her cheek sat on, fingers seeking the manual eject lever and she gave a quick yank. After a few moments of nothing, the hatch shot free and water hurried to fill the interior. The grimy liquid along with the disturbance of the door’s trajectory stole her vision and she kicked off in a panic-laden attempt to find aid.

When her head broke the surface she bellowed. “I CANT SWIM.”

“Then stand up, human.”

“I AM SINKING..”

“How is that possible, Medlic? The water is maybe three torlac deep..”

She felt a hand grip the back of her sweater and the water rush from her as she hoisted into the air and .. oh - aliens.

“Hi…” She sputtered, limbs hanging limp at her side.

“You landed in our crops, human.” One of the two savage-looking aliens scowled at her. Luckily, it wasn’t the one that held her above the water.

“Sorry about that..” She squinted down at the shallow water and the upside-down pod. Huh. “You are Talon?”

"Yes."

"You got cookies?"

Leafcutters chitterd in the darkness, low toned threats to those close enough to hear. Warnings that were not good enough that the leaf lookalikes were actually creatures of foul disposition that would tear a target to pieces. They moved in small packs, which meant if you saw one there was at least four more you didn’t see.

The urge to peer out the window and search for the creatures was suppressed since they sounded so close and the village windows didn’t have glass. Just a hole. Just stone. Just jungle heat.

“Terran –” A voice came from the doorway of the borrowed hut and she lulled her head to peer at the tall, green seaweed looking alien that filled the frame. There was a hint of kindness in the tone and she’d take it!

“You can all me Aylin, if you like?” She rolled to a sit, her suit had been replaced by some wraps about her chest and hips, when she complained it was too close to a diaper the alien helping her offered to keep it. Since she didn’t want her female bits chewed off by leafcutters, she kept the diaper-shorts.

“Terran is easier. I am going to check on your wound, come.”

“Sure..” She carefully moved to a stand, her pace slow and easy. The pod had landed without much damage and she did count herself lucky that it was only a few scrapes and bruises that saw her safely to land - well- Talon crops, same thing. It wasn’t until she had explained what happened to the Talon Chief, gained permission to wait for her captain and then was digging for her beacon that she tangled with one of their ‘pets.’

The beast had almost taken off her leg!

The same beast walked near her now, over long tongue hanging out of the its mouth.

“Turnada - it likes you.” The Alien commented, earning the narrow vine-like back a scowl and a sniff from the lost pilot.

“It likes my blood, yeah?” She huffed, eyeing the creature near her with it’s odd legs and hunched shoulders. It was just as wild as the rest of this place, kept in check by the villagers that raised it and used it to hunt and guard. “No more.. No more Aylin for you.”

Once they reached the medical building she exhaled loudly as she limped inside the cool stone interior. Outside the air threatened to drown her and her hair stuck to her back in damp, clingy braids - inside? The shimmer of something tattled that they used some sort of… something… that was older than she was to create comfort and healing.

“Have your hunters seen any other Terran?” She sank onto a cool stone table, the length covered by a thin blanket that further regulated her body’s reaction to the planet as soon as she settled.

“No..”

Great.

[poem-today]

A poem by Tony Harrison

A Cold Coming

I saw the charred Iraqi lean towards me from bomb-blasted screen, his windscreen wiper like a pen ready to write down thoughts for men, his windscreen wiper like a quill he's reaching for to make his will. I saw the charred Iraqi lean like someone made of Plasticine as though he'd stopped to ask the way and this is what I heard him say: "Don't be afraid I've picked on you for this exclusive interview.

Isn't it your sort of poet's task to find words for this frightening mask? If that gadget that you've got records words from such scorched vocal cords,

press RECORD before some dog devours me mid-monologue." So I held the shaking microphone closer to the crumbling bone:

"I read the news of three wise men who left their sperm in nitrogen, three foes of ours, three wise Marines with sample flasks and magazines,

three wise soldiers from Seattle who banked their sperm before the battle. Did No 1 say: God be thanked I've got my precious semen banked.

And No 2: O praise the Lord my last best shot is safely stored. And No 3: Praise be to God I left my wife my frozen wad?

So if their fate was to be gassed at least they thought their name would last, and though cold corpses in Kuwait they could by proxy procreate.

Excuse a skull half roast, half bone for using such a scornful tone. It may seem out of all proportion but I wish I'd taken their precaution.

They seemed the masters of their fate with wisely jarred ejaculate. Was it a propaganda coup to make us think they'd cracked death too,

disinformation to defeat us with no post-mortem millilitres? Symbolic billions in reserve made me, for one, lose heart and nerve.

On Saddam's pay we can't afford to go and get our semen stored. Sad to say that such high tech's uncommon here. We're stuck with sex.

If you can conjure up and stretch your imagination (and not retch) the image of me beside my wife closely clasped creating life . . ."

(I let the unfleshed skull unfold a story I'd been already told, and idly tried to calculate the content of ejaculate:

the sperm in one ejaculation equals the whole Iraqi nation times, roughly, let's say, 12.5 though .5's not now alive.

Let's say the sperms were an amount so many times the body count, 2,500 times at least (but let's wait till the toll's released!).

Whichever way Death seems outflanked by one tube of cold bloblings banked. Poor bloblings, maybe you've been blessed with, of all fates possible, the best

according to Sophocles ie "the best of fates is not to be" a philosophy that's maybe bleak for any but an ancient Greek

but difficult these days to escape when spoken to by such a shape. When you see men brought to such states who wouldn't want that "best of fates"

or in the world of Cruise and Scud not go kryonic if he could, spared the normal human doom of having made it through the womb?)

He heard my thoughts and stopped the spool: "I never thought life futile, fool! Though all Hell began to drop I never wanted life to stop.

I was filled with such a yearning to stay in life as I was burning, such a longing to be beside my wife in bed before I died,

and, most, to have engendered there a child untouched by war's despair. So press RECORD! I want to reach the warring nations with my speech.

Don't look away! I know it's hard to keep regarding one so charred, so disfigured by unfriendly fire and think it once burned with desire.

Though fire has flayed off half my features they once were like my fellow creatures', till some screen-gazing crop-haired boy from Iowa or Illinois,

equipped by ingenious technophile put paid to my paternal smile and made the face you see today an armature half-patched with clay,

an icon framed, a looking glass for devotees of 'kicking ass', a mirror that returns the gaze of victors on their victory days

and in the end stares out the watcher who ducks behind his headline: GOTCHA! or behind the flag-bedecked page 1 of the true to bold-type-setting SUN!

I doubt victorious Greeks let Hector join their feast as spoiling spectre, and who'd want to sour the children's joy in Iowa or Illinois

Or ageing mothers overjoyed to find their babies weren't destroyed? But cabs beflagged with SUN front pages don't help peace in future ages. Stars and Stripes in sticky paws may sow the seeds for future wars. Each Union Jack the kids now wave may lead them later to the grave.

But praise the Lord and raise the banner (excuse a skull's sarcastic manner!) Desert Rat and Desert Stormer without the scars and (maybe) trauma,

the semen-bankers are all back to sire their children in their sack. With seed sown straight from the sower dump second-hand spermatozoa!

Lie that you saw me and I smiled to see the soldier hug his child. Lie and pretend that I excuse my bombing by B52s,

pretend I pardon and forgive that they still do and I don't live, pretend they have the burnt man's blessing and then, maybe, I'm spared confessing

that only fire burnt out the shame of things I'd done in Saddam's name, the deaths, the torture and the plunder the black clouds all of us are under.

Say that I'm smiling and excuse the Scuds we launched against the Jews. Pretend I've got the imagination to see the world beyond one nation.

That's your job, poet, to pretend I want my foe to be my friend. It's easier to find such words for this dumb mask like baked dogturds.

So lie and say the charred man smiled to see the soldier hug his child. This gaping rictus once made glad a few old hearts back in Baghdad,

hearts growing older by the minute as each truck comes without me in it. I've met you though, and had my say which you've got taped. Now go away."

I gazed at him and he gazed back staring right through me to Iraq. Facing the way the charred man faced I saw the frozen phial of waste,

a test-tube frozen in the dark, crib and Kaaba, sacred Ark, a pilgrimage of Cross and Crescent the chilled suspension of the Present.

Rainbows seven shades of black curved from Kuwait back to Iraq, and instead of gold the frozen crock's crammed with Mankind on the rocks,

the congealed genie who won't thaw until the World renounces War, cold spunk meticulously jarred never to be charrer or the charred,

a bottled Bethlehem of this come- curdling Cruise/Scud-cursed millennium. I went. I pressed REWIND and PLAY and I heard the charred man say:

Tony Harrison

Listen to Tony Harrison introduce and read his poem.

The Guardian ran this specially commissioned poem by Tony Harrison in 1991

[morgue-gf]

Innocent

Murder and mild suspense

Unnamed characters, not fanfiction

I'm aware it's bad, constructive criticism is welcome

I step out of the master bedroom, toweling my wet hair off. The pungent smell of cleaning supplies wafting from the bedrooms causes my nose to wrinkle. I shut the doors in the hallway, leaving only the guest room and bathroom cracked slightly. I pad through the hallway, glancing at the pictures along the way, each one a different scene of happiness. I shun the warm fuzzies these pictures bring me. I sidle over to a pile of mail on a table near the door. I nose my way through the stack. Tyler, Tyler, Lindsie, Tyler. Bill, Bill, College, Dentist. I shut the light off and make my way to the kitchen. I slide on the rubber gloves to wash my dishes. I feel sudden unease as I finish the chore and go to put the dishes away. I go to look for where the knife block or drawer is, but a chill runs up my spine and I hear a soft clicking. I slide the gloves off and grab the knife I was looking to put away and softly step into the living room to see the doorknob slightly shaking. The door lock preventing it from fully turning. I pass through the room as quickly as possible to look through the window above the sofa, but notice him start towards me. He's a heavyset man, about 60 years old, 6'1, and dirty. His short-cropped gray hair reminds me of my father, but that's where the resemblance ends. I tuck myself next to the side of the sofa, on the end next to the wall so he can't see me. I can barely see him if I glance up, but I watch as he presses himself against the pane of glass.

His breath fogs up the window, an aged and gnarled hand pressed flat against the glass. He can't see me, it's too dark. I hold the dull kitchen knife against my knees as I try to calm my heart.

I take a rattled breath and peek my head as softly as I can above the arm of the couch to see him. It's too dark in the living room for him to see me. If the light were on he'd be able to see my feet, the shine of my hair, the glint of my knife. He's gone. I slowly crawl from my nest of safety, one hand grasping the knife and the other balancing me on the floor. I slowly edge myself toward the coffee table, where the light shines from the cracked kitchen door onto my phone. I check it. 5%.

I hear a thud against the door. I scramble to my feet to slide the deadbolt into place. The thud pauses, as if the person behind it was considering the noise of the deadbolt and who may have been behind it. I look through the peephole to see him. His blackened teeth and grimace-like smile peer at me. I gag. I back away from the door, barely avoiding running into the bookcase as I move towards the bathroom. I grab my phone. I hear another thud. He has to be throwing his whole body against the door. I check my phone battery, 3%. I scramble into the nearest room and grab a power cord. I hear glass shatter. He must have broken the window. I move as fast as possible into the bathroom. I hear him in the living room. I shut the door and slide the lock home. I turn the light off and plug the power cord into the wall and I sit against the floor as I dial 911.

911 what's your emergency?

There's a man trying to break into my home. My address is 497 Quaker Ave. He's coming, I have to hang up

Ma'am no, you have to-

I hear his footsteps in the hall and hang up the phone. His boots are heavy, like he strapped bricks to his feet. He stops at the closet and opens the door. I hear him shuffling through the coats. I quietly open the cabinet and brace one foot against the inside, the other foot against the toilet. He moves on. His feet are stopped at the room I took the power cord from. He flips on the light. I can hear the closet door open and a similar shuffle to his closet ransack. My heart starts pounding even harder than before when I hear his footsteps stomp towards the bathroom door. I can hear his breath now, labored and rattling. The doorknob rattles. And as I can almost hear him smile as he starts to shove his shoulder into the door. Risking him breaking the door, I remove my leg braced in the cabinet and I kneel pressing my shoulder against the door. I slide the knife under the door to slash at him. I hear a yelp in surprise when he sees the knife. It didn't hurt him, but he takes a cautionary step back. I turn back around and rebrace myself against the furniture, right as he charges the door. I scream. It was almost inhuman, I felt the air leave my lungs along with my voice. I attempt to prepare myself for another hit, but he stops, and he starts back down the hall. I still, so I can hear his thundering footsteps, but they disappear. I press my ear against the door to search for any sounds, but I only hear the faint wailing of sirens. I get up and unlock the door. The flashing lights are placed right in front of the house, I hear the chatter of the two police officers and I run to the living room. But I'm on the floor, and I can't breathe. I look around from my position on the floor to see him standing above me, arm out. I try and scream for them to hear me, but I'm so winded that only a whisper escapes. His fat face leans down, his sausage fingers grabbing at my hair.

You aren't getting away.

I attempt to scream again, but it's more of a holler as I knock my face into his. It hurt me more than him, but it stunned him long enough for me to search for the knife. Blood pours from my nose as my fingers find the handle. I feel him grab my foot in an attempt to pull me toward him. The police are pounding, my blood is pounding, and all I can smell is his putrid, rotting mouth. I grab the knife. He drags my foot toward him, and I slash at his calf. He yells, the police are ramming the door, and he grabs me by the hair again. I feel him lift my head and try to slam it but I use the knife to slash him in the wrist. I hear the door thud open as I push myself upwards into him. The knife settling in his heart as he topples backwards.

I hear the police yell at me, pointing their guns. I lift my hands up and exclaim my joy. But they won't lower the weapons. A male officer grabs me by the arms and leads me over to the couch. They insist on searching the home, I feel my blood pressure rise, I don't know how I'll get myself out of this. I start to get up but I'm forced down by a female detective.

Don't move.

Why not? I'm the one who was in danger here?

About an hour before we got your call, we got a call mentioning a strange woman walking into the backyard of 497 Quaker Ave. We tried to contact the current tenants, Tyler and Stefanie Jones and additionally their teenage daughter Lindsie, but nobody answered. Then you called.

I'm just Lindsie's friend, we were having a sleepover and he tried to break in. I was only defending myself

A grown woman friends with a 16 year old girl?

I didn't do anything wrong

A female officer whispers in her ear.

Then why are they dead? So dead that we can't tell what parts belong which person. Do you think we'd believe he did that in 20 minutes?

I thought you'd believe that I was innocent.

Another female detective walks over to us. Handcuffs out and ready to be put to use.