#HIPSTER DEATH RATTLE

[humanelemental]

Ok but picture this, Agatha goes on a life death?changing field trip with Billy. Probably they find Tommy and Wanda, and Wanda restores Agatha’s body since she kind of saved both her kids.

Rio expects Agatha to run as soon as her feet physically hit solid ground again, but she just…doesn’t. Like Rio shows up and is all, “what’s it going to be? Where are you going to run this time coward???”

And Agatha just looks at her, looks around, looks at her and is like, “did I not tell you to fix my damn yard?”

Rio is stunned. Like of all the responses. And Agatha is being (mostly) serious. She clearly expects Death (capital D) to do her damn landscaping. And before Rio can figure out how to react, Agatha is like, “that includes my door and sink. Who tf throws the actual kitchen sink at someone. It’s supposed to be a figure of speech, you overgrown hipster!” And just throws her hands in the air and starts towards the house. Rio is so flabbergasted that she just leaves for a bit. But not before fixing the door. Every time she comes back she expects Agatha to be gone, but nope, there she is, inexplicably hanging out in New Jersey. Sometimes she’s teaching the boys. Sometimes she and Wanda are having philosophical arguments (aka she’s also teaching Wanda but neither is willing to admit it. Rio refuses to leave until Wanda does on those occasions.)

Occasionally she takes trips to other places for various reasons. She nails a note to the door specifically for Rio with detailed instructions for Señor Scratchy and a plea to leave her damn azaleas alone. (Rio does not, and Agatha often comes home to a well fed bunny and man-eating flowers. How one makes azaleas man-eating is anyone’s guess, but Agatha’s money is on semi-divine spite.) Every time she returns to find Rio sulking on the porch. Which is odd because sometimes she has to rush out of the house to get in position. Like Agatha has started to walk up her driveway and seen Rio fling herself out the door and onto the front steps to glare at her. (Señor is a very relaxing bunny and sometimes Rio loses track of time ok.) Neither of them discuss this beyond Agatha rolling her eyes and inviting her back in for a drink or dinner or what have you.

This continues for a truly obnoxious amount of time until Rio finally decides that Agatha is done hiding from her and decides to become the biggest nuisance in existence. Agatha is always annoyed but she never sends Rio away. The worst she does is bitch and moan, and occasionally throw something at her ex-maybe current-wife. If she’s doing something truly important, or, more often, if it looks like Rio is thinking a little too hard about murdering the twins, she’ll tell her to go play somewhere else for a bit. Rio always snarls and growls but she usually heads off for a couple of days. The problem is almost always that she’s either bored or stressed. She always finds herself back in Westview to annoy Agatha eventually. (Sometimes if she’s in a very good mood, Rio will help with the twins’ lessons. But don’t tell anyone.)

Eventually they settle into what everyone else can tell is a relationship, but which they both firmly deny is anything more than a convent arrangement. They make this everyone’s problem, in true agathario fashion, but no one seems to really mind.

Idk, just something I have rattling around in my head.

[anxietycalling]

deeply considering writing locked tomb fic bc i keep thinking about what would happen if everyone lived in a modern au

[copias-thrall]

Pretty Thing

[Should I be working on any of my other things? Yes! Did I write this instead? Also yes!]

Mary Goore is a troll. 

Yes—a shit stirrer for sure, but mostly he’s a fiend who lives somewhere dank and far from people. Some say he squats in a mausoleum, but others will laugh and tell you he sublets a garden-level apartment. He’s always just around—the scene’s unofficial mascot who flits around, always there with everyone and no one, and damn … you just missed him! But on weekends you can find him working the doors at bars and venues collecting tolls for entry.

On cloudy days, you can find him hanging out in The Pit with all the other gutter punks, passing around a needle to pierce each other and the guitar to play out some tunes. At night, though, he always seems to be hanging off the arm of someone way too clean, looking like the cat who ate the canary. Wherever he lives, he seems to spend more time in someone else’s bed.

It’s a bright, sunny day when you encounter him alone—without the camaraderie of your tribe. Mary Goore is stomping down the sidewalk holding a black-lace parasol aloft. It’s a hot day, so beneath his studded and patched denim vest is just the pale , paleness of his dewy skin—so bright and reflective in the sunshine that you think that maybe he was the inspiration for that vampire. His black jeans are so ripped, you wonder if he wore them special—for the aeration. The carefully-constructed mat of his hair is making a valiant effort to stand up, despite how tufts of it stick to the sweat on his skin.

Some of it’s the shock of seeing Mary Goore out in the sunlight , and some of it is just how blindingly white he is—like sun refracting off a snowdrift—but you can’t help gaping at him even when you know he’s close enough to watch you do it.

Now, you don’t know Mary Goore, but you spend enough time in divey bars and underground venues that you’re sure he at least recognizes you, so you expect maybe a wink as he passes by. Instead he walks straight up to you and stops.

“You’ll catch flies that way,” he says, and you shut your mouth with a click. He leans against the building with his free arm and gives you a once over. “Like what you see, gelfling?”

Reflexively, you look him up and down. What you thought were freckles is actually a collection of moles that dot his skin. It’s cute.

“I thought you were a mirage.”

He snorts and leans into your space. “Cuz I’m a cool drink of water?”

You look down again at the flat planes of his pale chest. 

“Because you’re, um … glowing.”

Mary licks his lips and hoods his eyes. Your heart pounds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He leans in, and your eyes flutter closed. You wonder if he’ll taste as rank as he usually looks, or if he’ll taste like mint gum or something. Instead, you feel his lips at the conch of your ear.

“See ya ‘round, gelfling.”

Eyes snapping open, you whip around just in time to him striding away, the parasol still raised to shield him from the sun.

You don’t make it a point to seek Mary out—in fact, you’ve been trying to avoid him, sure he’d only make fun of you. So, it’s a surprise when—while waiting for your drink order—Mary suddenly appears. You start, but he just leans his elbow on the bar. 

“Hey,” he says as he catches the straw from his—mostly-finished, bright-yellow drink with a pink paper umbrella—and wraps his plush lips around it. He sucks, and soon you can hear the rattle and slurp as his glass empties. He maintains eye contact with you as he keeps going, the death knell of the drink now gurgling in a prolonged throe as Mary makes use of his surprisingly robust lung capacity.

Before you can say anything, the bartender is placing your pint of beer in front of you.

“That’ll be $6.50, doll.”

Mary waves his arm. “Hey, Ned—put it on my tab.”

Ned raises his eyebrow at him. “You mean ‘Stephanie’s’ tab?” His chin indicates a girl across the room with bright pink and purple hair.

Mary grins, then slams his glass down on the counter. “And make me a tequila sunset.”

“That was a sunrise.”

“I know, man. I like variety.” 

When he says ‘variety,’ Mary turns his head to you and winks.

Ned rolls his eyes and buses the glass—but not before Mary plucks out the paper umbrella. Mary crooks his finger at you, but when you hesitate, he leans forward instead.

“I expect you to treasure this forever,” he says as he sticks the umbrella in your hair just above your ear.

You sniff at him. “I’ll treasure it as long as you do your conquests.” You go for a dramatic exit, but almost spill your beer all over you when you practically collide with the guy behind you, and it sloshes a little bit over the lip of the pint glass. Straight backed, you walk stiffly away as Mary guffaws behind you.

The rest of the night, you make a point of not even glancing in Mary’s direction—you don’t want to see if there’s also an umbrella in Stephanie’s hair.

It’s late, and you’re drunk. The lot of you had parted ways after trivia with multiple $5 pitchers. Despite having downed your own weight in French fries, all you want is some fake cheese of the Cheetos variety. 

The convenience store is on your way home and it’s still open. After the dark of the night outside, you almost have to shield your eyes from the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. The bored teen at the counter watches as you stumble around to first the household aisle, then to the candy aisle, and back to the household aisle.

“Motherfucking cum whore,” you say out loud as you squint up at the signs again.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You jump out of your skin, and almost careen into the greeting card rack—but Mary grabs your arm at the last minute. He’s in his worn leather jacket and some really tight-ass jeans. After leering at his thighs for a moment you say,

“Oh. It’s you.”

Mary squints at you and then grins. “You’re sloshed.”

You make a pffft noise at him.

“What drunk logic has brought you here?”

“I can’t find the Cheetos,” you whine.

He laughs at you. “All right. Hold on.”

You let Mary prop you up against the wall by the magazine rack, and you read all the celebrity gossip headlines while you wait. By the time he finally comes back, your eyes are beginning to droop with sleep. 

“Hey,” he snaps his fingers in front of your face. “No sleeping yet.”

“Cheetos,” is all you can manage before pointing into your mouth with an ah noise.

There’s a bag placed into your hands, already open. You shove a handful into your mouth before you remember you have to buy it. So you start rooting around in your pockets.

“Jesus you’re a mess.You’re getting cheese dust everywhere. The fuck are you doing, anyway?”

“Gotta pay,” you mumble around the masticated food in your mouth.

“I took care of it. C’mon.” He puts his arm around your shoulders and guides you out of the store. You notice he’s got a coffee cup in his other hand when he brings it up to his mouth.

Once you’re outside, you see a woman in her best goth blacks and contoured Elvira face. She looks up at the two of you.

“Mare?”

“Aww, shit. Sorry, baby. I gotta walk a friend home. Some other time?”

The woman looks at you; even with Mary’s arm you’re weaving, and you haven’t stopped shoving the snack food into your mouth.

“Yeah, whatever.”

She walks into the street and immediately a cab pulls over.

“All right, you,” Mary says, drawing your attention back to him. “Let’s get you home.”

The two of you walk in silence except for the crunch of the Cheetos and the slurp of the coffee.

When you reach your apartment building, you say, “This is me.”

Mary shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Hey, uh—do you mind if I crash on your couch?” He gives you a sheepish smile. “I kinda thought I’d be sleeping … elsewhere.”

“Me casa su casa,” you slur.

“Cool, thanks.”

You can’t wait to see the looks on your roommates’ faces when they wake up to Mary Fucking Goore in their apartment. 

But when you all get up, he’s already gone.

You’re eating meat off a stick to soak up the scorpion bowl you and some coworkers shared after a long fucking week. They’re upstairs getting the dance party started, but you’re not allowed up until you finish, so you’re content to watch the shot girls weave expertly in and out the crowd with their wares.

Suddenly a yellow and orange drink slides in front of you.

“But I didn’t …” you start, and that’s when Mary appears and clinks his bright red drink into yours.

“Fancy seeing you here. Oh—is that chicken?” 

Before you can answer, Mary is sliding off a chunk of meat from the skewer and popping it in his mouth.

“Hey!” You sputter at him, but he just pushes the drink at you.

“Drink your sunrise.”

You glare at him, but he just takes a big gulp of his own, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He removes his cherry and holds it out, and you notice that his nails are painted black with a red glitter topcoat.

“C’mon, don’t leave me hanging.”

Sighing, you remove your cherry and hold it out. As Mary touches his to yours he says “Clink”, and then pops it into his mouth. You do the same, squishing it between your back molars before taking a sip from the plastic stirrer in your sunrise. When you look up again, you see that Mary’s mouth is moving, his eyes unfocused. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when he suddenly makes a noise of triumph. He spits something into his palm, which he immediately presents to you proudly.

He’s tied the cherry stem into a knot.

You just gape at him.

Mary deposits the stem into your hand, closing your fingers around it before leaning in. “In case you forget what I can do with my tongue.” Then he gently closes your mouth with a hand to the bottom of your chin. “You know, you keep doing that, and one day someone’s gonna stick something in there.”

Before you have a chance to respond, someone across the bar yells Mary’s name.

“Oop! Gotta bounce! Smell ya later, gelfie.”

And then he’s downing the rest of his drink and heading over to a gaggle of hipsters in flannel and leather. As you finish the last hunk of meat, you watch the group leave as they shout and whoop.

The last thing you expect to see on stage is Mary Goore on guitar when he’s not even in the fucking band. True, he’s been known to mix and match and do the occasional substitution—but there wasn’t even an announcement about it. 

He’s in his stage shirt—the one almost covered in myriad blood trails—and a pair of jeans that are only torn at the knees. There’s a line of drinks next to him from admirers that he’s doing his best to slam back in between songs. The venue doesn’t make those kind of mixed drinks, so you’d sent Mary a shot of tequila with a cherry impaled on a plastic sword in it. “Inside joke,” you’d explained to the confused bartender.

When Mary gets to it, you watch the confusion on his face as he examines the contents. Then his head shoots up, scanning the crowd until his eyes land on you. You wave your own cherried sword at him before sucking the cherry into your mouth. He grins, takes out the sword, and runs it along his tongue before popping the cherry in. There are a few hoots from the audience, and then Mary is shooting the tequila before starting into the chords of the next song.

After the set ends, you convince your friends to stay for another round, vibrating with the certainty that Mary will come out to sass you. You can’t wait to see the look on your friends’ faces when he does.

It’s completely by accident that you even see him leave at all. 

You’re waiting in line for the only bathroom in the entire place, when you see the band erupt from the back room. You raise your hand to wave, but Mary isn’t even looking in your direction. Instead, he’s got his arm draped around the bassist—the one everybody considers the “pretty” one—and is close talking in his ear. From the way the bassist’s hand is moving in Mary’s back pocket, you have a good idea who he’s leaving with tonight even before you watch them slip out the back door.

After that night, you go back to avoiding any place you think Mary might be. So it’s with irritated exasperation that you see him collecting cover for Thursday 80′s Night. He’s sitting on a stool, legs splayed wide open—with absolutely no shame that there’s a giant hole on the inside of his one thigh—his signature leer on full display.

You’re this close to suggesting to your friends that you just ditch theme night and go sing karaoke at the Chinese restaurant that turns into a club after 10pm, but then Mary sees you. He grins and waves you forward. You try to shake your head, but your friends see, and the group breaks free of the line. 

A few people still waiting whine, but Mary just shrugs and taps his pen on the clipboard. “They’re on the list, guys.”

With exclamations of “Cool, dude” and “Thanks, man”, your friends fork over the $20 to Mary. When you try to hand yours over too, Mary just shakes his head.

“Gelflings don’t pay.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap.

Mary looks a bit taken aback, but nods. “Yeah, ok.”

Again, you hold your money out, but he shakes his head again.

“Nah, you’re all set.

You narrow your eyes at him. “But I want to pay.” 

“Buy your friends a round or something.” He gives you a wolfish smile. “Buy me a round.”

You slam the bill down on the stool between his legs, and he only flinches a little. He looks up and squints at you.

"Uh … have I done something to you?”

Inching closer, you get right up in his face. His eyes drop down to your lips before flicking back up.

“You’ve done nothing to me, Mary Goore. Nothing at all.”

For once he has no witty rejoinder, and you don’t bump into anything as you make your way inside.

Life gets a little busy, and before you know it, you realize it’s been two weeks since you’ve been out and about for real anywhere. You send out a text to the group chat, and soon there are plans to see some up-in-coming band at the bowling alley venue.

When you get there, you’re resigned to your fate when you see Mary holding court in the corner. His jeans are more holy than ripped, but you can definitely see his boxers peeking through. He’s in a modified sleeveless tee and his vest. The table next to his group is littered with empty pint glasses and beer bottles.

You look away before he has a chance to catch your gaze. It’s not like you can hide your presence, but you certainly don’t have to encourage him.

The group of you manage to snag a table close enough to the stage that’s being constructed over the lanes, and you put in an order for a round of beers. You sense him even before your friends do a double take at who’s behind you. Sighing, you twist around in your seat.

“What.”

Something you can’t pinpoint flickers across his face. He shrugs.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round.”

“Well, I’m not a grifter. I got shit to do.”

His face falls.

Your friends are watching this exchange like it’s a tennis match.

“I have something for you.”

Before you can even say anything, he’s walking back to his corner and rummaging through his leather jacket. He comes back over and starts searching your face—or at least that’s what you assume he’s doing. Satisfied with what he sees, he nods, then unfurls his palm. In it is a jeweled stud that’s eerily close to the color of your eyes.

“I noticed you were pieced,” he says as he offers forth the earring.

Game. Set. Match.

“I—”

When you make no movement to take it, Mary gently places the stud on the table in front of you.

“Ok,” he says and walks away. You only watch him for a moment before turning back to your table and picking up the stud.

One of your friends gapes at you.

“Did Mary Goore just penguin you?”

You look up sharply. “What? No. Shut up.”

It doesn’t stop there.

When Mary sees the stud in one of your holes—after you sanitized the fuck out of it—he starts giving you tokens. A bejeweled pin for your coat lapel. A subtle bracelet chain. A scuffed silver ring with a onyx inlay. A mother-of-pearl button to replace one you lost on your jacket.

A new one every time he sees you wearing the last one.

You have no idea where he’s getting them. They obviously aren’t new, and you doubt he’s trolling the pawn shops. Each time, he merely comes over, presents his offering, then leaves. 

Some part of you realizes you’ve accepted his pitched woo when you get him a band pin from the local secondhand record shop. You know he usually works the door at the Irish pub on Friday nights, so you make it one of your stops. If he sees you in line, he certainly doesn’t try to wave you in again—but when your turn comes up again, you can see a smile start to break out on his face before he schools it.

“ID, please. Cover is $10 before 9 o’clock. No exceptions.” He smirks.

You mock gasp at him. “Highway robbery. I don’t even expect to pay that much on drinks.”

“Like you need to pay for your own drinks, beautiful.” His eyes take all of you in.

“Is that flattery, Goore?” you say leaning into his space.

His shrug says “maybe,” but his hooded eyes say “absolutely.”

Eyes still trained on his, you fish out two crisp fives while stealthily palming the pin. He cups his free hand out, and you place the bills in it, then rest the pin on top. Mary’s eyes zero in on the thing that’s not like the other, and you take the opportunity to skedaddle into the pub—two can play at the gift and run game.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and you’re bumming around in your apartment in a ratty tee and shorts when the buzzer makes its god awful noise. You’re a little wary because your other roommates are out, and you’re not expecting company.

You press the intercom. “Yes …?”

Feedback and a garbled male voice come through.

“Uh. This is Mary Goore. I’m here for …” he trails off, and you wonder if at any point you told Mary your name.

“Hey, dude,” you say.

“Oh. Is that you, um …”

You smile.

“Your gelfling? Yeah.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Can I … come up?”

You look down at yourself, and then at the detritus in the living room from 5 people.

“Or you could come down …?” he crackles.

“Gimmie 10,” you say.

Twenty minutes later you’re out the door, and you find Mary leaning against your building, thumbs hooked in his jeans. It’s a dreary day, so his parasol is nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” you say, and Mary opens his eyes. You’re in a comic book t-shirt and your denim shorts, and his eyes travel over you.

“Can I show you something?”

“Sure—” you start, then add, “—within reason.”

He nods. “Yeah. C’mon.”

The two of you start walking, you letting Mary take the lead.

After a block in silence, he says, “Thanks for the pin.”

You look over at him. “Thanks, uh … for the everything.”

He grins. “They look great on you.”

You walk a few more blocks, Mary taking you to a part of town that’s still close to the grid, but far enough that the houses are spaced apart. When he leads you to the back of a 3-story Victorian, you hesitate as he slides through the gate.

“What?”

“Is this the part of my life where I end up in pieces in a ditch?”

Mary rolls his eyes. He points to what looks like a back door.

“My door is here.”

Still wary, you follow after him as he unlocks the door and heads down a set of concrete stairs. You peer down at him.

“Are you sure this isn’t your murder basement?”

He turns to look up at you, his face scrunched in annoyance.

“Not all of us can afford nice, sunny apartments in high rises. Don’t be an asshole.”

“Sorry,” you say, even if you’re not 100% convinced.

You make your way down the steps and into the apartment. It’s actually not the lair you thought it would be. There are support beams throughout, but the paint is cheery and the furniture looks like your grandma got loose. Black clothes are draped everywhere, and there’s an old pizza box on the coffee table—but otherwise Mary’s place isn’t the shitshow you thought it would be.

“The lady’s mom died down here,” he says as he drops his keys on the kitchen counter. “I got it at a steal. As long as I pay rent and don’t blast music past 10pm, she could really give a fuck.”

“Is this what you …?”

He smiles at you, almost shyly. “No. C’mere.” He opens a door, and your interest propels your forward.

It’s Mary’s bedroom. Black cotton sheets are hung all around the room, and what look like back silk sheets—ripped at the corners—are stretched over a queen mattress laid on the floor.

“I’m not allowed to paint,” he says when he sees your line of sight. “And she got rid of the bed for obvious reasons.”

Your gaze comes down to the mahogany dressers. They’re covered in … costume jewelry? You approach one and are fascinated by all the baubles on it. There’s also a stack of polaroids. You pick them up to shuffle through. Most of them are portraits of what you assume are Mary’s conquests—though there are few … less than tasteful nudes. 

You squint up at him. “I don’t understand, Mary. What am I supposed to be seeing? Some dead woman’s costume jewelry and bedroom set? Your porn collection?”

“Sorry,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I forgot about those.”

He comes over to take them from you. “I usually keep them here …” He opens the top drawer of the dresser, and you see that it’s full of lingerie.

You back away. “What the fuck is this? Am I here to pose for you or some shit?”

“What? Wait, no! That’s not—” Marys rubs his face in his hands. “Wait, lemme start over.”

Even though you’re dubious, you let Mary take your hands in his.

“Yeah, this place has strong grandma energy … but everything else is me. I brought you here because …” He sighs. “I like to look at the jewelry and I like to wear the lingerie. People, too. I like pretty things, ok? I like to collect them.”

You look back over at the hoard on his dresser.

“So you like … go to estate sales or something?” 

You try to imagine Mary in his studs and ripped clothes—fake blood dripping down his face—at some fancy yard sale. 

He grins at you.

“You have no idea what my day job is, do you?”

“It’s not making breakfast for your conquests?”

Mary laughs.

“Jesus, no. They want me to stick around as much as I want to stick around. No. I’m a grave digger. Well, I’m kinda a grave digger. Blah blah blah … long, boring story: because of union rules I can’t officially be a grave digger—so I’m paid under the table.”

You slap your hands to your mouth. “OH MY GOD. You’re a grave robber. OH MY GOD YOU’RE A GRAVE ROBBER. Did you?” Your hand flies to the stud in your ear. “ IS THIS?! ”

Mary chuckles at you, then shrugs.

“Yeah, ok. Maybe. But it’s not like they can take it with them—and it turns out that under the table doesn’t come with benefits.”

“Oh my god—is this where the mausoleum rumor came from?”

Mary again takes your hands and draws you closer to him.

“That’s actually not far from the truth. It’s a nice, quiet place. The stone’s a little cold, but no one bothers you there. We should go sometime.”

You look around his room again.

“But … I guess I thought you lived …. This is nice, Mary. Why wouldn’t you want to take people here? Why did you sleep on my couch that one time?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a place to sleep, isn’t it? A cheap, furnished basement.”

You stare at him.

“Why me? Why show me?”

He sighs, air punching forcefully out his nose.

“I dunno. Just a feeling. You ever just. Vibe with someone?” He ghosts a finger down the side of your cheek. “And I like pretty things.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to.”

You stare at him. Hard. “I don’t like to share.”

He grins at you with too many teeth.

“If I collect you, I want you to be mine.” He crowds into you. “Will you be my Pretty Thing?”

You smile back at him before you’re leaning forward to press your lips into his.

[jacensolodjo]

From the editor:  “ It's Latinx Book Month and I would like share with you a small portion of the wealth of talent and diversity within the Latinx community. If you are a lover of dark fiction, I hope this small introduction will diversify your reading. Perhaps you will feel yourself drawn to a particular book because it represents some part of you. We have female and male authors from different cultures within the Latinx community lending their unique voices and styles to genres that historically have not represented us. The darkness in this bundle ranges from creatures prowling the night to the icy clutches of abuse in a relationship. By embracing our differences through storytelling, I believe we can learn more about each other. Let our fascination with claws, ghosts, killers, and the macabre bring us together. Enjoy this collection and share! Check out the other titles by these authors. If you have the time, please leave a rating or review even if it is a sentence or two. All of this counts towards creating wider doors for Latinx creators and authors of color.”

You decide how much of your purchase goes to the author and how much goes to help keep StoryBundle running. Pay at least $1 and get Zero Saints by Gabino Iglesias, Island of Bones by Gaby Triana, The Chaos by Sergio Gomez, and the Blood Poetry by Leland Pitts-Gonzalez.

If your purchase price is $15 or more, you get SIX more books, including another three StoryBundle exclusives: Shapeshifter by J.F. Gonzalez, Santa Muerte by Cynthia Pelayo, Itzá by Rios de la Luz, Hipster Death Rattle by Richie Narvaez, Coney Island Siren by Theresa Varela and Snow Over Utopia by Rudolfo A. Serna!

[princess-of-the-worlds]

we're all stories, in the end

For Day Four of Klaroline AU Week 2019: Mates

Happy KC AU Week! @klaroline-events

Now, this is a different take on the Mates trope and may have just been my excuse to write a Doctor Who AU, but once I got the idea in my head, I couldn’t drop it.

***

ao3 link: here

word count: 4882

summary: Walking down the aisle on her wedding day, Caroline finds herself suddenly transported aboard a strange blue police box with an eccentric man who calls himself the Doctor, and then everything Caroline's ever known turns upside down. One year later, after Caroline has chased him all over London, the Doctor returns and offers to show her the stars, the universe, all of time and space itself.

***

“I just want a mate,” the Doctor says, finishing off his rattling plea to invite Caroline to travel with him on his blue police box of a TARDIS that she still can’t believe. He glances up at her with those stormy eyes that are simultaneously a maniac intense but also unbelievably sad.

 I want to mate is what Caroline, high on adrenaline, shock, and relief from the last ten minutes, hears.

 Her eyebrows raise in alarm, and quickly, she takes a step back, retreating further inside the safety of the TARDIS. “You’re not mating with me, sunshine!” she calls back, voice rising several octaves in panic until even she winces from her own shrillness. She keeps a steady eye on the Doctor.

 The Doctor balks, a flare of something unreadable running through those sad eyes. “A mate,” he clarifies far too quickly. “I just want a mate. A friend.” He presses his lips together so tightly that they turn white.

 Lifting her head high in the air, brushing blond curls over her shoulder, she tells him, “Well, just as well. I’m not having any of that nonsense.” She sniffs, keeping her tone light and good-natured. “I have a strict no-aliens rule.”

 “There we are, then,” the Doctor retorts, smirking slightly. He seems to not have taken offense at Caroline’s response. “Okay.”

 “I can come then?” she asks, straightening up. She hopes too much of her excitement hasn’t leaked into her tone.

 “Yeah. Of course,” he tells her. “Course you can. I’d love that.”

***

 Let’s back up a minute.

 It’s two years ago, and it’s supposed to be the happiest day of Caroline Forbes’s life. She’s getting married to Matt Donovan, the head of HR and the only other American in the firm where she worked as a temp. On her first day, he brought her coffee, and she’s been in love ever since.

 One minute, she’s walking down the wedding aisle, the lace of her veil drifting behind her as she beams at Matt and the guests, and the next, she’s on a battered-looking spaceship with a drawling Brit dressed like a hipster who waves around a silver stick he calls a sonic screwdriver when he’s not smirking cockily.

 He brings her to her wedding, but she’s missed the actual ceremony, and her friends and Matt have gone on to the reception without her. Then Caroline, Matt, and the man who insists on being called the Doctor are racing to the firm.

 Suddenly, there’s a giant spider-alien-creature the Doctor calls the Empress of the Racnoss, and turns out Matt is not who she thought he was.

 “He’s been poisoning you,” the Doctor tells her, and though she practically just met him, she quivers at the kindness in his tone and eyes. “With the coffees. One every day.”

 “No, no, no, no,” Caroline says numbly, shaking her head in denial. “That can’t be true.” But nonetheless, she watches mutely as a smirking Matt steps towards the Empress. “Tell me it’s not true, Matt.”

 Matt rolls his eyes. “God, she’s so thick,” he tells the Doctor, ignoring Caroline’s pleas. “Months I’ve had to put up with her. Months!” He throws his hands up in frustration. “She’ll keep talking and talking your head off. I think I’ve lost years off my life trying to figure out how to shut her up.”

 Whimpering, Caroline stumbles backwards, vision starting to blur from the tears that burn her eyes. Dazed, she can’t even acknowledge the Empress, instead pressing into the Doctor’s side who reaches out to steady her. “No, no, no, no.”

 The coffee Matt brought on her first day of work. She thought it was him being kind to the uncertain new temp. It was him setting the first step of his plan in motion.

 “There were particles in the coffee, Huon energy particles,” the Doctor murmurs to her. “Matt and the Empress probably intended to use you as some kind of beacon for a portal to their home world. Instead, when they activated those particles, you were drawn to the nearest source of those particles, which happened to be the TARDIS.”

 The Empress hisses. “But now, you are here,” she snarls. “We will use you to open the portal and bring my children through. We will rule this desolate world of yours.”

 “And I will be by your side as your consort,” Matt says, stepping forward to gaze adoringly at the Empress. He smiles at her. “It will be as everything was intended to be. You, my Empress, and your children. We will be together.”

 Rearing on her feet, the Empress laughs, high and cold. “Oh, you foolish human. You were never by my side. You were always a pawn.” And with a careless swipe of her one of her eight legs, she knocks Matt off the platform, and he tumbles down to the ground with a single scream, neck snapping with a sickening snap.

 Everything blurs around Caroline. Still reeling from the heartbreak and Matt’s betrayal, Caroline can barely process the blasts from the bombs the Doctor planted around the room until the Empress’s screaming reaches her ears.

  Amongst the fire and chaos, dirty water from the Thames flooding in and staining Caroline’s wedding dress, she sees the first streak of a darker side to the Doctor. The same man who made sarcastic remarks and name-dropped figures from Caroline’s old history textbooks while hailing her a cab has his lips set into a harsh line, eyes glinting cruelly as he watches the Empress’s spider children drown and die. The Empress’s pained screeches reach a higher pitch.

 “Doctor,” Caroline cries, and the man jerks like a marionette whose strings have been cut, “you can stop now!”

 The Doctor’s handsome features contort in terror, but there is no time for his moral crisis. He and Caroline are darting into the TARDIS as the building explodes behind them.

 When they arrive outside Caroline’s apartment building, she stumbles out of the impossible police box, hair in disarray and expensive gown undeniably ruined. The Doctor invites her to travel with him, but heart weighing heavy with sorrow and exhausted to the point of collapse, she declines.

 “Don’t travel alone,” she tells him. “Find someone. I think sometimes you need someone to stop you.” She hates to think of what this handsome stranger who whizzes through the universe in his bigger-on-the-inside box could be capable of on a bad day.

 Once Caroline’s had time to process the events of what was supposed to be her wedding day, she tries to move on. She gets another temp job but quits her second month. She tries to travel through Egypt, but the structure of the tour she’s booked drains her enthusiasm. Finally, under the worried and anxious gazes of her friends who still don’t know what truly happened, she begins dating another American friend, a dark-haired sarcastic man named Tyler. She is happy briefly, even if she expects everything Tyler to say to be said in an English accent and to reference events before her birth and worlds beyond her own.

 A year passes, and with everything still inexplicably unstable in her life, Caroline regrets telling the Doctor no. She begins to drive across London and nearby towns, following stories and sightings of the strangest things, trying to find him. If one day with the Doctor was as chaotic as it had been, he’s bound to pop around eventually, and Caroline actually manages to help some of the people she meets.

 The months fly by, and she devotes herself to her search for the Doctor.

 “I feel like I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Tyler tells her after they’ve been dating for eight months. “You’re always running, and no one in your life seems to know what you’re looking for.”

 He breaks up with her two months later, and she doesn’t get the chance to tell him who she was looking for, not what.

 Then she finds the Doctor.

 ***

 They start off slow, at least according to the Doctor. He takes her to a Viking village at least a thousand years before she will be born. There’s a giant wolf the Doctor claims to be an alien roaming through the woods and preying on villagers; they arrive in the aftermath of the wolf-alien’s latest victim - a young boy named Henrik, a death which they learn about upon stumbling into his elder sister.

 She comes out of nowhere with an angry roar. One moment the Doctor and Caroline are kneeling down besides a patch of grass, studying the trampled grass and torn tree roots as the Doctor scans them with his sonic screwdriver.

 The next moment, the Doctor is pinned against a tree, Caroline hesitantly behind his side, as they gaze back at their attacker, stunned.

 “Name yourself,” the girl says fiercely, her eyes - sharing the same stormy intensity as the Doctor’s - not wavering from. She leans forward, the blade of her sword pressing further into the sensitive skin of the Doctor’s throat. “Name yourself and your companion, and drop your weapon.”

 Despite wanting to protest her title as the Doctor’s companion, Caroline gulps nervously. She eyes the girl; she doesn’t think that the Doctor being alien will prevent him from dying via a slit throat.

 “Oi!” The Doctor’s own gaze travels from the girl’s sword to his sonic screwdriver, held adjacent to his side and still glowing. “It’s not a weapon. It’s a sonic screwdriver.” He sighs. “It’s a tool.”

 “I don’t think she cares about that, Doctor,” Caroline hisses to him. Glancing back at the girl, she attempts a kind smile. “I apologize for my friend. His name is the Doctor. My name is Caroline. Have you seen a giant wolf around?” Her smile widens.

 Finally dropping his screwdriver and slipping it back in his pocket as the girl shifts her grip on her sword, the Doctor rolls his eyes. “It’s not a wolf. It’s a-”

 “For her and everyone else who wouldn’t understand you being a time-travelling alien, it’s a wolf.” Caroline sighs, turning back to the girl who has lowered her blade, watching them in bewilderment but also suspicion. “What’s your name?”

 “Rebekah,” she replies, ever so cautious. “Have you been hunting the beast? The wolf that slaughtered my brother into pieces?”

 Caroline finally gets a good glance at Rebekah as the girl slips the sword through the sheath hanging by her side. She can’t be older than seventeen with sharp cheekbones, a wide forehead, and hair - several shades lighter than Caroline’s -  braided back, but those eyes - with their strange resemblance to the Doctor’s in both color and hauntedness, her sword, and her stained dress say otherwise. This is a girl accustomed to violence and war, and Caroline wonders what she’ll do when she finds her beast.

 “Yes,” the Doctor tells her. “Well…we aren’t so much hunting him as we are looking for him, but we’ll help you find him.”

 As they follow Rebekah further into the woods, Caroline turns to the Doctor. “Do you usually agree to help strangers in the woods who hold swords to your throat?” She bites her lip. “Is that how you get into half the trouble you’ve told me about?”

 “Look at her,” the Doctor hisses back. “She’s a child. She’s frightened. She failed in her duty to protect her brother, and she doesn’t want the same to happen to her family and village.”

 He couldn’t just stand there and watch children cry, Caroline realizes, but that’s the last rational thought she’s able to have for a while, because it turns out the wolf-alien that they’ve been hunting has been hunting them instead, and suddenly, they’re sprinting through the trees, a maniac smile stuck to the Doctor’s lips. It seems that this is everyday for the Doctor, because they’d been running on her wedding day too, at a pace too unreasonable for a girl wearing a silk gown and heels.

 Under the Doctor’s guidance, Rebekah and a few of her villager friends manage to lure the wolf into a giant pit using some raw meat, Caroline failing to see what makes this wolf alien through all his wolfiness. Then the Doctor, using his sonic screwdriver, identifies it as an escaped creature from a planet half-way across the universe.

 He frowns. “It shouldn’t be here,” he says as he uses his screwdriver to scan the wolf’s paw prints surrounding the pit. Turning to Caroline, he presses his lips together. “From what I can trace, it came to Earth via a crashed spaceship and lay dormant until something awoke it recently.”

 But they don’t have time to figure it out, because quickly, the wolf is leaping forward from its prison, tearing several of Rebekah’s friends with its claws. Then it lunges forward for the Doctor, and someone screams.

 It might be Rebekah or it might be Caroline, but next, there’s a mighty howl. When the chaos and dust clears, the wolf lays dead, a sword driven through its belly. The Doctor, a man who Caroline has heard preach pacifism and mercy, doesn’t protest at the beast’s fate, because he’s busy on his knees, bowed forward.

 Bewildered, Caroline only has to step forward to realize that he’s cradling Rebekah’s body, her front stained with blood and mangled, though the Doctor shields the on-lookers from seeing the worst of the damage.

 “Why did you do that, you stupid girl?” he asks Rebekah, voice low and thick with emotion. His face is wan, his expression strangled and tight. “Why did you do that, Bekah? You had so much life to live. I’m a stupid old man. I’ve lived long enough; I have life to spare. Why did you step in front of me?”

 “I had to protect someone,” Rebekah rasps, eyes going glassy. There is a harsh gurgle deep in her chest as she coughs, blood staining the corners of her mouth. “I couldn’t protect Henrik, but I could save you.”

 “You were brave, Rebekah,” the Doctor tells the girl, a suspicious wet sheen to his eyes. “That’s the trait of all elder sisters. They will always be brave for their younger siblings.” He sniffles. “To be brave...it’s a rule I swear by. To never be cruel, to never be cowardly, and above all, to never eat pears.”

“What’s a pear?” Rebekah attempts to ask, but her question only ends in a bloody gurgle.

 “Hush.” The Doctor pulls her body closer to him, hugging Rebekah to her chest. Soothingly, he brushes hair, dark and sticky, from her forehead. “It’s a nasty fruit. You would never like it.”

 Tears rolling down her cheeks, Caroline laughs wetly, stepping closer to the Doctor. She kneels down and places a hand on his shoulder, and he glances up in acknowledgment. “He’s right,” Caroline tells Rebekah. “You were brave. If I had one ounce of your courage when I was your age, I could have made more of my life.”

 “Thank you.” The light in Rebekah’s eyes is quickly disappearing into darkness, but she presses her lips into a faint smile. “Keep travelling for me, Doctor and his dear Caroline. Save more lives. Help save other sisters and their younger brothers.”

 ***

 They stay for the funeral.

 Rebekah’s father, a stocky man with her fine blond hair, gifts them small wooden horses she carved and refuses to take them back despite Caroline’s protests.

 When the ceremony is over, the Doctor and Caroline take their farewells and walk back through the woods to the TARDIS. Caroline keeps eyeing the Doctor whose gaze has been distant for several hours now. Just as she intends to ask if he’s alright, her feet stumble to a stop, and she gasps loudly.

 Immediately, the Doctor stiffens, jumping into a defensive stance as his hand flies to his sonic screwdriver. “What’s wrong?” he asks. He glances at Caroline who has gone pale.

 Raising a shaky hand, Caroline points to the familiar river that can be seen through the gap in the trees. Abruptly, she realizes that she recognizes these patches of woods, the structure of some of this land. It’s a thousand years too early to tell for sure, but Caroline can be nearly certain that in nine-hundred-and-ninety years, she and Elena and Bonnie will run through these trees as children.

 “This is my home,” she whispers. “Or at least it will be.”

 The Doctor’s brow furrows. “I don’t get it.”

 “I grew up here,” Caroline says, gesturing wildly to the trees all around her. “I’ve played in these woods.” She nods towards the river. “There’s not a bridge there right now, but in a thousand years, there will be. My friend’s car will skid across the bridge and fall into the river, and her parents will drown.” She shudders. “This will be my home. Mystic Falls, Virginia.”

 Head tilted, the Doctor listens intently. When Caroline’s finished, he lifts his sonic screwdriver to scan the air. He hums. “You’re right,” he tells her. “This will be Mystic Falls. In a thousand years.” He sneaks a glance at Caroline. “Are you alright?”

 Everything is suddenly too much for her to process right now, too loud, too bright, too chaotic. She shudders again. “Can we get back to the TARDIS?” she asks.

 And if, once they return to the TARDIS, she breaks down, crying both out of confusion and for Rebekah, the Doctor doesn’t mention it.

 ***

 After that eventful and emotional first trip, the Doctor tries again, and they visit London in 1953 for Queen Elizabeth’s coronation. The Doctor changes out of his trademark Henley, paint-stained jeans, and dusty combat boots and into a sharp suit, and Caroline tries a pretty dress with a swing skirt on for size.

 The Doctor insists on keeping his sonic screwdriver and something he calls psychic paper however.

 Their night is joyful as they watch the grainy image of the young queen on an old television set. Then someone brings out a bottle of champagne and small snacks. Caroline gets tipsy and dances with the Doctor to music her grandfather must have liked, and there’s too many Union Jacks everywhere. At some point, there’s an odd explosion of electrical sparks in the nighttime sky that someone claims is from a local television station. The Doctor eyes it suspiciously but says nothing, even when a man runs by and screams about televisions stealing faces.

 It’s a wonderful experience, but when Caroline and the Doctor walk down the street to the TARDIS, hands interlinked and swinging together, Caroline can’t keep her thoughts from drifting to Rebekah. A sudden stab of sadness runs through her.

 “How do you deal with it so well?” she asks, and when he looks at her for clarification, she sighs. “With death, I mean? I can’t stop thinking of Rebekah, of how much live she had left to live.”

The Doctor shrugs. “Would you believe that I’m used to it? That I’m older than I look?”

 “Doctor,” Caroline says more seriously, and he turns to face her, lips quirked into a strange melancholic smile.

 “I have seen much of death,” he tells her. “I have stepped hand-in-hand, side-by-side with it. No one can ever become accustomed to death, not when it is such a terrible thing.” Now, he sighs. “Yet I have seen thousands and thousands of people, and I have seen many of them die, some tragically, some at peace and surrounded by loved ones. Yes, it hurts when someone is taken before their time, but that’s life.” His smile becomes bitter. “I try to save as many lives as I can, but I don’t always succeed.”

 Caroline blinks, taken aback. There is no simple response to what the Doctor has admitted. Finally, she nods. “You weren’t lying when you told Rebekah that you’re a stupid old man.”

 “Pardon?” He gazes at her, bewildered.

 “Even if you don’t always succeed, the fact that you try is enough,” she says faintly. “We must keep trying to save lives. For Rebekah, we must try to be brave.”

 The Doctor stops in his tracks and gapes slightly at her. “You humans,” he breathes out in amazement. “There is so much potential to all of you. So much hope, so much love. That’s why I adore your species.” He laughs. “You are a shining beacon of humanity. You, Caroline Forbes, you’re strong, beautiful, full of light. I chose you well as a companion.”

 “Hey,” Caroline retorts. “You didn’t choose anyone, buddy. I travelled across the city looking for you. I chose you.”

 “Fair enough.”

 ***

 “Why did you have to refer to the Sontarans as a bunch of potato-heads?” the Doctor hisses, frustration leaking into his tone, ducked down behind a door frame as blasts of plasma fly over their head. “Now they won’t stop shooting at us!”

 On the other side of the door frame, Caroline spreads her hands helplessly, wincing as the movement puts pressure on her aching knees and feet. They’ve run far more than expected this trip, even for the Doctor and Caroline’s standards, and her flats were not a good choice for today. “Because that’s what they look like!” She sighs. “It was a joke. How was I to know that they weren’t a humorous bunch?”

 The Doctor, poised with his sonic screwdriver by his side, facepalms. “The Sontarans are clone warriors. They’ll take anything as a declaration of war.” He shifts in his crouch, peering around the door frame, only to jerk back suddenly when plasma blasts part of the wall into rubble mere inches from where his head had been. “Oi,” he says to himself. “That could have been my nose.” Then he turns his maniac gaze back to Caroline, and she anxiously notices that despite the flurry of emotions in his eyes, fury is not one of them. He doesn’t truly seem to blame her, but it doesn’t stop him from continuing, “It’s rule number one. Don’t insult the aliens.”

 “You’re an alien!” Caroline retorts. “Besides, you said rule one was don’t wander off. And you’re the one who went to view a historical exhibit and left me alone.” She affects an English accent and drops her voice several octaves, “Three moons and pink seas! It’s perfect for a visit to your first planet, love.” She returns to her normal voice. “You didn’t mention the warrior potatoes.”

 “Stop calling them potatoes, love,” the Doctor says, but now, he’s rolling his eyes. “Besides, that’s not what I sound like.” He glances over the Sontarans who are quickly settling into battle formation. “Caroline.”

 “Yes, Doctor?”

 “One more thing...run!”

 When they finally stumble into the TARDIS, Caroline moves to barricade the doors, and the Doctor dives for the console, throwing various switches and pulling several levers until the familiar whoorp-whoorp sound of the ship is heard as she dematerializes.

 “Next time,” Caroline says, panting as she settles against the railing and turns to face the Doctor, “we’re just staying on Earth.”

 “Hey,” the Doctor says, pouting, eyes alit with frantic energy, “that was just one planet. And that’s not to say that Earth isn’t plenty danger. In fact, there was this one time Robin Hood-”

 “Dared you to a duel and you fought back with a spoon?” Caroline asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You keep forgetting that you don’t need to tell that story. I was there.”

 The Doctor scratches at his chin. Caroline doesn’t know how often aliens need to shave, because he’s been growing a bit of a stubbly shadow. She likes it; she thinks it makes him look more dashing, but she won’t ever tell him that. “I could have sworn it was with Cami…” he murmurs to himself.

 “Who’s Cami?” Caroline asks curiously. It’s the first she’s heard mention of the name.

 He glances up suddenly, face slack. “Just a girl I once knew.” His lips press together tightly. “You would have liked her.”

 Then he says no more.

 ***

 They go to a ball in eighteenth century France, and Caroline dances with a prince who takes out to a balcony in Versailles and kisses her below the round full moon.

 When she returns to the TARDIS, the Doctor watches her with dark eyes. “Enjoy your time with the prince?” he asks, voice tight.

 “Yes,” Caroline replies wistfully, sighing. She doesn’t notice how his jaw tightens. “He was wonderful. Handsome. A real gentleman.” Smiling, she twirls, the blue skirts of her ballgown flaring out wide, still caught up in the romance and the magic of her evening. “Every girl just wants to be told they are beautiful by a prince.” Her smile turns giddy, her eyes widening with excitement. “An actual prince!”

 “What,” the Doctor drawls, cocking his eyebrows. “A dashing time-traveller who takes you away in his TARDIS not enough for you?” He reaches over to flip a few switches on the TARDIS console.

 Turning to focus her gaze on the Doctor, Caroline giggles, still euphoric. “You didn’t take me dancing,” she teases him, toeing off her elaborate, old-fashioned heels before leaning down to pick them up, dangling them by her side. “Besides, I don’t even think you can dance.”

 The Doctor rolls his eyes. “Have you ever bothered asking, love?” He takes a step forward, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll have you know that I can dance better than that prince of yours,” he muses. “One face of mine even won an intergalactic dance competition in the fifty-second century.”

 Biting her lip, Caroline doesn’t bother asking about his face comment. The Doctor will often do that, often say odd things about his past like they’re common fact but never elaborate on them. Instead, she grins toothily. “I’m sure you did.”

 “We’re still talking about sex, right?”

 Caroline blinks slowly. She wasn’t expecting that. “Well, that’s not what the prince and I did, but sure.”

 The Doctor chuckles, turning his face upwards. Under the TARDIS lights, with his eyes twinkling with amusement and his lips stretched into a wide smile, he looks incredibly handsome, all the years and shadows stripped away from his face.

 Caroline finds her mouth suddenly dry, and she’s forced to look again. Sometimes she can’t stand next to the Doctor, not when her skin prickles and every hair on her body stands on edge. His pure presence burns as bright as time itself.

 In all the time Caroline’s been travelling with him, he’s made countless implications about being older than he looks, and not for the first time, she wonders how old he is, how many people - human and otherwise - he’s met and seen die, loved and lost. How many Camis there’d been for him.

 She wonders if he’ll ever tell her about Cami, how he met her, what happened to her. Why he was travelling alone when Caroline met him. She’s under no allusions that she was the first companion he ever travelled with like this. She wonders how many of the same places he’s taken her that he took the others.

 “You alright?” the Doctor asks abruptly, and Caroline tears her gaze away, blushing fiercely as she ducks her head to look at one of the coral structures that line the TARDIS.

 “Never better,” she says, twirling again, bare feet padding against the metal floor. She ignores her growing desire to step towards the Doctor and kiss him.

 I could love him, she thinks. I could love him in a way I never have loved anyone before. Not Matt, not Tyler, not even her own parents.

 ***

 He takes her to the beginning of the universe.

 They float through the empty blackness in the TARDIS, doors pushed open wide as Caroline and the Doctor cling to either side of the entrance. With wide eyes and legs as weak as a lamb, Caroline watches as sudden light blooms across the darkness.

 It’s bright and beautiful, the flare of many colors, too brilliant and flashing for any single shade to be identified. Caroline feels trails of wetness down her cheeks before she realizes that she’s crying silently.

 “Is everything alright?” the Doctor asks, reaching his hand out for her. He gently traces fingers over her jaw, cheeks, and temples, brushing a thumb over her lips and wiping away tears. His touch is tender and delicate.

 “Yeah,” she gasps, all high-pitched and breathy. “It’s so beautiful. I didn’t expect it to be so beautiful.” She sighs. “I didn’t even expect to be able to see it.”

 “We shouldn’t be able to,” the Doctor confesses. “Time is a tangled, complex thing, but we’re lucky today. The TARDIS was actually allowed us to come out here.” He smiles. “She’s taken a liking to you.”

 The idea of a sentient ship taking a liking to Caroline used to be a strange concept, something ludicrous, but instead, it warms her heart. She glances down, blushing, and she brushes hair out of her eyes.

 Clinging to the edge of the TARDIS entrance, the Doctor extends his reach, careful to keep his grip on the wood. If he lets go, he’ll float off into the newly-created universe and certain death. Instead, he slowly tilts Caroline’s chin and leans down, pressing his lips to hers.

 In that moment of their kiss, when it’s just the two of them and space, Caroline’s heart beats slowly, steadily.

 Outside the TARDIS, the universe is birthed.

[svt-writers-club]

Welcome back!!! Ask 5, #33 or #37, have u ever thought abt a hanahaki au? ;)

one day you will regret the things that you ask from me. i’m not sure today is that day, but i’ll try to make it so. since there’s no pairing stated, i’m gonna sprinkle in some of my fave ship with my fave boi and make it an ot3 for extra pain.

i’m gonna cram in a little hipster cafe au too, because why not.

#37: “Don’t! Don’t come near me!”

The first petal that falls from Seungkwan’s lips is yellow.

It’s yellow and its scent is mild. It looks almost pristine, innocently sitting in his palm after a cough that rattled Seungkwan’s insides. He stares at it – half in dread and half in confusion – before snapping out of it when Jeonghan calls for him. They’re in the middle of rehearsals, Jihoon handing them a new song to learn. There’s a duet for Jeonghan and Jisoo, a duet for Seungkwan and Seokmin and a solo for Jihoon. There is no time to ponder the petal, so he crushes it in his hand and prays it’s a mistake.

But of course it’s not a mistake.

It’s a chrysanthemum – yellow, for slighted love.

Seungkwan has chrysanthemums growing in his lungs, all for Jihoon.

It’s Jihoon – it has to be. Seungkwan has been nursing a crush on Jihoon, since the first day the elder set eyes on him on the streets of Hongdae and said, “You have a voice I’d love to write songs for.”

(Honestly, who even says that to people? Sure, Jihoon has this unnerving ability to be stupidly blunt all the time and have absolutely no shame about the things he says.)

It starts with a crush – a little spark of a crush that started because Jihoon is a songwriter and accidentally says pretty words to unsuspecting men. It’s a spark that bursts into a flame because Jihoon writes pretty songs that match Seungkwan’s pretty voice and Jihoon says cutting words but soothes them with cake and hot chocolate after.

The flame blazes and burns, scorching Seungkwan from the inside out. With every touch and gentle word, with time in the studio where it’s just the two of them and rehearsals where Jihoon’s focus is solely on Seungkwan, he aches and he longs and he loves.

Seungkwan always knew that falling for Jihoon would end in pain. He just didn’t expect it to end in petals filling his lungs.

In a way, it’s poetic; it’s a death that fits the artistry that encompasses every bit of Jihoon’s life. Of course he’d kill Seungkwan with pretty flowers too.

It’s when the white petals join the chrysanthemums that Seungkwan knows he’s well and truly fucked.

It takes him a moment to understand why the white poppy petals (consolation) join the chrysanthemum he’s still coughing out. He’s watching Seungcheol and Jihoon flirt in their unique way – Seungcheol calls Jihoon short and Jihoon calls Seungcheol an idiot, then they exchange secret grins that belie just how much they care about each other.

Seungkwan watches Seungcheol and his heart aches just as another cough wracks his entire body. He coughs out a handful of petals – and the first couple white petals mixed amongst the yellow sends shivers down Seungkwan’s spine.

He spends too long staring at the handful of petals – still a handful, because it’s been three days since the first petal – and jumps when Seungcheol wanders over, concern in his eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?” Seungcheol asks.

Seungkwan immediately shoves the petals into his pocket, plastering a smile onto his face. “I’m fine, just a tickle!” He coughs again, a light fake thing to throw him off the scent.

Seungkwan nearly jumps again when Seungcheol leans in close and presses a warm hand to Seungkwan’s forehead. “Hm,” the elder hums, “you don’t feel warm.”

“I’m fine,” Seungkwan croaks, the lie as bitter as the petals are sweet when they rest on his tongue, right before he spews them out.

Falling in love with Seungcheol is like sitting in a pot of cold water being heated over fire. At first, their relationship is strictly employer/employee. Then, Seungkwan stumbles his way into the cafe after a shitty blind date Seokmin forced him on and Seungcheol is there. He’s there, with his warm smile and even warmer hugs. He offers Seungkwan coffee and a listening ear and suddenly, they’re friends.

They’re friends and Seungcheol hangs out with Seungkwan. They text and they have inside jokes. The next thing Seungkwan knows, Seungcheol is always there, with a quick smile and even quicker skinship.

Seungkwan doesn’t notice the water is boiling until he’s in too deep and he’s daydreaming of caramel kisses and quiet I love yous in the back room.

The thing about Jihoon and Seungcheol is that they’re the love story. They’ve known each other since high school and stuck together through college. They even set up a cafe together – Sweet Notes – and anyone with eyes can tell they’re in love with each other (even if they’re both oblivious fools).

There’s no space for Seungkwan between them.

He doesn’t even pretend there is. Seungkwan can’t bring himself to be that delusional. It’ll hurt him more in the end.

Of course, he can get corrective surgery. All it’ll take is one little procedure and the flowers will be gone. He can breathe and he can stop the pain – but it’ll mean he’ll never feel romantic love again. He’ll never feel the flutter of his heartbeat when Jihoon and Seungcheol walk in, the warmth that spread through his body when Jihoon smiles at him and tells him a job well done, the silent joy when Seungcheol wraps an arm around his shoulders.

Seungkwan has a brochure lying on his bed. A little brain surgery and he’ll never have to worry about unrequited love again.

It takes him a week before he throws it into the trash can.

It progresses fast. Too fast.

The body isn’t meant to withstand so much heartache. Unrequited love from one person is already bad enough. Most people can last maybe three months with hanahaki disease.

Seungkwan’s doctor says it’s a miracle if he’ll see the end of the month.

The chrysanthemums and the poppies grow in his lungs, feeding off his misery. It scares him, but he supposes it’s not really all that different from knowing the two men you love will never love you back, all because they’re too wrapped up in each other. Seungkwan can’t even resent them for it, because he’s stupid and in love. At least when he’s gone, they won’t mourn him. They’ll have each other, after all.

Seungkwan leans against the toilet bowl. He reaches up with a shaky hand, flushing the yellow and white petals down. His head hurts, a headache building behind his eyelids. He hasn’t been able to sleep, the coughing keeping him up. He’s stopped cleaning up the petals, the yellow and white scattered amongst his bedsheets. The crushed flower petals lend a sickly, floral scent to his home. He leaves them as a reminder – of his sentimentality, of his stupidity.

He can’t go to rehearsal today. He just can’t.

It takes him twenty minutes to drag himself out of the bathroom. Seungkwan collapses into bed and types a bleary message to… well, he’s not sure who. Probably Seokmin, who’s been nagging him about taking care of himself. Seokmin doesn’t know – no one knows, and he’d like to keep it that way. He hasn’t even told Hansol, who’s his best friend in the whole world.

Maybe he should. The doctor said he might not see the end of the month. He’s already two weeks in. Seungkwan toys with the idea of sending in his resignation and spending the next two weeks getting his affairs in order. He doesn’t have a will written up, but… well. It’s about time he thought about it.

He lets his eyes flutter shut.

The pounding at the door doesn’t wake him. The sudden bout of coughing does. He coughs and coughs, the cloud of petals that emerges enough to almost choke him. He’s drowning in petals and the door opens.

Seungkwan looks up, trying to make out the figure through the film of tears. He tries to cover his mouth, but the petals slip through his fingers, fluttering innocently in front of him. Crimson stains the yellow and white.

“Hyung,” Seungkwan croaks, curling in on himself as Seungcheol watches in horror.

“What the hell is going on here?” Seungcheol demands. He takes a step into Seungkwan’s room – his room with the flowers and the blood and evidence of his own failure.

“Don’t! Don’t come near me!”

“Seungkwan – ”

“Please,” he croaks. Copper and chrysanthemum rests on his tongue. He lets out a rattling breath, curling into a ball. “Please. Don’t come near me. I can’t – ”

“Can – is there anything I can do?” Seungcheol asks, a hint of desperation in his voice. He’s still in the doorway, keeping a respectful distance.

All Seungkwan wants is to burrow himself into Seungcheol’s arms and cry and cry. He wants to let himself be comforted, but Seungcheol’s isn’t his to have and he can’t stop thinking about (wanting) Jihoon too.

“No,” Seungkwan answers, burying his face in his hands so Seungcheol can’t see him cry. “Just – go away.”

“Kwannie – ”

“Go away! I don’t want to see you or – or Jihoon hyung. Get out!”

Those are lies. They tear at his throat and he’s not sure if the pain is from the flowers slowly killing him or the words he’s spitting out. He wants to see them. He wants to tell them the truth – I’m so in love with both of you that it’s literally killing me – just so they can pretend to love him for a little while.

Seungcheol stands in the doorway for a good long while, watching Seungkwan curl into a ball on his petal-covered bed. Then, he walks away. The door shuts behind him quietly and Seungkwan cries and cries.

Feel free to ask me more of these ship asks here!

[finca-arcoiris-sin-fin]

Pura Vida Adventures: A True Story About a Day in the Life

Many people here are true odd-balls. We assumed that we would stick out like two sore thumbs in this small, rural community --  that the people would think we were super weird with our grungy-unabashed hippie gayness -- but we were kind of wrong. People don’t judge us or find us weird because everybody is a rare creature in this community. They are mega hipsters (the Latin American version) without even knowing they’re cool. The most memorable and interesting person we’ve met yet appeared in our life about two weeks ago. He is an extraordinary coffee farmer and tinkerer from Northern Costa Rica named Manuel (pictured above, left). He had been referenced to us several times by our helpful neighbor, Don Juan (pictured above, right), as “the ariete man.” Arietes are amazing old-fashioned machines that use a series of hoses and tubing to redirect natural sources of water to wherever it is needed, often pumping it hundreds of meters up a mountain, all without using any electricity. They told us that he could help us become water self-sufficient, but they did not tell us what a cartoon character he is…

Last week, we went to visit Manuel’s farm, which is close to ours and we arrived to find that his driveway consists of miles of rocky road carved into the side of a mountain. Thankfully our newly-acquired vehicle is 4x4 and just high enough off the ground to handle this boulderous and uneven terrain.  As we bounced along in our Tracker, we tried not to acknowledge how utterly impossible it would be to turn back should the need arise...and just enjoy the beautiful scenery of La Amistad National Forest and Volcan Baru in the distance. Our grandpa-neighbor Juan was chillin’ in the backseat verbally processing the crazy ride we were on. 

When driving or riding in buses it’s always reassuring to have locals around because they are accustomed to the insanity of the road conditions. They are a thermostat for actual danger on the road.

When we pulled up to the main gate of Manuel’s 500 acre farm, we waited for a while, unsure if he was even aware that we were there. We took the time to check and make sure nothing broke off of the car on the journey, but within minutes he appeared on his moto to let us in. We could feel the buzz of energy and excitement immediately. Manuel was JAZZED to show us his farm. From those first moments we knew that this tour was going to be a way bigger thing than we had anticipated waking up that Sunday morning. He started by showing us his coffee drying area. The harsh midday sun was beaming down and glaring off of ten or more giant wooden-framed boxes covered in fabric and filled with drying coffee cherries. There he literally screamed from the mountaintop about his passion for growing coffee and using the four elements of nature to run his plantation -- earth, water, wind and sun. The intense energy radiating from the sun and Manuel’s spirit made for an abrasive but fascinating start to the experience. After that we drove through pathways lined with luscious vetiver to Manuel’s work shed to learn about the innovative technology he worked with. His shed was dark and cluttered with all kinds of machine components and other odds and ends. Even inside that small space, standing only inches away from each other, Manuel’s surprisingly high-pitched voice ranged from loud to louder as he explained in great detail the different types of arietes he has utilized to irrigate his entire property. He has three different pumps made from 50-year-old parts that he somehow acquired from Germany and England. 

We still have a lot of questions - probably always will...

After that, we took a lunch stop at his house, as is customary whenever a Tico family invites you to their farm. We were seated at a small booth table with a white tablecloth outside of a wonky-looking little cabin. Through the open windows we could see that the house was not much different inside than his eclectic work sheds. Outside there were various plants and succulents suspended from the awning in planters made from old, plastic soda bottles and jugs. Everything was adorably handcrafted  from reused and repurposed materials. There were also a few awkwardly quiet young men staring off into space on the porch who never spoke to us and were never introduced. Manuel’s wife promptly popped out of the house with fresh-squeezed lemonade and lunged down three hilariously oversized concrete steps at the front door to serve it to us. We looked at each other and giggled because at this point we felt like we were straight-up trippin’. Everything was so overwhelming and funny. Our hosts did not eat with us. While Manuel’s wife waited on us like a pro, he was busy showing us fancy framed photos of himself on huge horses and rattling off stories at 1000 words per minute.

 After lunch the tour resumed. Manuel guided us on a 300 meter descent into the jungle at the edge of the pasture. He told us to be careful as we climbed down the steep slope to the river where he basically said that the temperature would suddenly drop and that we could fall off the edge to our death at any moment. As we neared the bottom, the rhythmic sound of the pumps got louder and louder. He had built a series of concrete tanks and used various hoses and pipes to store and redirect the water from the stream into the ariete which would pump aka “shoot” the water hundreds of meters back up the mountain. As he showed us the first ariete, we realized that it functions like a heart. Using only the momentum and pressure that gravity lends, it continuously pumps water up from the ravine back up to the top of the property so that it can be distributed throughout the farm. Every time we thought we had seen everything, he would take us further in our descent. We wish we had pictures to show because there is not enough time to describe all the crazy mechanisms he had crafted down there. At one point we found ourselves scaling down a ledge on a narrow, vertical hand-made ladder of rebar with the river flowing below us. We nervously watched as our 80 year old friend, Juan followed us down the ladder without hesitation. Every step of the way, Manuel was telling us so many random stories in high-speed Spanish we could not keep up with what was going on. It was endearing at first, but he never stopped. Eventually it became stressful and we wondered if he would even have a voice the next day…

The final stop on the river was a breathtakingly beautiful jungle spot. There he showed us the last ariete (which supplied water to his house) and also a giant rock with an impossibly flat underside that he said was an ancient, overturned sacrificial table made by the indigenous people long ago. Considering that this area of Costa Rica has more indigenous people and artifacts than any other region, we believe him. 

He told us that he never goes to that area too late in the afternoon because one time he did, and a spirit appeared and violently shook all the trees as if an earthquake was happening yet no rocks were moving, making it clear that he was not welcomed there at that moment. At that point we thought surely the tour was over (it was definitely the climax), but about an hour later we found ourselves at the top of the mountain about to pass out from being talked at all day. We didn’t want to be rude, but we simply could not take any more talking--we HAD to get out. Manuel was not picking up on our body language either. As we got in our car we shook hands, expressed deep gratitude for his time and energy and made plans for him to come assess the natural water sources on our farm so that we could implement an ariete here also! A week later he showed up at our farm (of course with no warning) to check it out, and hopefully by next month we will be using all of our own water for our house and the farm!

This is just an extreme example of the type of crazy adventure we have to be prepared to roll with on almost any given day down here. It may not be what we had in mind for the day, it may be exhausting and overwhelming...but the payoff in knowledge, friendships and sweet perks is always more than worth it.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

the hades!harry vibes are strong in this photoshoot

[inspired by some ideas @harrysroleindunkirk came up with ;’)]

///

Hades could be such a narcissist at times and Persephone knows this.

She knows it very well because through all of the millennia she had spent married to him, she had seen the trait manifest across all different types of situations.

His slight narcissism was evident in the way Harry carried himself. How he went about the halls of the palace and the corridors of Olympus with his broad shoulders back, his chest puffed forward, and his expression set in a cool, stoney façade of superior indifference. It was present in the way he sat on his golden throne with his back perfectly straight and his thighs parted, not too wide but just enough to establish an aura of dominance in the humongous judging room.

It was evident in the smug, self-indulgent energy he gave off whenever servants, gods, and other mythological creatures praised him for anything he did. Whether it was higher beings complimenting his input during a council meeting up on Olympus, or members of his board expressing their awe at how smoothly he ran the Underworld, and even when a random nymph blushed bright green while serving him his wine. It all tickled him pink, feeding his ginormous godly ego to the brink.

And most of all (in her life, at least), it was ever-so prominent behind the thick black oak doors of their bedroom. It was in how Hades would fuck her up against the wall with her feet dangling off the ground, thighs clasped around his waist as he would grip her throat and jaw roughly, gritting his teeth while looking down upon her from over his cheeks, neon green electric currents webbing across the juniper shade of his irises. He would pound into her so hard the paintings would rattle on the obsidian walls, her hands clawing at his sweaty, flexing back as she released broken whines and pleas, shaking in his strong arms.

”Tell me how much you fucking love it. Want my dirty little thing to scream how bad she wants my cock.”

Harry’s narcissism wasn’t overwhelming by any means, but rather subtle and almost graceful, lurking beneath his natural confidence and waiting for the right moment to surface.

And it reveals itself now, as Y/N sits back on her heels amongst the dew-covered grass of her garden, looking small amidst the colorful arrays of daffodils, roses, and peonies. She’s grumbling to herself as she picks and prods at the fancy mechanism Harry had brought back from his trip overland, cursing humans for making everything more complex than it has to be.

“Oh, for Zeus’ sake, princess. Give it here.” Harry strides over from where he was leaning against a giant tree with leaves the color of red wine, taking the demented object from her grasp gently, rolling his eyes in a jesting manner. “Your age is starting to show. Can’t even work a camera.”

“Shut up.” Y/N snaps, a grouchy pout settling itself on her tinted lips as she crosses her arms over her chest grumpily, slumping down onto the ground fully, her bottom fitting in the space between her calves. “It’s not my fault! They’ve added so many more buttons since the last time I handled one.”

Persephone watches with a type of begrudging wonder as Harry turns a few knobs and slides his thumb over a small disk that clicks with every rotation. He looks through the tiny glass square at the top of the camera, focusing the lense on her and turning it slowly with professional ease.

“There we go.” He sighs giddily, stepping forward and extending the shiny black Canon toward his awaiting wife. His voice comes out warningly, but playfully so. “Now don’t go messing with the settings or I’ll have to do it all over again.”

“Now don’t go messing with the settings or I’ll have to do it all over again.” Y/N mocks in an irritated, high-pitched tone, yanking the equipment piece from his grasp and starring down at the minute screen. “I’ll do what I bloody please.”

Hades bends down so that they are level, setting his forearms on his knees and tilting his head slightly to the side teasingly. A single eyebrow kinks upwards, getting lose beneath a few curls that hang over his forehead (he’s been letting his hair grow out recently). “S’that so?”

“Yup. I’m gonna chuck this thing into the River Styx.”

Harry reaches a hand forward, cupping her jaw in his fingers and swiping his thumb over the faint dimple that curves at the center of her chin. “I love it when you’re a helpless little menace. Means you need me that much more.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Persephone scoffs, shoving his hand away by his wrist and glaring at him as he giggles boyishly.

“You know I love you, pet. It’s all in good fun.”

It takes a couple of minutes, but eventually Y/N manages to get a feel for how the camera works, fiddling with it as Harry mulls over what poses he should do for the impromptu photoshoot he’d decided on out of nowhere.

He had been up in the mortal world earlier that day, strolling through a shopping mall casually while thinking over his layout for the upcoming Halloween party up on Olympus. He was in charge of planning this year and it’d be utterly embarrassing if the god of the Dead delivered anything less than a bone-chilling extravaganza.

Hades had been entertaining the idea of a blood fountain instead of a chocolate fountain (he knows Zeus would never go for it, but he still wanted to suggest it) when he had stopped dead in his tracks in front of a store he had never seen before.

It was new, obvious in how shiny and pristine the interior looked through the spotless tall glass windows. The framework on the gilded doors was imprinted with images of exotic animals— lions, tigers, dragons— and glittered under the sunlight that streamed in from the glass dome that was at the center of the shopping mall.

Even more breathtaking than the exterior was the interior. Specifically, the clothing.

Racks upon racks of suits, shirts, pants, and accessories lined the store, the fabrics shimmering, looking expensive and custom-made and suited for a king, which he happened to be.

Hades felt light-headed for a second as his eyes trailed across a certain tuxedo jacket with a midnight blue background and silver flowers embroidered into the silk, the thread twinkling as if diamonds had been mixed into the material. Across the torso of the item, golden frills draped the sharp shoulders of the article, overlapped by an exaggerated black velvet collar that that folded grandly. On either sides of the oversized collar are two gilded metal lion head pins, studded with an array of jewels of all different colors— red, green, blue, yellow, and even lilac.

The tuxedo hugged a cloth manikin, which sported a starch white button-up beneath with a giant gemmed cross in the center. The whole look tied together beautifully and Harry then noticed that there was literal drool gathering along the inside of his bottom lip.

He’d wanted that suit and he wanted it now.

Hades only took a second to glance up at the giant neon Times New Roman letters that hovered above the entrance to the store, making a note of the name so he could go online and fawn over more clothes later.

GUCCI.

Walking in, Harry didn’t look like much. Just a young man in loose beige trousers, a pair of black boots, and a plain white t-shirt with the collar and sleeves bordered by dark blue accents. He quite liked the minimalist approach when he wondered the mortal world; he liked feeling like one of them.

But apparently, the woman at the register wasn’t too fond of his look, giving him a distasteful once-over and assuming that he was in a store-front that was heavily out of his league. The cheapest thing on stock cost no less than two grand and, frankly, the most expensive item the lean boy was wearing looked to cost not even a twelfth of that. She didn’t want some wannabe hipster wasting her time.

Little did she know Harry was anything but.

Hades had made a beeline for the outfit that had captured his heart, brushing his fingers along the fabric softly with care, almost of if he were afraid to disturb it. His array of rings gleamed under the buttery lights of the chandelier in the store, reflecting how he felt inside as the silk tickled the pads of his digits.

“Gods, it’s beautiful.” He had mumbled under his breath, thumb kissing the studded surface of one of the bejeweled tiger heads.

“It sure is.” The cashier had piped up with a faux sugary tone coating her voice, coming up behind him and trying to refrain from telling him to leave. “It’s expensive, as well.”

Harry had not even cast her a mere glance, continuing to admire the work of art before him. When he spoke up, his voice was distant, wistful, and somehow unconcerned at the reality check the lady was trying to implement. “How much?”

“Thirty-five thousand.”

There was a pause in the perfumed air and the employee almost smirked.

“I’ll take it.”

The worker then had blinked once, shocked into a stupefied silence. So shocked, in fact, that she can only comprehend this man’s words as some type of joke or prank. She had then reiterated.

“Thirty-five thousand up front, sir.”

Harry had then finally turned towards her to exchange stares for the first time, his thick brows pinched into an expression of unamused annoyance. “Yes, and I said I’ll take it. Is it not your job to do as the customer requests?”

“Yes, but—“

“Then ring me up, please and thank you.” He states with flat finality, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. “And preferably now. I have somewhere to be.”

Harry can truly say that his favorite thing in the world— mortal, under, and godly— is the look on a person’s face when they realize Harry’s true stature. Not so much that he was a celestial being, but that he has a bank account that suggests he’s anything but your typical human.

Being the god of Death comes with its perks, including the title as god of riches and jewels since most of the rare gems lay beneath the ground, in Harry’s territory. Exchanging them for mortal money was not an issue at all.

Hades can’t help but scoff as the lady’s eyes had widened when his purchase went through, looking down at his debit card as if it had grown a hydra head. Her voice had come out tight and embarrassed. “Would you like your receipt?”

Harry had taken the hanger from her grasp, pushing his messy hair out of his eyes and cocking his head to the side mockingly. “I’m fine, thank you. Won’t be needing it.”

And that had landed him where he is now, strolling back and forth casually amongst Persephone’s most unique beds of floral and fauna, clad in his new outfit. It had fit him perfectly, as most things tended to do. It hugs his figure in all the right places, accentuating his strong shoulders and enthralling back muscles, tapering in at his waist and resting against his thick chest like it was tailored specifically to him.

As Y/N positions herself accordingly with the camera he had bought right after making the Gucci purchase, Harry decides that this suit will go down on his list of things that he loves to reside in. It’s a pretty small list: His palace, his crown, this look, and his wife.

Yeah, he definitely loves being inside all of those, some more than others. And especially all at the same time…but that’ll come after the photoshoot, if he has anything to do with it.

“Are you ready, darling?” Harry speaks up from his spot before a large tree with maroon leaves that sparkle like the stars.

“Yeah, get the goats ready!”

“Swell.” Harry sing-songs, bringing his diamond and gold ring-clad fingers to his lips and tucking his middle and thumb inside his mouth, releasing three quick spurts of whistles.

It takes a few moments, but then there is a faint shimmering in the air before him and a bright flash, from which three baby goats emerge, clobbering after one another, midway through a game of what appears to be tag.

“There you are, you little buggers.” Harry scoops up one of the magical goats— a silver one that shimmers exactly how the thread in his jacket does— settling it into the crook of his elbow and pressing a gentle kiss between its velvety ears. “Pan would kill me if I lost you guys. Threatened a reed pipe up my ass.”

The pearly goat looks up at him innocently with its big golden irises, releasing a curious bleat.

Harry doesn’t speak goat (it’s more of a nature god trait) so he just assumes the animal is praising him for his clothing taste and thanks it with a few scratches behind its tiny head.

Hades trails towards a certain rock formation that he thinks looks sturdy enough to sit on, the other two goats trailing behind him happily, hooves thudding giddily against the aromatic grass and stirring up the diamond sand beneath.

He sits down in his designated spot, scooting backwards until he’s fully balanced on the boulder, propping up one of his boots on a dip in the rock. “Perfect. Now I’ll just…”

Harry carefully takes one of the other baby goats into his big hand— a chocolate brown male whose horns are just beginning to bud, the keratin glinting with a certain iridescence that suggests the little guy isn’t just any ordinary farm animal.

He places the boy next to his lap, where the creature sniffs at his thigh hesitantly before deciding it is a worthy pillow. The goat folds its legs beneath its body, laying down nonchalantly and snuggling its head against Harry’s upper leg.

“You like the casual look, don’t you?” Harry coos, patting it lovingly, to which the lamb responds with a soft, satisfied bleat.

“Alright, two accounted for. Now, where’s your other sister…” Hades looks around, a small pinprick of panic knotting his stomach as he can’t seem to spot the last goat anywhere.

“Y/N, have you seen—“ Before he can finish his question, he gets his answer.

Persephone is sitting cross-legged on the ground a few feet away, the camera discarded carelessly beside her, replaced by the last animal that his friend had lent him. His wife is carrying the goat in her arms like a child, rocking it ever-so slightly as she kisses between its lilac-tinted eyes, giggling every time the goat blinks its long lashes.

Y/N rubs her fingers through the buck’s golden fur, tracing the spots of sparkly grey that are sprinkled in certain places. “Aren’t you just the prettiest girl? Yes, you are! And you smell so nice, too. Y’like lavender, huh? Me too.”

Harry can practically see the goat preening in Persephone’s arms, obvious from how she actively seeks out his wife’s palm and cradles her head into it, licking at her fingers.

“Babe!” He hates to interrupt, but they really should get to shooting. “Pan said we have to have them back by 8! We gotta hurry.”

“Right, right, sorry!” Y/N sets the baby animal down on the ground, pointing towards her husband and encouraging her to go over with its siblings.

When Hades finally has all of the lambs situated accordingly (he’d placed the last one beside his other thigh), Persephone begins flashing the photos.

He hasn’t modeled in a while— not since his last self-portrait, which was around sixty years or so ago when he was painted by his good friend, Pablo Picasso. That man really knew his angles. He visits him in Elysium every once in a while.

Harry tries to imitate what he’s seen in fashion shows on television and in episodes of America’s Next Top Model (those girls were fucking fierce, for Zeus’ sake), pouting his lips slightly and looking at different points in space to flex his best sides. He tilts his gold laurel crown back a bit, pushing his curls out of his face to get a cleaner picture, staring directly at the camera with his lips parted in a smize and it amuses him to no end when he sees the flowers next to Y/N’s feet grow a little bigger.

At one point, the goat in his arms reaches up and bops its nose against his chin in a kiss, the cold tip of its snout causing Harry’s face to scrunch up as a boyish giggle escapes the corners of his lips. “S’cold, stop it!”

Y/N’s heart nearly melts right out of her, then and there, as she clicks the scene as many times as the camera will allow.

The photos come out pretty decent and she’s surprised that there were so few she butchered (there was an incident where the camera wasn’t flashing and she turned it around to see if the lense was open and ended up getting a high definition image of her nostrils instead).

After all is said and done, Harry opens a portal into Olympus, herding the goats through by patting there behinds gently. “I’ll see you guys another time! Tell Pan thank you! And Acacia, please stop gnawing on your brother’s horns. Thank you.”

Hades swings an arm around Persephone, looking over her shoulder as she clicks through the photos, feeling his ego inflate a bit.

“I look good, don’t I?”

She doesn’t catch his smug tone immediately, too focused on tampering with the lighting on one of the pictures. “Yeah, you look great, honey.”

“Mm,” he presses his lips to her temple, puckering soft kisses along her skin and up the line of her eyebrow, “did this suit justice. Best thirty-five grand I’ve ever spent.”

Y/N pauses her actions, craning her neck to the side to look at him, her eyebrows shooting up in mild surprise. ”Thirty-five grand?”

Harry pouts childishly at her scolding tone. “Am I not allowed to splurge on myself every once in a while?”

“Of course you can. But that’s enough to buy a fucking car, Harry. And you spent it on a single tux?”

Hades looks down at the metal tips of his burgundy leather boots, eyelashes fluttering in an embarrassed manner. “I really wanted it, though!”

Persephone sighs, turning fully to press a peck to his plumped lips. “It’s alright, baby. As long as you’re happy, then.”

The edges of Harry’s lips tilt up into a sheepish grin. “I’m happy, yeah. Feel like a right king.”

“Good, cause you are.” She reaches up and drags the pad of her index finger down the curved bridge of his nose and along his jaw, using the single digit to guide his head upwards, where she locks their lips in a few quick, wet kisses. “My handsome lord.”

Harry’s tongue wonders out to lick at the corner of his mouth slyly, feeling the inside of his chest grow warm. “Love it when you call me your lord.”

“Yeah?” Persephone blinks up at him with hooded eyes, her own pretty lips tilting up into a suggestive grin. “Why’s that?”

Harry’s hands coast up here hips, fisting lightly at her dress as his voice drops an octave. “It’s so fuckin’ hot.”

“Fitting, since that’s exactly what you are.” Y/N murmurs, draping her arms over his hard shoulders, hands pressed across the expanse of his upper back, one holding the camera tightly while the other runs over the silky material of the suit coat.

And now is one of those moments Y/N had mentioned before, where she can see Harry’s narcissism starting to flare up.

It’s evident in the way he’s suckling his bottom lip, batting his eyelashes in a sultry, rhythmic pace that suggests lascivious intentions. In how his neck veins are flexing alluringly in an attempt to seduce. In how he tilts his head to the side a bit to draw his jaw taunt. In how a watery, verdurous glint washes across the whites of his eyes for a millisecond.

Y/N slides one hand up the back of his neck into the curls along the nape, tangling them between her fingers and tugging at them in a quick, rough manner that jets his chin upwards and pulls his throat tight over his Adam’s apple.

Harry releases a quiet hum at the harsh movement, basking in the way his scalp tingles and in the way the tendons underneath his jaw stretch. His mouth parts in a small, open-mouthed simper, dimples peeking through his cheeks.

“What was tha’ for?” He swallows thickly, not being able to hide it as his Adam’s Apple bobs heavily.

“Nothing, really. Just know you like it.” Y/N laps fully at the center of his juglar, blowing over it lightly. ”My lord.”

”Fucking hell.” Hades growls, ripping himself from her grasp and grabbing her hand almost savagely, yanking her towards the exit of the garden that heads directly to the palace.

Y/N scrambles along, barely being able to keep up with his long strides. She already knows the answer, but she asks anyways just to toy with her husband.

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me, pet.” Harry throws a look over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth curling into a seductive sneer. “You know damn well where we’re going and what I’m gonna do to you.”

Y/N flutters her eyelashes at him innocently, her lips pouty. “What are we gonna do?”

“We’re gonna do another photoshoot. A nude edition.”

[crimespreemagazine]

MY FIVE THINGS I DID NOT LEARN WRITING A NOVEL

MY FIVE THINGS I DID NOT LEARN WRITING A NOVEL

A few of the many things that are still a mystery to me:

1. How to Write a Novel

I took about five years to write HIPSTER DEATH RATTLE. How did I do it? No clue. I couldn’t begin to tell you. Similarly, I did not learn how to be organized, diligent, or disciplined. 

I did get better at procrastinating like a champ and making excuses like a politician. Weeks went by when I didn’t get a…

[gvaf-radio-blog]

I'm in an open relationship with coffee and mental trauma

I’m hunkered down inside my favorite coffee shop in Southeast Portland having a cup of black liquid love to recharge my body and mind due to me having to dodge a blitzkrieg from the flying commie bastards. The Cupids are a unique kind of chaos as they are technically survivors of a horrific nuclear accident that irradiated an entire Provence. You know the one I’m talking about, y’all won't stop posting screen-caps of the damn thing on tumblr clogging up my steady feed of nihilism and satanic teddy bears. These cupids where re-homed to Portland because the social worker was from Los Angeles and since it works for them and another hundred thousand overpaid yuppies they thought Southeast would be perfect for the bastards to rehab. So the main problem with this (other than rising rent costs) is that their brains got rewired and now do everything hell-bent for leather. So where I get involved with the soviet love bastards is that they got dropped into my neighborhood and there is a  sense that they have of loneliness and urgency for love that attracts them to a person and to help them scratch that itch. The problem is that sense is corrupted and given a slightly sadistic bent and they have started matchmaking and sending people that I am comically ill-suited for or in some cases homicidal, Cat eared woman would be an example. Love is a battlefield, I’m a veteran of this war and I got tired of pulling heart arrows out of my ass so we’ve been fighting ever since but today is going to be a major encounter.You see I have a date in one hour and they started to fly around in attack formation as soon as I left the house firing toxic love arrows at me trying to get me to return to past modus operandi and self-sabotage this relationship that hasn’t even started yet. I dodge an arrow called “new love energy” and panic at might bit at how close it came to hitting me. They can’t get into the coffee shop, the smell of burnt bagels and french roast causes them to enter a seizure state that takes days to recover from, honestly french roast has that effect on most people but  are too tired to give a fuck and just assume the annoying anaphylactic shock is just a morning caffeine detox. I already thinned the ranks a bit by blowing up a fully automatic bow, this monstrosity looks like a mad man combined a Roman ballista and church pipe organ that can fire arrows like the President throws out lies and is painted pink and violet with both Greek and Russian equivalents for “love is a wet prophylactic”. I had left my own bows hanging at home since I was heading for a date and we agreed on melee combat for this round so I armed myself with only a bokken. I couldn’t reach the artillery positioned on the house across from me I had to do something and that something  set the bastards to full rage mode. I took a bag of cans and bottles from the recycling bin shook it good and violently like I did last night before bed while reading the new Warren Ellis comic and threw the bag at the little winged artillery battery. There was a moment of confusion  and I might have heard the Russian equivalent to “what the fuck” but then from all over 82nd Ave tweekers arose from under their rocks smelling of steel reserve and four dollar cigarettes and converged on the Cupids moaning about spare change and smokes. I felt bad about doing that but I was left with no choice! the Eros tribunal might clear me due to the circumstances or as a penance, they might require me to date a vanilla person who thinks beige is a proper color for everything and fucking lights on in doggy is kinky with “ow” being a safe word. Wouldn’t be the first time but I’d rather join a monastery than do it again, I can only hear so many Cake songs before my psychotic side goes into Hulk mode.Between the Cupids dive-bombing the windows like some kind of  Russian kamikaze toddler pilots and rattling the hipsters enough that they had to go get a vegan vodka shot and this little crotch goblin bouncing around and getting into people’s faces, I'm thinking about how this date is going to affect my partner and I’s relationship. I’m also wondering how my date’s spouse is going to handle things if we hit it off. Polyamory on paper sounds like a plot to a high production value hardcore porno but the truth is (mostly) different. You have to navigate multiple schedules, expectations, and multiple people's emotions and try to figure out how to get what you need without hiding pain, jealousy, and your own fears. Being poly also means being on the outskirts of society in away, there is a sense of resentment and fear from others that don’t get it but not nearly as the violent oppression that us in the LGBTQA+ have had to duck for a few hundred years.My partner and I don’t tell others that we are dating since there is a fear of them being disowned, I tell my family the type of relationships I have because they really can’t take anything away from me since I lost the ability to care about their thoughts on my life. I’m not completely happy with this situation where I feel like a secret but it’s not just my life it’s my partner and their spouse’s lives that would be effected. I’m not saying that everyone in a poly or open relationship should go out with a megaphone and belt out a manifesto of why they decided to break their minds with more than one neurotic trauma victim at a time or telling what happened when you  tell a lovers wife that you pegged their husband with a strap on because the wife refused because she felt it was icky and has a lube phobia. What I am saying is that those of us in relationships should start a conversation about non monogamy with our partners and maybe others so we can hear their thoughts and help root out our own.It’s not Polygamy, lets get that one out of the way because I talked with a lot of very intelligent people (and at least one military mandated lobotomy survivor) and they all have said “Oh like the thing Mormons do?” No, more love, openness, and freedom less magic boxers and misogyny.  With poly all relationships there are going to have vastly different dynamic from person to person where Bob and Tim are more open and each can have a person to have casual relationships with and sometimes they both have that dynamic with another person. Karen and Jess now are in several relationships that run casual, serious and potential for a marriage. Stacy, Jim, and Jared are in a closed trifecta where Jim and Jared being straight and not with each other they only have relationships with Stacy who only wants to have a relationship with Jim and Jared.Honestly the only thing that all these relationships have in common is communication and the bad poly relationships are non communicative, half truths, full lies, or worse one sided. I've heard the stories where on person would be dating (fucking) someone new every month but their partner was told to be monogamous and not date outside or they would be dumped, to add to this they lived together and the other partner can’t afford to live on their own. So basically one person was a Controlling , cheating waste of mommy and daddies quicky and the other was borderline being mentally and emotionally abused. Predators and halfwits will be part of every aspect of life and will find a way to manipulate or destroy said aspects of life given enough time and opportunity.Nothing is Idiot proof, nothing is safe so get your life set up how you want it and be prepared to guard this fortress against predators. When (not if) the halfwit comes stumbling in like a newborn colt on ice and manages to destroys your life because the dumb fuck is trying to help or by removing the wrong brick in the wall because it was shiny and it’s now their favorite red rock thingy, you better have a plan B to rebuild. The good news is that you now have enough bricks laying  on the ground  to stone the halfwit to death, I’m a silver lining kinda guy.The Little crotch goblin in the shop is now skipping to a fro all while  chanting what I think I recognized as the ritual to raise an evil elder thing that resembles a puppet from some children's program and then banging their fucking little fist on bookshelves. I’ve ordered a hot chocolate for the little bastard and added a bit of full spectrum oil so the crotch goblin will either soon enter torpor or start seeing a god in whatever app the frazzled parent downloaded and handed off to the kid to try and quite the goblin down. I can write now without the music blasting through my headphones  being drowned out but I did check to see how the goblin is doing, they passed out on a couch, maybe pissed themselves or just spilled water on the floor hard to say . My date shows up and we talk about ourselves or I talk too much and have to stop myself to ask them a question, after both realizing that the online interaction , attraction, and communication is also very present in a real life situation we agree it was time for the duel . We meet via social media site that specializes in the way of the Gaijin and us weebs must prove our saiyan power rankings so we walk outside and I unravel the sacred condom of holy audience and stop the Cupids dive bombing  us while each and every one of these sawed off Kalashnikovs are humming “rock you like a hurricane”. The cupids form a half circle around us and since the invoking of the spirit of The holy Pope  Ruth Westhimer the Cupids agree to not interfere and will also leave me alone until after I get off work the next day.Later that night after coming home bloodied , bruised and then the injuries I sustained during the duel I think about the date and how good it went. Talking about our partners, wants, needs and what we can and can not provide for each other, we hold off on saying we are in a relationship, we decided we’re in a trial relationship pending approval from our respective partners. Important to remember that our other partners can be affected by what we do and the clear communication transfers (or it SHOULD) to the other partners. Poly is not easy it can be worth it or as I’ve found utterly heartbreaking at times but I’m not built to be monogamous so my options are to be lonely the rest of my life, be constrained in a monogamous relationship that I may or at least fight like hell not to cheat in or I can just be honest and say this is who I am, you can stay or go. I find a dead mouse on my front porch with a note stating they were worried I hadn’t been eating, one day I’m going to spay this cat eared woman with a soldering iron.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Red Button

"Vampires aren't real."

At least, that's what they tell people. Like the sick, bloodthirsty masses tearing each other apart in the street are just figments of a collective imagination.

As if you aren't one of them.

They'd brought you in when you were young, so young that you could lie and say that you didn't remember anything before then. Before them. But you'd be lying.

But you don't lie.

And you don't forget.

You can't. That'd be a luxury, reserved for your betters, and those you hunt.

You are special, an oddity born of a disease meant to separate the weak from the strong. Manmade in a lab somewhere far away, where the creators sit in their ivory towers and watch as the world burns and they hoard all the fire extinguishers.

You were a child when they found you, hiding in some filthy hovel full of diseased freaks that dared call themselves "vampires". Nothing more than arrogant humans trying to sew silver linings onto clouds full of acid rain. But not you. No, not you.

There was something wrong with your strain, wrong with you, that made you more like the demons of olde. There was something so fascinating and strange about you that the team of Bloodhounds that found you that night decided to spare your life, instead of ending it right there.

They took you back to the scientists that made them, made the master strain of your disease, and thus, made you. They ran their tests on you, day after day, and found you quite remarkable, saying that your "mutation" was unlike anything they'd ever seen. That you were unlike anything they'd ever seen. You were too precious, too rare to be killed, so they found a use for you in time. They taught you how to hunt, and how to kill. You took to your training like a duck to water, learning how to recognize heartbeats and memorize the scents of your targets, your prey. They made you into a weapon of exceptional lethality.

To date, you are best assassin the Conglomerate has ever had, and you have never lost your prey once.

You are the one they call in when all other methods are exhausted and yet the target is somehow still alive.

A walking "red button" with two rows of teeth and no fear of death.

Your designation is Lazarus 414379, code name "Charon". You like to call yourself "Mira", a name that used to belong to a little girl a long long time ago. But none of that matters now. No one speaks to you unless it's to give you a mission, and even then you are referred to as just your designation or callsign. But again, none of that matters. You are here to end lives, not make friends. Weapons don't need names, the same way they don't forget, and don't lie.

You aren't surprised to have a file forced into your hands first thing in the morning, just like you aren't surprised to read that your newest target is someone that's managed to dodge every agent the Reclamations Unit has thrown at him. You are no stranger to these cases, labrats that scuttle back onto the filthy streets they'd come from, only now they're carrying some important piece of Conglomerate tech that still needs testing. So they have to be captured and brought back. You aren't fond of the Reclamations Unit, their ways are roundabout and sloppy, spending precious resources trying to keep ungrateful filth alive when there are countless other labrats to be tested on.

But this file is different somehow, with page after page of blacked out text. Things beyond classified. None of that is any of your business, but you'd be lying if you said that you weren't just a little curious about what made subject 7886 so interesting. What nonclassified information on him there is, you read with fervor. A lot of it borders on fantastic or nonsensical but cliffnotes mentioning unstable genetic modifications and something called "project Merlin" steal your attention, almost as much as the bolded words stating that any agents sent after him have not returned alive. He is suspected of destroying Lazarus Facility Delta, and the theft of Conglomerate property including but not limited to several hundred test subjects, FERA hybrids, dozens of files worth of classified information, and several things too far above your pay grade for you to know.

That was days ago, weeks almost. Until now you've been biding your time, surveying the target's place of work. Apparently nobody can find out where he lives. Typical. Typical Reclamations Unit halfassery at work. You've done your best to try and find out where he lives so you can corner him somewhere quiet and put a bullet in his skulk before anyone can notice, but it's like this guy just magically appears wherever he needs to be and then vanishes just as quickly. It doesn't make any sense. You've tossed around theories of him using the sewers and old city infrastructure to scuttle around unseen, but you'd be able to smell that if it were true. He's always gone before you can corner him, or surrounded by too many people for you to get a clear shot. It's like this guy knows how to dodge assassins in his everyday life, and judging by his file, you wouldn't be surprised.

Since the easy way is thusly inaccessible to you, you'll have to do this the hard way. The messy way. The "shoot this bastard in public and make it look like a hatecrime" way. You hate the hard way, it's sloppy and much too juvenile for your tastes. But it's not like you have any other choice. So you show up at his little hovel of a bar one night during the dinner rush, covered in a thin layer of kevlar, and enough guns to take out a small country.

It doesn't smell right here, the patrons don't smell right either. Their heartbeats are wrong, or gone entirely. This place makes you feel... uneasy, something you aren't used to feeling. Your target is behind the bar. He's... weirder in person, to say the least. This whole place is weird, you don't trust it or the patrons. They're much too cheerful, munching on plates of stirfried weeds and mushrooms, downing tankards of jewel-hued alcohol, or playing video games on the odd little cabinets tucked away in one corner. There are strange symbols on the floor that you write off as "tasteful graffiti" or some trashy hipster appropriation of a mandala. You find a seat at the bar next to an absurdly tiny old man with the most extravagant beard you've ever seen. He's nursing a mug of what might be tea and sketching in a notepad, long elegant strokes depicting what might be architecture of somekind. He catches you staring and smiles a preposterously warm smile.

"Silverware," he whispers, "a future gift for our beloved barkeep here, but shh don't tell him." he chortles, mostly to himself, and flips the page when your target appears to top off his tea. They both share a sly look as your target slides the old man a jar of something golden and a spoon. You ignore the other guy from then on, locking your eyes on the target. His heartbeat sounds wrong, doubled somehow. He smells strange, like soil and growing things, but also like dry bones and warm machinery. Beneath that you can smell his blood and the nose-singeing radioactive tang that comes with it. So many of the people here share that smell. What is it? Are they sick? Some new Conglomerate affliction you aren't privy to? Doesn't matter, really, chances are it won't infect you. Whatever it is. Your target swings back around, toweling off a damp glass as he grins at you. His teeth are almost as sharp as yours, caging a pair of black tongues that make you grimace inwardly.

"What can I get ya?" he chirps, obviously in some kind of a good mood. Pity what you're about to do then. The next few moments seem to happen in slow motion. You draw your weapon, his eyes widen, someone close to you screams. The other bartender, the girl that fills in when your target isn't here, shoves him aside as you pull the trigger. Glass shatters and the floor is bathed in spilled alcohol. All hell breaks loose as the symbols on the floor vanish and the air is suddenly filled with that radioactive tang. The small man leaps for you, trying to wrestle your gun away. You shoot him in the chest and watch him crumple like a dropped toy. Your target is unscathed, his coworker is not, but... she isn't dead. She's just wrong.

There isn't any blood, any gore, just... Nothing. Just empty darkness where splattered gray matter and vicera should be. Even as this wrong thing rattles like dry bones and claws her way to her feet, you feel something cold and foreign slither down your spine. Fear. Fear is for prey when it is cornered. You steel yourself and squeeze off another shot before the glint of metal in the guttering overhead light catches your eye. The guy you'd shot just moments ago, the really short one, was back on his feet, wielding an axe as if you'd just punched him as opposed to put a bullet in his chest. He brings the axe down on your shoulder before you have time to react. The crunch of metal on bone is forever seared into your memory.

As the axe bites through kevlar and into your shoulder you scream, an inhuman caterwaul that takes out what little glassware your bullets missed. The sensation of metal grating against bone and flesh is beyond agonizing. You twist around, find your assailant, and put a bullet in his skull this time. You empty the rest of the clip into his torso. He doesn't get up this time, and neither does the girl, not after you turn her skull into powder. The bar is in chaos, what few people that haven't fled are now cowering under tables with wide eyes. You take out a semi-automatic and spray bullets willy-nilly, not caring who you hit. Your target dissolves into a cloud of blue fireflies as you turn the gun on him and for a moment you are awestruck. Until a wildcat with glowing green eyes lunges at you, only to go down in a hail of bullets.

Now it's your target's turn to scream. He throws himself at you like an idiot, but his body changes midair into a massive snake with glittering crystal scales so sharp they leave furrows in the floor. He stinks now, that same radioactive reek, but a hundredfold. You watch him coil around the bloody cat, emptying clip after clip into his hide but only a lucky few manage to do the job. He flails in pain and his tail comes at you at lightspeed, hitting you square in the chest, knocking you out the front window. As you struggle to your feet you watch him revert back to his "normal" self and squeeze off a paltry few shots before he vanishes in a bright flash and the sound of fucking fairy bells. As sirens roar up the street, you bolt, the stench of that place forever burned in your nostrils.

Your arm is hanging by a string of gristle, your shoulder shattered, broken, bleeding as you find a place to hide as cops swarm the ruined bar. You halfway collapse in a nearby alley, wheezing through punctured lungs and a glass-riddled throat. If you were human you'd be going into shock right now, but you aren't, you're just pissed as fuck that your prey got away. That's never happened before, none of this has happened before. What the fuck was any of that?? Just what exactly were you up against.

A homeless man lingers near the mouth of the alley, you can hear the timid thrum of his heartbeat and smell his stink. It coats your tongue worse than the blood and bile welling up in your mouth. You spit on the ground as he approaches, not listening to whatever inane mumbling he's making. He comes within reach and you strike with more precision than you should be capable in your condition. The skin of his throat gives way beneath your teeth, he tastes like sweat and unwashed skin but as his veins are shredded beneath your jaws and the metallic heat of his blood fills your waiting maw, you can't bring yourself to care. He tries to flail and panic, but you just clamp down and glut yourself until he goes still.

Your body is riddled with thousands upon thousands of nano machines that boost your already remarkable healing abilities and discourage the spontaneous growth of cancer, at the expense of large quantities of protein. You drink blood daily so it's not like you're deficient, but at times like this one can't be too careful. So after you're finished with the old man you tear off what's left of your arm and eat the entire thing. Wounds itch and burn as they heal, some sealing around bits of shrapnel and glass, broken bones set wrong, and your arm starts to grow back in an incredibly barbaric way. In the end, that little snack isn't enough to repair an entire missing limb so you have to eat the rest of the old man. His vile, bloodless flesh tastes horrendous, but it fixes you so you don't complain. Mouthful by mouthful, you start to feel like your old self again.

By the time you're done, the cruel sun has set. Your meal is nothing more than a bloody smear on the pavement and a pile of rancid smelling clothes. Between the specialized nanos in your gut and your 'natural' capabilities, there's is very little you can't digest, but you draw the line at clothes. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that your prey managed to slip away from you. But you have his scent now, and there is hunting to be done.

[yeshawrites]

4.

AGENCY, CHAPTER 4. You can find all other works of mine here. NOTES: This story is not always friendly. It contains some graphic content, brief mentions of non-sexual nudity, murder, death, and plenty of language. Please be advised before you read it. Some upsetting content is in this chapter.

Dahlia sat perched on the edge of her bathroom counter, teasing her bubblegum pink, short hair just so. Peering intently into the mirror, she dragged a finger slowly downward under her eye, poking at the skin. Bags? Oh no. That would simply not do. She turned to the left, unlatching a multi-tiered box and sliding the trays out one by one. Pots and pump bottles and lotions of all sorts sat in the bottom, eyeshadows stacked neatly on the second row and more lipsticks, mascaras, and eyeliners than were necessary piled together in the third. Teasing her favorite face cream out, she pumped a dollop onto her finger and set to massaging it in. Exactly two minutes, she reminded herself, then let sit for two minutes. That was what the sales rep said. Makeup had come so far.

Technology as a whole, she mused absently, had come even farther. How long ago was it that they were using telegrams? Now you took a picture on your phone and it was global in mere seconds. It excited her something terribly, but even her exuberance at the newness was tempered with caution. Better technology meant better cameras and heat sensors and traps and communication. She supposed even Jason Voorhees might have been stymied by kids who thought to SnapChat him. But that was where knowledge came in. As quickly as technology had sprung up, her knowledge was still a vast pool, a shark in the water. Cameras were fallible, and heat sensors could be tricked. People made mistakes. Traps sprang without their prey. It was just a matter of patience, caution, and knowledge. Dahlia inspected her skin tone and spread a light color correcting creme over her face, applying a layer of foundation after. Touching up with a hint of blush, she combed her wayward brows and plucked them to perfection. Out came her eyeliner. Oh how she loved eyeliner; back in the day she used so much that these modern sticks would never have lasted her. Now she preferred to keep it simple. She coated her eyelashes with a layer of mascara and applied her lipstick: bright, vibrant pink. Too much pink? She asked herself. No. Never too much pink. She hopped from the counter and pranced through her sunny pink-and-white bedroom, candy cane stripes on her wall and plush pillows on her bed and billowy, pink curtains drawn over long windows. Delving into her closet, Dahlia pried out a pair of jeans and a white top, throwing on a pink necklace to match her sparkly pink nails. She appraised herself in the mirror and blew herself a kiss. How she had ever thought to go out in public before makeup was a continual source of wonder and embarrassment for her. “I’m lovely.” She smiled broadly at herself and did an experimental twirl. Now for shoes. Reaching under her bed, Dahlia pulled out a steamer trunk overflowing with them. She positively, absolutely adored the things. Heels, flats, boots, platforms, wedges--anything was good by Dahlia so long as they were cute. She’d once picked a fight with a Seraph after he broke one of her favorite heels. It had not gone well for her--but it had not gone well for him either, the smug, suit-wearing bastard. Rifling through the packed case, she pulled out a pair of three inch, strappy bubblegum heels with a large stone set on the front of them. How perfect--a perfect outfit for a perfect day. She pulled on her purse and hopped down the stairs two at a time, never afraid of falling. Jangling her keys about in a hand, Dahlia stepped into her living room (also decorated mainly in pink, grey the compliment this time) and peered through the French doors into her dining room. “I’ll be back!” Wiggling her fingers in a wave, she gave a sad smile to the man duct taped to her dining room chair. His eyes were huge with horror, sweat rolling in beads down his forehead. “Now now, don’t sweat all over that chair. It’s an antique, I’ll have you know, straight from Russia. You stay put right there until I get back.” The man had no choice. He tried to say something, but it came through the tape as only a muffled mmmmmmph. “What was that? Oh, I’m sure you can tell me all about it once I come home and deal with you. Toodles!” Popping her pastel pink earbuds into her ears, she turned up her music and bounced out the door, locking it securely behind her. --- Click click click click click click click click click-- Tiffany rested her head against the window, staring directly at Jeremy, wondering when he would turn the damn blinker off. It had been on for the better part of two miles and no sign of stopping yet. Midlothian Turnpike was hell enough without the infernal noise. Click click click click click click click--He hummed something absently and she wondered if he even knew it was on. “Blinker’s on,” she announced finally. He gasped as if shot and smacked it down. “Well that’s embarrassing. I’m becoming an old man.” “You’re twenty-two.” “I’m aaaaancient.” She rocked her head back against the window and stared outside at the yellow street lights flickering by. The sky was an inky black bleeding into blue, the headlights carving a path through the deserted streets. Night shifts sucked, especially in the Midlothian area. At least there was something to look at in Richmond; up in the suburbs, there was nothing but fast food and grocery stores and banks and dentists. They passed a 7-11 converted into a pizza place and Tiffany wondered why it was that the convenience store did so poorly around here. She assumed it had something to do with all the rich people. “You aren’t mad at me or something, are you, girl?” Jeremy asked anxiously. “Huh? No. No, why?” He heaved relief. “Oh, good. You were just quiet is all. I was worried you were annoyed with me or something.” “Over the blinker? Sure,” she joked. “But no. We’re solid. I’m just tired.” “Yeah.” Nodding sympathetically, he took a turn past the gym. “You work hard, lady. You should take a break from that restaurant every once in a while.” “Nah, ‘cause then my parents will really think I’m not doing anything.” “Oh God. Are they still hounding you about college?” “Yep,” she sighed. “I tried to tell them I wanted a year off before I committed.” “Didn’t listen?” “Nope.” “Aw. I’m sure they’ll come around. They love you no matter what.” Tiffany side-eyed Jeremy and wondered what he meant by that. His parents no longer spoke to him. Apparently accepting their daughter as a son was not possible.

“Do you want to play some music?” He offered. “Oh, come on. We never agree on music.” He wrinkled his nose. “Yeah. That’s right. I mean, maybe you’ll like The--” “--If you say ‘Decemberists’, I’ll kindly remind you we listened to that the last six times you were trying to come up with a compromise.” “Two times.” “Two times,” she admitted. “You get what I’m saying.” “Well,” he started slowly. There was a cop ahead of them. Even though their plates would come up with special privileges, Jeremy slowed on instinct. “We could just pop on the radio. It gets dull if no one is talking.” Tiffany thought about it and mentally agreed. They needed something going. Once midnight hit it would be twenty hours awake for her, and she was ready for bed. She punched the radio on and ‘Toxic’ by Britney Spears filled the cab. Her laughter intersected with Jeremy’s squeal of delight. “Oh come ON. You, the hipster king, like Britney Spears?” “I don’t think you understand.” He held up a finger while taking the u-turn near the YMCA, heading right back the way they came. “This was my middle school-slash-high school jam.” “Jer, could you get more stereotypically gay right now?” “I’m pretty sure ‘Toxic’ is a baby gay rite of passage,” He joked. “Anyone who says they didn’t like ‘Toxic’ but still like it up the butt is lying to you.” “Jeremy David--!” The sensor box mounted on the dash glowed fiercely blue, warped into purple, tried to force its way back to green and began squealing. Jeremy stomped on the brakes, the Lincoln screeching to a halt the same time that the sensor outright exploded, bits of wire and plastic casing spraying them. Tiffany screamed and shielded her face, drawing her knees up protectively as Jeremy dove for cover. A moment of silence as the pieces rattled to the floor like hail, and they both surfaced tentatively to inspect the damage. “What the hell was that?” She asked shakily. “No fuckin’ clue,” Jeremy managed. Together they stared out the windows at their surroundings, nearly forgotten in their conversation. To the left, a lake on the edge of an apartment complex lapped silently at walking trails. As one, their gaze shifted slowly to the right and to the mass of trees, a parking lot to a series of pathways leading into pitch blackness under the boughs. “Not the Coal Mines?” Tiffany moaned softly. “Might be.” He reached unsteadily for the radio mounted on the dash. “I’m calling this in.”

[misterewrites]

A small preview (and confirmation I am still writing)

Hello everyone, Mr.E here! been a while hasn’t it? I hope you’re all doing good! I am sorry. It’s been a busy few months between babysitting, looking for a new job and the general chaos of life but I am here to share with you a little preview of what I’ve been working. I have been trying to finish pirates part 3 and the next chapter of nova vs (I was back and forth about how to precede with the story because canon really just sunk a lot of what I had planned so that really kinda halted the writing because I had to decide what I wanted to do) but here is something I’ve been writing to keep myself sane. 

Umm basically it’s another one of my original stories because heaven forbid I actually not come up with new ideas. Umm It stemmed from how much fun I had writing the Vampire hunter story for star vs. I am a huge gothic horror, monster hunter supernatural story fan and it really gave me some ideas but I didn’t want to shove them all into the monster hunter au because there was too much of it. so I decided for my own sanity and because why not, come up with my own story and here is part of it. It’s been my stress relief basically. 

So this is just a preview, the opening for lack of a better term. Like most of my stories I don’t know how far I’ll actually go with this but you never know. This is just my own personal writing but if you guys want to see the finished chapter whenever  I get to it please let me know I am more than happy to share it if you guys want. 

Basically this is my own version of Van Helsing and my version plays a big part in the overall story but this beginning part is more or less the legend that this character is. 

that’s it for now. I hope you’re doing great. have an amazing week, I will back very soon if not with pirates 3 or nova 24, with a small little mother’s day idea that I’ve been playing with in my head. Take care, hope you enjoy the story and let me know what you think about it! E AWAY!

Notification squad: @artgirllullaby @hipster-rapunzel @ladyxgilex @minthia-ren @thefandombytes @toon-addicted (sorry I generally just add you to the list of the stories) @axis2700 @burst-zen @isolated-frequencies @nerdymetalhead

Estella's heaving and huffing could scarcely be heard over the booming thunder, the violent rattle of the slowly crumbling church that shook its very core, rain streaming through the various broken holes and openings of the roof like rays of moonlight.

She strained her ears for any sign of the monster that chased them but between the bleeding Henryk's gasps for air and the rhythmic pounding of rain against the old, decay wooden floor, nothing could be heard.

“Come on” she whispered hopefully to the dying man she carried around her shoulders “Just a bit further.”

Henryk groaned in response but gave no words.

Fear began ebbing into Estella's resolve, her boots sloshing against the slowly rising tide.

“We'll be okay” She whispered to herself in a blind hope “We'll be okay”

A chilly wind swept through the abandoned place of worship, a numbing frost spread throughout her body. She could feel her legs wobble and sway uneasily, Henryk's body growing heavier each passing moment and the syrupy urge to give in tugged at her, beckoning sweetly.

Estella bit her lip hard, the sharp pain awakening her instincts, renew vigor flowing through her and the will to press on overcoming the terror that had been quietly growing.

The door was just a few feet away. Just a few more feet and she could escape deeper into the forest with Henryk.

Her heart stopped when she heard the moaning of the old oak doors open, the rusty hinges shrieking into the night while a silhouetted figure stood in the door frame menacingly.

“Vampyre” Estella murmured under her breath, her body tensed for battle as she reached for a knife tucked away in Henryk's coat pocket.

“I am afraid you are mistaken my dear” the shadow replied with a reassuring tone “I am no vampyre, I am...”

“Von Issac!” a warm feeling ignited within her despite the frigid rain as famed vampyre hunter Viktor Von Issac stepped forth from the shadows and into the moonlight.

He was no different than last she saw the slightly older man: His handsome youthful face brimming with a cocksure confident that contrasted with his well kept black and gray hair, his hazel eyes narrowed with both worry and conviction. A soothing grin graced his lips. His long frayed black coat and white collared shirt soaked from the rainfall. He wiped at his black dressed pants, his matching loafers dully echoing the splashes of water as he made his way closer.  

“Von Issac.” Estella began but he rose a hand to silence her.

“We haven't any time. You and my brother have foolishly followed an ill fated plan and now Malikiah rouses from his slumber. You two must make haste and leave.”

“Viktor...” Henryk crocked, his hand weakly reaching for his kin.

Viktor took his brother's hand, clasping it tightly in his grasp “I am here my brother but you must not be.”

Viktor turned to Estella, a grim determination ablaze in his eyes “Take him to a doctor for if I fail at least the Von Issac name does not end with me.”

“Viktor...” Estella whispered softly, her heart aching with longing “I cannot just leave you here to face that....thing.”

Viktor cupped Estella's face gently “What has happened has happened and regrets have been made but I am afraid this is not the time. You cannot remain. You must leave.”

“But...”

“GO!” Viktor shouted without warning.

Startled and against her own wishes, Estella bolted through the door, her frame swallowed whole by the shadows.

Viktor let out a saddened sigh as the echo of footsteps approached from beyond the church altar.

“Malikiah” he growls furiously as he pulled out his trusty crucifix and cane.

A sweet whistling fills the air, piercing effortlessly through the pouring rain and booming thunder. It is a slow melody of a song Viktor's mother once sang to him long ago.

“I so loved the Hall of the Mountain King.” Viktor spoke calmly “But you knew that didn't you, Malikiah? Darkly attempting to taint my childhood.”

Two irises of red filled with amusement appear from the swirling, shifting night.

“Indeed but now that you have traveled deep into the darkness, into my kingdom, did you like what you found little Gynt?”

“Hardly” Viktor spat viciously.

“Oh well.” A toothy smirk gleamed through the dark.

Von Issac held his breath as for the first time in nearly a decade, his most hated foe stepped into the moonlight: His black and white hair were short and impeccably groomed, his eyes a hungry red. He wore only the finest clothing, black as his soul and the interior of his cape as red as the blood he sought to drain. His skin was a deathly pale but still possessed an inhumanly timeless face much like a statute from an ancient empire long since passed. His fingernails were long and beastly as the steady dipping of crimson fell from them.

Malikiah glided across the water, soundless and without disturbing the surface, the shadows clung to him and trailed behind like a cloak.

Viktor held his crucifix high, its outline glowing with a heavenly bright light that grew brighter with each moment.

Malikiah raised his claws, a twisted smile etched on his face as he inched closer, bloodust singing in his eyes as he lunged forward, fangs bare and....

The scene changed and instead of an epic fight to the death Veronica was hoping for, a well dressed man appeared onscreen, some soda product in his hands and a forced smile on his lips.

“Oh come on!” she cried, angrily growling at the television “It was just getting to the good part! I didn't finish my homework at school for this crap!”

“Are you yelling at the television again sweetie?” Her mother called from the other room.

“Yes!” Veronica answered truthfully “This is the last movie in the classic 1950's Von Issac series and they always cut it off during the big fight between him and Malikiah.”

“It's fiction sweetie.”

“It's annoying is what it is.” Veronica huffed, angrily plopping on her bed “Ugh I hate when it's getting good and suddenly without warning, boom! Commercials.”  

“Shouldn't you be asleep?”

Veronica coughed softly as she dove under the covers, feigning sleep when her mother's footsteps drew closer.

[spoilertv]

Hipster Death Rattle - Drama In Development At CW https://www.spoilertv.com/2021/12/hipster-death-rattle-drama-in.html

[thebookdragon217]

"These developments, the rezonings, they are nothing but racist weapons of mass displacement used to push out the poor and the long-term residents of color." Hipster Death Rattle by Richie Narvaez was the first selection for #ReadPuertoRican monthly group read and it did not disappoint. The writing was captivating from the prologue. It was bold, witty and remarkably descriptive. The descriptions were so vivid that NYC, especially Brooklyn took on a life of its own. Narvaez's writing was so immaculate and atmospheric that Williamsburg transformed into a character of its own. This book had all the elements I love when I read noir and mysteries. The main character was morally gray and made for the perfect anti-hero. The Puerto Rican women were strong beacons of family values. The side characters had depth and straddled the fence of being good and bad. Self-motivation was a huge theme as each character wrestled with certain moral dilemmas that weren't revealed all at once. Narvaez manages to capture their individual voices seamlessly and keep them authentic and original. The POV's were clear and concise and never felt confusing. The slasher murders played out perfectly against the backdrop of gentrification. I loved that it was used as a metaphor to show expose how violent gentrification is against communities of color. Narvaez' strong writing really showcased the anger, desperation and hopelessness of displaced communities. I also really enjoyed that the author still managed to highlight the ways that Puerto Ricans manage to survive over and over again, how they support each other and how they continue to fight against the system that wants to keep them as second class citizens. It reminds me to pay close attention to what is happening to Puerto Ricans on the island. U.S. Colonialism continues to push my people outside of the margins so aggressively that erasure is going to be the only outcome if their isn't a collective intervention on a mass level. A special thank you to @rnz1000 for chatting with us and for all the wonderful insight on gentrification. If you're looking an authentic Nuyorican mystery that will keep you turning the pages, pick this one up. (at L.E.S) https://www.instagram.com/p/CXKpGLzLpNA/?utm_medium=tumblr