#Sherrie Flick

[cinader]

s2e34 Mosab Abu Toha, Doug Tallamy, The Future for Small Presses

Poetry and Prose for Peace and Regeneration on Mother Earth...

s2e34 Mosab Abu Toha, Doug Tallamy, The Future for Small Presses Featuring Eileen Tabios, Diane Goettel, Kate McMullen and Annie Groover, a preview of our interveiw with Sherrie Flick and poetry by Martha Cinader [link to transcript] SHOW NOTES s2e34October 31, 2024 view image Poet, Mosab Abu Toha, reads “Under the Rubble” from Forest of Noise. Professor Doug Tallamy talks about Living with…

[judgingbooksbycovers]

Homing: Instincts of a Rustbelt Feminist

By Sherrie Flick.

[promisingyounglady]

accident. | JP x Reader

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Wife!Reader

SYNOPSIS: we all make accidents. javier forgetting to pick you up at the train station was an accident. you forgetting to bring an umbrella was an accident. throwing a knife at your husband? you’re going to have prove that one was an accident to him.

WC: 3.6k

WARNINGS: SMUT, angst, mentions of weapons and knives, reader throws a knife at javier *just read you’ll find out*, implied age gap, established relationship, javier is a bit older than reader, domestic au, slight dom!javi, mentions of food and cooking, profanity, bratty!reader, reader is mean but javier can be meaner, floor sex, creampie, unprotected sex, spanking, handcuffs, cum eating, brief oral (f recieving), slight non-con, rough sex, praise, degradation, post-sex sweetness, not proofread.

AUTHORS NOTE: obsessed and mentally ill. so here’s slightly dom!javi with a ton of angst

A headache ensues in Javier’s mind.

He tries to combat it with the clouds of smoke rising through the air, the comfortable scent of tobacco and cigarettes filling his nose as he takes a drag from the stick perched in between his blistered fingers, this inhale, longer than the last.

Today had been shit. It really had. All day he had been cooped up in the office with stacks of paperwork almost taller than himself, tossed onto him and Murphy's desk by the higher ups, a high demand for deadlines with their patience being low.

Javier had been sitting in his office for almost seven hours straight, looking at papers with tiny writing and filing reports with pen until sensitive pink blisters formed around a hand that should’ve been driving and carrying a gun today, out in the field on a mission another team had instead been tasked with.

He’s getting old for this stuff, and he knows its true when he feels a strain in his back from shifting in his seat.

Maybe that’s why they shoved the paperwork in the old man’s hands.

Javier leans forward, grabbing his almost empty pack of cigarettes from his desk, deciding a fourth one was necessary for tonight.

“Javier,” a voice calls for him, looking up when he sees the new secretary holding the phone facing her chest. “You’ve got a call”

“From who” he says gruffly, brows furrowed. He lights the cigarette with his lighter, tossing it onto his desk and taking another puff.

“It’s your wife,” The secretary states. “she’s asking what you want for dinner.”

Javier stops in the middle of flicking the ashes, letting the cigarette sit warm in his fingers when he turns his head so he could see her correctly.

Your sweet voice calls out through the receiver, a chill running down Javier's spine when he makes out that it really is you.

“Yeah, Sherry, it’s fine if he’s busy, just let him know I called. Tell him dinner’ll be late tonight, at around 10.” you piped up sweetly, saying goodbye to your husband's secretary before hanging up the call.

She leaves after telling him what he already heard, but Javier is quick to immediately put out the burning cigarette and quickly grab his coat, making his way out the office.

“Peña, Where are you going? We only got a few more stacks left” Murphy calls out, hair in a mess from the many stressful tugs and his own cigarette nestled in between his fingers.

“my wife.” Javier replies, suddenly not liking the bitter taste in his mouth.

“It’s raining outside, you’re gonna get drenched” the blonde tells him, shaking his head as he took a drag from his own cancer stick.

Javier stops in his tracks, looking outside the window to see his partner was right. It was pouring out there, hardly able to even make out the cars in the parking lot.

Him getting wet was the least of his worries. It was you, he was thinking of.

“Fucking hell.”

_

You set the receiver down on the living room table. The ticking of the clock resonating in the silent house before a sigh finally escaping your lips.

Droplets of rain water cloud your vision, cheeks pink from the cold as water dripped onto your wooden floorboards.

Fists clench and unclench around the handle of the umbrella given to you by an old lady at the train station.

“A girl like yourself shouldn’t be alone in the rain, mija” she insisted, letting you take her frilly umbrella as her son would pick her up shortly.

Javier was supposed to pick you up too.

But after forty minutes of standing out in the rainy weather under a flimsy roof as you waited for his truck to pick you up, you disappointedly caught a taxi and drove home by yourself

You were returning from your visit to your sick grandmother. You were her only granddaughter who she called the week prior, telling you how she missed you and wanted you to visit.

Javier insisted you went, not wanting to hold you back and assured he would come to pick you up at the station after the weekend spent with her.

What a fucking liar, you thought to yourself.

You quickly undressed your wet clothes, the outcome of having to have walked in rain to find an available taxi this evening.

You're curious to see the look on Javier’s face when you make him beg on his knees and ask for forgiveness. Maybe you wouldn’t even kiss him tonight, thinking in silence as you prepared for dinner.

You definitely weren’t trying to think about what an excellent opportunity this was to be a brat.

—

Javier parks into his quiet drive way exactly thirty minutes before 10. That’s thirty minutes of trying to get on your good graces and pray that he wouldn’t be sleeping outside tonight.

When he opens the door to the house, his heart beats fast. Prepared to see you ready to lash out at him, he’s instead surprised with the aromas of spices and your homemade cooking wafting to his nose, unconsciously realizing that he skipped lunch today from how caught up he was with work.

Picking up your wet jacket from the floor, Javier slots his keys and sunglasses in the bowl by the entrance, hanging his own jacket as well before he makes his way quietly to the glowing kitchen.

The stovepot is on a low boil, and he sees you in a long t-shirt, one that you made sure wasn’t his. Your hair is damp, probably from a shower as you swiftly work your hands away in prepping the vegetables.

Javier mumbles quietly in a gruff voice. “You, uh, left your coat on the floor.”

Thwack.

An aggressive chop at the carrots replaces your words, each cut piercing louder like a gunshot ringing in his ears.

“Hermosa, I am so sorry.“ Javier begins sighing because he knows he fucked up real bad this time.

Thwack. You moved onto the chicken meat.

“There’s no excuse baby, I wasn’t keeping track after being cooped up in the office today.” he sighs, brows furrowing as big brown eyes stared into your back.

Thwack. Thwack.

The DEA agent flinches at the sound of the raw chicken being butchered by your swift, angry hands. You’re not facing Javier directly and yet he can already see your glaring eyes. He sighs, not wanting to fight you. He tries to lighten the mood, voice soft as he comments.

“Qué te ha hecho ese pobre pollo”

You don’t reply, let alone acknowledge your husband, continuing to brutally dice the chicken on the cutting board before turning around to wash your hands.

Javier watches you swiftly work in your kitchen, feeling sorry as he still watches you prepare dinner for the two of you after such a long train ride.

He moves forward, rolling his sleeves as he tries to help you . “Querida, I’ll help with the pot-”

The clang of the knife hitting the cutting board echoes in the kitchen, finally looking up to face your husband. Javier leans back, resting against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and gun holsters unremoved after coming home.

You try to ignore how tired he genuinely looks, reminding yourself you were just the same when standing all alone for that one hour.

“Y’know what Javier?” You begin, eyes watering and nose twitching in anger. Javier stays silent, staring at you with sincerity.

“Fuck you” you spit, pointing an accusing finger at the man. “fuck you and your fucking DEA work, Javier”

“Mi-”

“I had to wait forty minutes outside in rainy weather, trying to see if every car passing by would be yours.” you said, voice breaking towards the end. You felt uncomfortable waiting by yourself.

Javier shuts his eyes, forehead wrinkling as he tries to calm you down. He draws your name out in a firm but gentle tone.

You ignore him, replacing his words with your attitude. “You always do this!” you exclaim, voice rising.

“Leaving your wife and family second while you think it’s cool to go and chase criminals while risking your goddamn life.” You mutter, glaring at your husband.

“I didn’t want to leave you at the station all alone, honey. I’ve been sitting at my desk since afternoon drowning in paperwork the higher-ups dumped on us” he presses, eyes sincere but patience wearing thin.

You scoff, shaking your head. “So even stupid paperwork makes you forget your wife.”

Javier pinches his nose bridge, his head pounding as he tries to communicate with you.

You go back to cutting your vegetables, mumbling under your breath. “Who the fuck in Bogotá is giving you credit for slaving away all day trying to catch Escobar, hm?”

The words pierce through Javier’s heart.

Your eyes light up in fake sarcasm. “Oh, I bet it’s the fact that you’re too busy being a fucking doormat to all the younger agents at work aren’t you? What, Murphy said he can’t do his share of the work so he gave you his leftovers?” You spit.

“Hey," Javier snapped, gruffly and darkly. He looked at you, eyes narrowed and dark. "Stop it. I've told you."

Anger gets the best of you as you turn to the cutting board. Grabbing the first thing you saw.

A carrot piece shoots in his way. Javier flinches, the food hitting his chest. Your husband stands there, stunned at his wife’s childish behavior.

“Go fuck yourself, Peña” you say menacingly.

“We don’t throw food in this house, mama” he barks, hands on the hips of his belt, gun and badge tucked in his back. He would never use them on you.

A celery stick slaps Javier in the face this time, making his patience hanging on by a thread even thinner.

Maybe he could whip out the handcuffs.

“Dont you fucking call me that!” you said spitefully, throwing anything and everything you could at the man who dodged your attacks.

“Querida!” Javier raises his voice at you, a growl in his words.

You felt the cold, hard material in your hands for a split second before you’re throwing it at him, almost wondering yourself why you were getting so angry at Javier.

You didn’t want to fight this bad, but at the same time you were sick of watching him work himself to death, forgetting about you. This wasn’t the first time he did something like this.

But you already crossed that line. You both stand in silence, holding your breath as you realized what you threw.

Now it was your turn to fuck things up.

Javier’s lip snarls and his mustache is in a scary frown when he shifts his head.

Only a few inches beside his face lands a dull potato knife, wedged in the kitchen cupboards above. It wouldn’t have worked on anything since it was unsharpened and unused, but the tremendous force you had thrown it with allowed it to have been lodged in the wood.

You gasp, hands flying to cover your mouth.

You both watch Javier slowly raise his hand, pulling the knife inches beside his head with ease before tossing it into the sink. The clatter of the metal blade hitting the sink rings in the kitchen. A swarm of guilt fills your chest as you stand still in fear.

“Javi… I-I’m so sorry” you say, heart beating against your chest, cautiously awaiting a reaction from him.

Javier dusts off the carrot peels on his shoulder, watching as his jaw tenses but shoulders relax.

“Come here.” he all but says quietly. You see Javier reaching for his back pocket, taking out his gun and badge and placing it on the counter.

That wasn’t what scared you.

What scared you was then seeing Javier pull out the silver handcuffs lodged in his back pocket. Your eyes widened at the sight of him playing around with them.

“Javi, I’ll go get the-“

“Come. Here.” Javier cuts you off, staring at you with dark eyes.

You swiftly shake your head, refusing to go. “It was an accident!” You exclaimed, dashing out the kitchen as you tried to escape Javier who was hot on your heels.

“Honey.” he says in a not so endearing way, a warning edge to his voice.

Tears littered your cheeks, knowing that you pushed Javier’s limits and that he would really punish you for how bratty you had been tonight.

You gasp, running up the stairs before strong arms encaged your frame, desperately trying to escape before shrieking in surprise as Javier hoisted you over his shoulder, a loud and painful smack being brought down to your ass by his strong hands. You grimaced, helplessly being brought to the kitchen in swift strides.

”It was an accident, I’m sorry, I was just so angry!” You wailed, groaning as your back hit the carpeted floors of your living room. Your vision was hazy, the dizziness getting to you as you saw Javier leave the room into the kitchen, and come back a few moments later. This time, he was unbuttoning his shirt, his forest of chest hair and strong muscles peeking through.

Javier took a deep breath, eying the way your t-shirt had hiked all the way up so your panties were showing. Your hair spread around your head like a halo, and he noticed how you clenched your thighs together in vulnerability.

“Some accidents need to be punished, baby” he muttered darkly.

You sobbed softly, nose red as you turned your head to the side, looking away from Javi’s menacing look. He didn’t mind, he knew once he was done messing with you, you would be clawing at his chest, begging him to fuck you properly while looking into his eyes. Javier leans down at your level, crawling on your body so he was on top and you were trapped on the bottom. He rips your t-shirt off of you, leaving you in your bare state with panties flimsy enough he could rip them with his teeth. Not today though, he had other things in mind.

He coos at your weak state, dropping his head so he could press a kiss to your sensitive neck, giving a small nip that made you yelp. Two large hands come to play with your nipples, pulling each one hard in between his fingers as you moaned hysterically.

“What did I say about being fucking mean?” He says roughly. He inhales your scent, smelling a sweet sense of fear.

“Carino,” a warm voice calls out, you can feel the grin spreading on Javier’s face. You cry in a mix of pain and pleasure when he flips you on your tummy, cheek pressing against the rough carpet material as Javier slots his hard member encased in his jeans, right by the curve of your ass.

“Answer me, mama”

A clinking of metal makes you cry out in protest. No, you wanted to say, feeling Javier cuff you behind your back like you were one of his petty drug thiefs. But a slap to your ass cheek makes you gasp, eyes shutting as Javier pulls your panties off.

”Being mean gets me punished” you responded softly, a pool of desire aching in your folds as you almost tutted your ass up to show him you were ready. “I’m sorry, Javier” you sniffled quietly, hoping he would hear.

Javier laughs, cocking his head to the side as one hand groped the flesh of your bum, and the other undid his belt buckle. The sound makes your mouth water, wondering if he’ll let you suck him off too for forgiveness.

“So you do know how to be nice?” He groans, giving you no time before his hard members penetrates your entrance, head turning back and eyes rolling when you clenched around his dick so well. “Javier!” You screamed, eyes rolling back in pleasure from the strong stretch.

Your arms ached, desperate for release so you could brace yourself against the floor for every hard thrust your husband would give you.

“Listen carefully, querida” he moans into your ear, humping you as you moaned loudly. “You’re gonna be a good girl and let me fill you up, alright?” When there was no answer, he slapped your cheek again, this time echoing throughout the living room and leaving a red splotch on your ass. “Answer me.” He growled, patience growing thin from your pathetic wailing.

You grit your teeth, hating the fact that you were supposed to be mad at Javier for forgetting about you, and yet here you were receiving back shots with a stinging red ass.

”Yes, Javier” you said back, feeling his girth stretch your walls.

”Good. And once I’m done fucking my pretty wife, you’re gonna suck me off like you mean it. That sounds good mi amor?”

You nodded in return, eyes shut and panting like a slut from the feeling of Javier slowing down his thrusts, deepening every stroke.

“Yes, Javier” you repeated.

He smiled, kissing your neck sweetly, contrasting his hip movements. “Thank you, mama” he replied, cherishing your sweet moans and gasps as he went at a deeper, harder pace.

It’s delirious, the whole situation. You feel as though you’re on cloud nine with the way Javier is so possessive of you, caging you like a butterfly in his garden with the apple of desire.

You felt sinful. You felt glorious. You needed his release to fill you up so badly.

“Javi…” you muttered, tits starting to get carpet burn from being fucked against the ground.

“I know mama, you’re doing so good for me. Taking your lesson so well” he groans, sweat beading at his forehead.

You were aching and begging for orgasm, but feeling Javier rut into you so passionately made it all worth it. It dissolved any anger, any resentment from earlier because you knew how good he could take care of you.

“You’re so fucking mean sometimes, you know that?” he tells you, brows furrowed and concentrated on fucking the daylights out of you. You could feel the handprints marking your hips, wondering how many of Javier’s marks would be on you tomorrow morning.

“I know” you sigh, feeling a slap come down on your ass as you groan louder.

“You’re so fucking stubborn sometimes, you know that too?” you pant, squirming under your cuffs. Javier shudders, your walls sucking him a little too well.

“I know.” He says back gruffly.

Javier feels the knot untying in his stomach, too late to tell you verbally as you felt his warm seed leak inside, cumming first.

“Merida”

You were also close, loving how despite already coming, Javier was fucking you so that you could cum too.

”I’m gonna” you pant, forgetting to finish your words as you felt hot liquid threatening to spill from every stroke he made in your hole.

Javier whispers, pressing ticklish kisses from his mustache to your bare shoulder. “Cum on my cock, baby, you know what to do” he muttered, both of you groaning loudly as both your releases became mixed inside you.

“Oh fuck, Javi!” you scream, hair a mess and pussy aching.

You feel dizzy, used but happy, shivering as a large sludge of your cum spills out and drips down your thigh to the carpet.

Javier is quick to lap you up with his tongue, slotting his face in your ass as he filthily cleans you up.

“Can you get these off me, please?” you ask him meekly, relishing the feeling of your sensitive wrists when they touch the cool air.

Your husband presses a kiss to each one, marking your ass and shoulders with playful hickeys and bruises.

You both catch your breath for a moment, Javier turning you over so you were facing the ceiling, your sensitive tits perking up.

It’s all so sudden but before you two realize it, you’re latching onto each other immediately, hungrily sharing a kiss as your arms wrap around his neck.

“Hermosa,” he tries to begin, before being shushed by you, pulling him back in to lovingly kiss your husband.

Sure, rough sex was great, but god did you love just kissing Javier absentmindedly. You had to touch each other, kiss each other, that was how you two made up.

“Lo siento, hermosa” he sighs, wanting to get lost in your embrace. You smile, knowing that Javier is sincere. “Me too.” You reply, voices hushed as it was now later in the night, the neighbors probably aware of what had happened next door. A moment passes.

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to suck you off?” you asked innocently, gazing up at Javier as your head rested on his chest.

He grins, softly whispering a later as he played with your hair, cock soft against his thigh as your leg nudges it playfully.

He growls, nipping your ear. “Behave” he says firmly, cheeks rosy. This time you listen.

“Who picked you up today then if I didn’t come?” Javi asks, reaching over to wrap a blanket around you two near the fireplace.

You smile, knowing that you can’t always listen to Javier’s warnings. “Just some cute young taxi driver. Asked me for my number y’know” you grinned.

Javier looks down, eyes darkening as he mutters softly. “Unless you’re gonna be a brat again, you better watch yourself” he reaches for your mound, cupping you softly so you moan in pleasure, still sensitive from the previous activities. He hoists you above his stomach, feeling your nails scratch his pudge and bend down as you give him a kiss. “I’m just messing with you” you giggle, a familiar feeling coming back when his bare cock is nestled by your thighs. “He was old. A grandpapi” you said, feeling his hands roam the flesh of your ass.

You press a hand against Javier’s chest, giggling as you peck his jawline. He rolls his eyes, hands wrapping around your waist instinctively.

“I missed you.” he mutters, feeling you up.

You smile, remembering how warm it is on top of your husband before you shut your eyes softly.“Me too.”

You look up, apologizing to him. “Sorry for almost stabbing you with that knife”

You feel the vibrations and sounds of a loud chuckle, Javier holding on to you. “It was an accident” you mumble, circling shapes on his skin. He knows.

You make up for it by leaning in, pressing kisses under the shell of his ear. Whispering how you’ll let him stuff his cock in your mouth again to get even.

Fuck it, he thinks. He’d let you kill him anyday.

[world0fmadness]

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ✩ ˚ HORROR FLICKS ARE THE BEST CHICK FLICKS

max verstappen x horror nepo baby! zombie! reader

featuring: lots of love from lewis because ever since i saw that picture of him wearing a cannibal holocaust t-shirt i’ve been convinced he fucking loves horror movies and lando being annoying in a friendly way

faceclaim: assorted but mainly sherri moon zombie

୨୧ max won the vote so here you go! there are some inaccuracies like rob zombie didn’t make the silent hill film, house of 1000 corpses came out in 2003 and stuff but hey, it’s fanfic, let me live <3

reading music recommendations: living dead girl by rob zombie - house of 1000 corpses by rob zombie - what? by rob zombie

ynzombie: throwback to when little me was in my first ever horror movie ( and movie in general ) dad had me doing child labour for free because i’m his daughter… so sad 💔

robzombie ✔️: little liar, i paid you with candy and put money into your pre adult account 🖤

❤️ liked by ynzombie

maxverstappen ✔️: you were adorable liefde ❤️ though how you were in movies like this so young, i don’t know…

> ynzombie ✔️: thank you maxie moo <3 the horror love just runs in my love babe, you know that

ynlnhorrorqueen: a horror icon was born the day this movie came out…

> zombiesloveynzombie: a horror icon was born the day the world knew she existed lmao 😭

landonorris ✔️: you were a funny looking kid

> ynzombie ✔️: get the fuck OUT of here oh my god 😭 i genuinely might get my dad to cast someone who looks like you as a victim in his next film (spoiler alert: you will NOT be a final girl, you’ll be the dumbass who falls over a pinecone and gets decapitated)

❤️ liked by maxverstappen

> landonorris ✔️: 😟

lewishamilton ✔️: fucking hell… i saw this when it first came out! and you were a baby then and you’re a grown up now… feel well old now! so nice seeing how far you’ve come love ❤️

> ynzombie ✔️: you are old, practically a fossil at this point! thank you lewis

ynzombie: house of 1000 corpses came out in theatres yesterday… did you guys love it? i know i fucking LOVED filming it and my dad LOVED making it ❤️

lewishamilton ✔️: loved it! incredible work yn, definitely a new favourite

> ynzombie: thank you lewis! i NEED to bring you on set next time

❤️ liked by lewishamilton

robzombie ✔️: no cursing

> ynzombie ✔️: i… dad have you seen the i do in your movies? i think you should be okay with cursing 😭

> robzombie ✔️: i’m kidding honey, curse all you want, you’re sure as shit old enough

zombiesloveynzombie: this movie… oh my god! yn zombie you should be imprisoned for making me obsessed with a character like baby firefly…

❤️ liked by maxverstappen

> maxverstrapon: max liking this comment lmao? sir can you even watch this movie?

> iluvf1: let him be 😭 he’s just supporting his gf

maxverstappen ✔️: so proud of you liefde ❤️

> ynzombie ✔️: i’m so proud of YOU for sitting through it without gagging at a nasty scene <3

> maxverstappen ✔️: i try, for you

❤️ liked by ynzombie

ynzombiehorrorqueen: i love how since yn was born and old enough, rob has basically never made any project without her being in it 🥺 he loves his daughter so much

landonorris ✔️: you’re a funny looking adult too actually…

> ynzombie ✔️: hope you die

> landonorris ✔️: maxverstappen come get yn she’s acting crazy again

> maxverstappen ✔️: i’m on her side this time, sorry mate

> landonorris ✔️: “ this time ” you’re ALWAYS on her side, she could skin me alive and roast me over a fire right in front of you and you’d be on her side

> maxverstappen ✔️: sounds like a you problem

❤️ liked by ynzombie

ynzombie: finally took max to meet daddy dearest! he only sat in the car shaking for about 20 minutes ❣️

robzombie ✔️: he’s an alright kid, your mother loved the flowers, bring him around again soon hon 🖤

> ynzombie ✔️: for sure <3

danielricciardio ✔️: how’d you get him out of the redbull gear?

> ynzombie ✔️: told him my dad HATES redbull

> zombiesloveynzombie: LMAO 😭

maxverstrapon: bringing her mom flowers, helping her mom in the kitchen, opening the wine, wearing something not redbull related… this man wants to be parent approved SO BAD LMAO

maxverstappen ✔️: it wasn’t so bad, thank you for convincing me to come liefde ❤️

❤️ liked by robzombie and ynzombie

> ynzombie ✔️: i’m just glad you were comfortable maxie ❤️ love you lots

> iluvyn: she needed to convince him to come? omg…

> oldf1lvr: to be fair if my girlfriends dad was a horror director and i knew nothing about horror and could barely even sit through them i’d be pretty scared too 😭

> iluvf1: not to mention that her dad is just ROB FUCKING ZOMBIE? how was he not supposed to be scared? lmao

ynzombie: sneak peek at mine and my dad’s new project! won’t be out for a while but i wanted to feed you guys ❤️

lewishamilton ✔️: can’t wait for this one yn! looks great already

> ynzombie ✔️: can’t wait to hear what you think when you see the full thing :D

❤️ liked by lewishamilton

> iluvf1: yn and lewis’ friendship will never not be adorable to me, they’re so close 🥹

> loveuyn: i mean, he LOVES all of her dads movies so it makes sense that they really easily befriended each other when max brought her to the grid for the first time

zombiesloveynzombie: yn playing another psycho ass bitch that i’m going to be obsessed with… I CANT WAIT

❤️ liked by maxverstrappen

maxverstappen ✔️: i think this one might be my favourite…

> ynzombie ✔️: because i kill characters who wanted to fuck my character?

> maxverstappen ✔️: yes :)

> maxverstrapon: max sitting through his girlfriends movies despite hating horror will always be SO CUTE to me, he lovesss her

maxverstappen: she’s a 10 but she’s got a bit of a big ego ( she’s rewatching all of her own movies ) ❤️

ynzombie ✔️: hm… okay then

> loveuyn: max is so going to regret saying this… i just know it, we all know how petty yn can get, even over a joke lmao 😭

❤️ liked by ynzombie

landonorris ✔️: 🫣

lewishamilton ✔️: oh mate…

> maxverstappen ✔️: what? what’s happening? what have i done?

danielricciardo ✔️: 😶

ynzombie: according to my lovely boyfriend, i have a large ego… i don’t know guys… anyways here’s some pictures from our weekend ❤️

maxverstappen ✔️: yn i’m begging you delete that first picture before your father sees it

> ynzombie ✔️: this is what you get for saying i had a big ego

> maxverstappen ✔️: i was KIDDING, liefde, please i beg you, delete

> ynzombie ✔️: i’m not deleting it

robzombie ✔️: yn, hon, would you ask your boyfriend to go into another room and call me? 🖤

> ynzombie ✔️: sure will dad!

> lewishamilton ✔️: maxverstappen good luck mate 👍

❤️ liked by ynzombie

maxverstrapon: the picture of him helping her clean the fake blood out of her hair… i want what they have 💔

> iluvf1: max is about to face the wrath of a father and you’re talking about that???

> maxverstrapon: ITS A CUTE PICTURE 😭

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨୧ ˚ NEW ADDED BONUS ˚ ୨୧ ⋆｡˚ ⋆

the aftermath of a call from a concerned father

[mjolnirswriststrap]

SCARED

Neighbor!Bucky Barnes X F!Reader

Word Count: 2,519 ⭐️Masterlist⭐️

Summary: I loosely based this off of a real life event of mine, so if things don’t make sense, ask God 🤣🤣

Warnings: Agegap, neighbor!bucky, adultery, 18+ not quite smut but I don’t want childen reading anything I write 🤷🏻‍♀️ suggestive or not.

Spending the summer with your aunt wasnt something you planned for when school ended. It meant church every Sunday, and Wednesday night. It meant no wifi and being stranded in a strange town on the border of Georgia and Alabama.

You’d never been to Georgia and the possibility of driving to Florida to go to the beach was enough to convince you 5 weeks wasn’t that long. The 10 hour drive there lasted longer than the summer escape.

The first few weeks were exactly what you expected. Church, shopping, eating your aunts famous fried chicken livers, talking on the porch late into the night. On the third Sunday, after church, she informs you that you’re taking a trip to Alabama. Her grandson is coming to spend the week. You both needed to go pick him up from her daughter.

It took 4 hours to get there, napping made it feel like 30 minutes. Your aunt pulled up to a trailer park, and you scan your surroundings. You were even further in the middle of nowhere, then what you were at your aunts house. You always wanted to know the way out. But here, a 2 mile dirt road separates you from the highway you turned off of. You take notice of the neighbors, one had a pool out front, some older ladies floating on pool noodles waved at your aunt, they must know her. The neighbors on the other side of your cousins house weren’t so inviting.

You saw a toddler sitting in the dirt crying. Watching up at his parents flinging spit in each others faces. You avert your gaze when the man flicks his eyes over to you. You know men like that, they’re terrifying and unpredictable. He could walk over to you and start on you just for glancing in his direction. Your aunt ushers you into her daughters house, not wanting you to see the altercation.

You hadn’t seen your cousin since you were a little girl. Now she has a little boy. It was weird. Your family was so large, it was impossible to keep up with everyone. You had many cousins you hadn’t seen since Christmas of ‘06. After a ham sandwich and barbecue chips you were ready to leave, it was more boring here, and your cousin even had cable. You aunt must’ve noticed your boredom, offering a swim in her friends pool out front.

“But I didn’t bring a bathing suit?” You say grinning, knowing you’d go naked if it meant you could swim. “Just wear your bra and I’ll go ask the neighbor if she has some shorts that will fit you.” Your aunt says, swinging open the screen door. You nod your head, quickly braiding your hair to keep it out of your face. You almost lose your spot, twisting knots into your hair when the blonde woman from next door walks in, smiling. “Hey, your aunt said you needed some shorts?”.

You hop up from the couch. “Yes, thank you, I don’t know if we’re even close to the same size but what can it hurt to try?” You give her a soft smile. She looked like a wounded animal. She was way too nice to be getting yelled at like that. You wonder what set him off. But you know better than to ask. “Tanya, your kids crying.” You both look behind her to the open door. The dark haired man was standing there, looking thoroughly disgusted. When his eyes find you again, you have nowhere to hide. “Your aunt says you guys are staying the night.” He informs you, walking away. You furrow your eyebrows, why wouldn’t your aunt tell you that herself?

“She did, James needs a ride into town tomorrow and your aunt couldn’t say no.” She gives you a tight lipped smile. She knows a young girl would rather be spending her summer somewhere else. Once you squeezed into the shorts, you bolted to the pool, with a quick introduction to Sherry and Barb, sisters who owned the park. They were nice, asked you questions and treated you like family. Your aunt must really know them, you had no clue how.

Tanya and your aunt walked across the grass and climbed into the pool. Tanya tightly held onto a bottle of Budweiser, letting you know the night was already starting. You dunk your head, wanting to wash away the sweat from your forehead. When you resurface you see James stomping towards the pool, his shirt missing and motor oil smeared on his chest. “Drinking beer but not watching your kid I wish I could be surprised.” That’s when you notice a little boy in his hands, floaties tightly wrapped around his arms and body. He snatched the brown bottle from her hands, tossing the boy into the pool. “I got shit to do.” He walked away, finishing the beer and throwing the empty bottle to the ground.

After two more hours in the pool, your cousin came out looking for your aunt, leaving you alone with the Tanya and the baby. “Are you happy?” You finally ask, only because you’re truly alone with her. Her eyes well with tears, she shakes her head no. You move across the pool grabbing the boy you’d become acquainted with. You pulled yourself out of the water, not bothering to dry off, but you wrapped the boy in a towel. The sun was setting and it wasn’t warm enough for him to be out here wet. “I’ll be right back.” You give her a firm nod, carrying him in the direction of her house. She just watched helplessly as you turn the corner out of site.

Your heart started beating faster as you walked up to the trailer, knocking on the door. You try to think of what to say as you wait for him to open the door. You hear cursing from the other side before it’s swung open. He stands there for a minute, holding the door open before you realize he’s inviting you in. You step up, still holding onto the toddler. You don’t move from the doormat, afraid of tracking water through the house. “You can lay him down on the couch.” He says, pointing toward the corner of the room. You nod, padding your feet across the cold linoleum. You didn’t even notice the boy fell asleep in your arms, swimming always tuckers out kids. You straighten your back when you feel water droplets sliding down the inside of your thigh, pooling water at your feet.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even dry off before bringing him.” You look at the ground, wondering how you could fix the wet footprints that painted his floor. “I’m not.” He says but you barely catch it. “Huh?” You ask.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s just water honey.” You look up at him, not believing his sincerity. His blue eyes are piercing into yours. “Okay, well I better get back to the pool.” He watches you as you walk out of the door, he doesn’t make room for you to slip past him, causing you to turn your body towards him, he smelled good, you don’t know how. He was covered in black dirt from under the car, and sweat. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt and his tanned skin was so smooth, save for the happy trail growing up his stomach.

He was a lot older than you, more than 15 years, you’d guess. But you couldn’t tell standing this close to him. Your brain forces you out of the door. If you stood there in the tension for a second longer you don’t know what stupid thing would come out of your mouth. When you got back to the pool everyone had rejoined Tanya, even your aunt and cousin were drinking. You escape to your cousins house, changing back into your leggings and putting on your t-shirt. You check on your baby cousin, he’s sleeping in his room, not a worry in the world. You take the chance to spend a minute alone and turn on the tv.

You don’t even care to change the channel, SpongeBob played, lulling you to sleep. You’re awoken by your aunt, handing you the neighbor boy. “Will you watch him for a minute?” You just nod, and she’s out of the house. You peak through the curtain to see blue lights out front. Why are the cops here? You rock the boy to sleep, laying him down beside your cousin in his bed. When you walk outside everyone’s gone. The cops, your aunt, the neighbors. “What the hell.” You say out loud. You go knock on Sherrys door, hoping your aunt was there. But no one answered. Walking across the grass field someone caught your attention. It’s James, yelling at his trailer. “You don’t love me anyways, bitch.” He throws another beer bottle, this one smashes against the siding of the house. “I should’ve never fucked you and let you have my kid.” You stop in your tracks when he turns around, obviously drunk. “Hey.” He says, slowly walking towards you. “Are you okay?” You ask naïve as ever.

“I’m a good person, right?” He asks. You don’t know what to say, not wanting to tip him off that you were shitting your pants right now.

“Yes, you seem like a really good dad.” You’re trying to deescalate. “I am.” His voice is a little louder than it should be. “I don’t doubt it.” You’re still standing in the same spot, too afraid to move. “You’re nice.” He says, smiling widely. You give him one back, he hadn’t done anything to you yet, you weren’t going to give him a reason to.

It was no secret that you were nervous. Your breathing was fast and your eyes kept darting past him. “You don’t have to be scared. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He throws his hands in the air. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He says, stepping closer to you again. “Everyone hurts me. Treats me like I’m not worth anything.” He lets his head hang, and you start to feel guilt building inside of you, this man just needed someone to lean on. “I’m not worthless, right?” He looks up at you with tears in his eyes. You know he’s drunk, but this pain was real.

“You’re worth more than you know.” It was cliche, but a true blanket statement, no one knows their true worth. “Thank you.” He says, wiping his eyes. “I just need someone to hold me for once.” You felt that, you knew exactly what he meant. “Wanna hug?” You offer, knowing that sometimes that’s all people need, church the last three weeks had taught you that. Sometimes a smile and a handshake is all the human contact people get all week.

He just looks at you, expecting you to close the gap between you. So you do, you walk towards him, fear in the form of sweat, still dripping from you. You give him a warm smile as you lay your head on his chest, wrapping your arms around his middle. His hands quickly found your hips, pulling you even closer to him. He squeezed you tightly, and you swear you hear him smell your hair. You try to pull away after an awkward silence falls over the two of you, but he won’t let you go.

“I’m sorry you’re going through stuff man, I am.” You say, patting his shoulder to tell him to let go. You feel his body go rigid against yours so you think he’s crying again. Drunk tears are never ending. “It’s okay.” You wrap your arms around him again, rubbing up and down his bare back. You try to pull away again, this time saying something “Don’t want Tanya to come out here and catch you hugging a stranger, probably best we let go now.”

His silence was a thousand words. Then he spoke, “You can’t do that.” He says lowly. You pull away and try to look at his face. “What are you talking about?” You ask, fear filling you again. He looks into your eyes, letting one of his hands slide down to the curve of your ass. You instantly put your hands on his chest and try to push him away. “You can’t be sweet to me and expect me not to like it.” His voice was different now, desperate. He presses his face into your neck, sloppily kissing up to your jaw.

Your heart is beating out of your chest now, and you stop fighting, not wanting to anger him. “You don’t want to cheat on your wife, you’re just drunk.” You try to break through to him. “You don’t know me.” He says, pulling you towards the back yard. “No I don’t, but you seem like a good man, don’t let a drunken mistake ruin what you’ve built for yourself.” You keep trying to persuade him.

“I wasn’t drunk earlier, when I watched you bend over in my living room, dripping wet. I wanted you then, just didn’t say anything.” He says, pressing you against your cousins house. He breathes in your face, and you smell more than beer on his breath, whiskey was pungently invading your nose. “So what? You like me or something?” You ask, confused on where this was going.

“Something like that.” He says, pressing his lips to yours. You’re shocked, you thought you were gonna be able to talk your way out of it. “This isn’t right.” You stop the kiss, nodding towards his trailer. You look between his eyes and try to find some common sense. “Then why does it feel right?” He grabs your hand, forcing you to cup the hard mass in his pants.

You gasp, you’d never felt one before, your virginity not up for debate, you’d never even had a boyfriend. “See, you like it too.” It’s like he’s trying to convince you. You look between him and the houses, searching for a witness. When you couldn’t find a soul, you stop fighting all together. He feels your body relax and takes it as permission to pull your leggings down. “Hey!” You say, but you guess it was too loud for his liking because he covers your mouth with his hand, looking you dead in the eye while his fingers push past your panties and dip inside of you. “You like being scared little girl?” He pulls his hand away from you, licking his fingers and tasting you.

Him reading you like a book was also a turn on. You stay silent, telling him everything he needs to know. He twist your body, pressing your face into the plastic. “Maybe you like it rough too, huh?” He slaps your bare ass, rubbing the raised red welt to soothe it.

You whimper, you’re going to let him have his way with you. If this was the only eventful thing that happens this summer, then what the hell. Tanya wasn’t happy and neither was he, who were you to interfere with destiny?

[biird-rot]

Leon Kennedy is Autistic: An Analysis by an Autistic Person

DISCLAIMER: This post and all the points I make are highly based on my OWN experiences. I often find parallels between my experiences as a disabled individual and characters I love to help me better cope with and process my feelings. Hate will not be tolerated!!!

Before I get started, I’d like to say that this is not even me scratching the SURFACE of the things I could analyze about Leon and apply to various autistic experiences, this is mostly just the things that resonate with me the most.

Parallel Play/Preferring to Work Alone

It could be attributed to trauma, and the fact he works in a government agency, but Leon has always been the flying solo type. Missions in which it would be better if multiple people worked on it (RE4) HOWEVER! Whenever he does work with others, he often goes off on his own and leaves whoever he's with to deal with what's there (DI, Leon going off immediately after being vaccinated by Rebecca)

Difficulty Communicating/Identifying Emotions

This also plays into the difficulty making friends and maintaining friendships aspect of being autistic. There isn't any direct/obvious representations of this occurring in the franchise, but it can be inferred based upon his interaction with Chris and Rebecca in RE: Vendetta when the two try to recruit Leon on their mission because of the intel he has on the type of BOWs they're dealing with. Speaking of RE: Vendetta, it can also be noted that Leon copes with his inability to cope with/regulate his emotions by drinking, and this is a habit he always had. In fact, he's essentially hung over in RE2, having drunk his feelings away after being broken up with the night before the Raccoon City incident, and he is literally drinking on the job in Damnation. Essentially, he's canonically an alcoholic. As an autistic person, sometimes I would turn to unhealthy coping mechanisms to deal with my emotional dysregulation, especially when I was unaware that I was autistic.

Leon isn't a very emotional person in general, again, It could be chalked up to trauma, but lack of emotional expression is also a common experience/trait amongst autistics.

“Inappropriate” Responses to Situations

GODDDD this one is SO prominent in RE4R (hell, even the OG), Infinite Darkness actually everything he's in, I can name at LEAST 2 examples of this. To keep this short, I'll just name ones that I relate painfully hard to, and ones that I find hilarious.

To start, WHENEVR HE JUST SAYS "ok 🧍" in response to an emotional moment. RE2R, when Claire introduces him to Sherry, in RE4R, when Ashley hugs him and expresses her relief that he's okay, and in Infinite Darkness whenever he checks up on Patrick after the White House Outbreak. It never fails to make me lose it because he's just like me fr.

Thists a sillier one, but I want to mention it because it's so mecore.

Thank you to @highball66 for doing the lord's work of translating the Death Island manga yall seriously he’s a legend🙏

When Leon sends selfies of him on missions. That's it. He just sends it to Hunnigan and I think it's great.

Sensory Issues

Okay, I KNOW LEON IS A GOVERNMENT AGENT AND NEEDS SOME LEVEL OF GEAR ON MISSIONS BUT!!!!! Half the time he isn't even wearing a full set, not even a bullet proof vest. HOWEVER, I did notice that one thing he CONSISTENTLY wears (with the exception of a few instances) is GLOVES!!! This is more of a personal headcannon, but I like to think he's sensitive to texture, especially when handling guns and such, so he wears gloves, so it doesn't feel as terrible. To further back up his sensitivity to texture, in Death Island, after the Dylan BOW explodes and splashes water everywhere, Chris doesn't seem to care about being covered in water while Leon is flicking the water off him.

Literal Thinking - Coming off as Rude/Inappropriate Unintentionally

GODDDDD this is another big one, but I’ll only cover the ones that I relate to a lot to save time. Starting with his initial encounter with Jill in Death Island, they’re being chased by lickers and…well..this interaction

Exhibit B: This scene. He’s just so nonchalant about it and I do the exact same thing without like…intentionally being a “smartass” or whatever, I’m just being honest 🧍. Jill’s “Oh😒” at the end of the scene is really what made it hit home, because that’s how people typically react when i have a similar interaction with them

ANOTHER THING!!! All of the instances in which Leon casually asks “so you wanna get dinner?” Or something along those lines. It’s often interpreted as a poor attempt at flirting, but personally, I think he genuinely just wants food, and he doesn’t understand why ppl are like 🤨 when he asks. He just wants a nice dinner with a nice lady :(

Hyper-empathy

Small disclaimer here, autism is a SPECTRUM. And our empathy levels fluctuate every day. In Leon’s case, I see him being hyper-empathetic, much like myself. And being able to empathize so easily with people is incredibly draining. Additionally, a huge thing that is common among autistics is how we tend to respond to people who are sharing their struggles with us sharing our OWN experiences that are similar to theirs, and it often comes off as egocentric and selfish to “make it about us”, but in reality, that’s our way of saying that we understand what you’re going through, and it helps us process how you may be feeling as well. There are many scenes I could pull from, but I want to talk about one specifically in Infinite Darkness since it resonates so much with me:

The scene within ID in which Jason is having a nightmare, and Leon wakes him up, immediately asking him if he wants to talk about it. Jason recalls the nightmare and his trauma about Penamstan to Leon, and says that he has no idea what it was like, and Leon responds talking about his experience in Raccoon City, and how that affected him similarly

Special Interests & Using Media to Communicate Feelings

There are many aspects of this I could talk about, but I’ve already written 10 pages worth already in this post, so I’ll speed through it.

Personally, I think Leon has a special interest in film! He makes several references throughout the franchise, many of which are overlooked. Personally, my favorite reference he makes is in RE: Vendetta to Pulp Fiction (I think) when Chris and Rebecca confront him during his “vacation”

Final Notes/Conclusion

I had to cut a LOT out from my original mini-essay I wrote about this to fit it better on here, and make it not as boring to read lmao, but I hope you enjoyed my silly little analysis! I love being able to relate my experiences to others, fictional or otherwise, as it helps me feel less alone, and be able to process and cope with what makes my disability a…well, a disability. I hope fellow autistics find some solace in this as well, and please let me know your additional thoughts about this topic if you’re a fellow autistic Leon Kennedy headcannoner!!!

[helluvagyal]

Synopsis: just some general headcanons about my favorite demon. Part 1/3, relationship headcanons coming next.

Content: general headcanons, mentions of cannibalism.

A/N: My first piece of writing for the fandom and I had to start with my murder baby. Enjoy, let me know what you think please. Don't forget to reblog! Banner and dividers by me.

— shoutout to @hellvcifer for getting me into it. Please read and reblog their work it's amazing!

Alastor is like that weird elusive sinner that you rarely see and when he does show up, it’s during drama or when he needs something.

Count on him to show out and throw hands (hooves?) for his people though.

Alastor always has a story to tell and the hotel residents’ favorites are definitely about his life before he ended up in hell.

He’s usually very tight lipped about those but if you catch him while he's making dinner, he'll turn into a chatterbox—especially if he's already got sherry or rye in him.

When he's cooking alone, that's his favorite time for contemplation and/or Hell domination.

His ever present smile has gone soft at the corners, his voice has lost its warped and static edge as he hums along to his radio, moving around the kitchen as if floating.

On the nights when it's his turn to cook, he definitely helps Niffty with the clean up after.

He doesn't have much of a sweet tooth but when those cravings kick in, it's with a vengeance.

Gingerbread cookies are his go to snack to pair with blood infused lemon tea as well as blood orange tea.

Demon ladyfingers sprinkled with powdered sugar and paired with blood infused black tea is an afternoon time favorite.

There was one week where he ate nothing but beignets, bananas foster and sweet potato pie for breakfast.

Alastor has a thirst for knowledge, prides himself on finding out everything he can, even if it's only to satisfy a mere curiosity.

He's a fashion snob. He never did care much for it when he was topside, only making sure he looked his best.

But since being in Hell, he's found himself with quite the eye and knack for Hellish threads. I mean, come on. I know ya'll saw his red bottoms!

He goes shopping with Angel occasionally, resolutely ignoring (or snickering at) how the shopkeeper cowers in fear when he asks if a powder blue fleece scarf he saw came in blood red.

With being a fashion snob, it paved the way for his stitcher's thumb.

Now, he's no expert like Rosie but she taught him a thing or two when he'd have the patience for it.

He's patched up knife holes in Niffty's dresses, sewn up tears in Angel’s sweaters and even hemmed one of Vaggie's skirts.

He'll dedicate two nights a week–if he's not busy with hotel duties–to sitting in front of his bayou and stitching or sewing.

He can play instruments; learned the sax and trumpet topside and mastered the piano down below.

Alastor actually likes the peace that comes with doing menial tasks. Instead of snapping his fingers to have the dishes washed and put away or to have his books dusted, he will do it if he has the extra time.

Getting dressed for the day is something he always does on his own, from ironing his pristine suits to shining his dress shoes.

Alastor does in fact sleep, however, he's trained himself to go long periods without needing to. He sleeps best after a feeding.

When using his abilities on particular prey, it acts as a health bar of sorts. So the stronger the prey, along with the extent of damage, determines his healing time and energy output.

Alastor is one of the many sinners who have had issues in the past coming to terms with their newly acquired anatomy.

The antlers have grown on him and so have the ears as it helps when he's flicking through frequencies.

Alastor absolutely abhors his tail, tried cutting it off but it just grew right back, bushier too.

He could never control the wretched thing, hates that it would give away his moods with a twitch or a tuck.

When he first discovered that it rapidly swishes from side to side when he's upset, he immediately went out to hunt, feeling like he had to go out and prove something.

He's started going to bed last, or at least retiring to his room when all the residents are asleep. Secretly likes to ensure the others are safe and sound.

Alastor is a huge fan of games, board, tile and card games to be specific. Yes, he's competitive but he enjoys the relaxing and occasionally heated atmosphere it provides.

For board games, he loves Scrabble (topside), Game of the World (topside), Clue (down below), and Pictionary (down below). If you value your life, please do not poke fun at his drawings in Pictionary, he gets testy.

For tile games, he loves Dominoes. His mother was the one who taught him how to play–as with most of the other games–one night when the power was out and he couldn’t listen to his radio programs or get some work done.

For card games, he likes Oh Hell, The Donkey card game and Make-A-Million.

If you couldn't tell, he prefers games where he can show off his smarts and be stimulated.

He despises Chess, Beggar-my-neighbor and Bingo.

Bonding/group sessions have grown on him, he won't admit it though. He's come to look forward to them, especially the night-time rituals, but please do not ask him to join movie night, he already put up with camping in the garden.

He's stellar at giving advice but is absolute shit at taking them sometimes, especially if he doesn't agree with it but knows it's rational

He will never tell you what you want to hear unless it's beneficial to him. Count on him to tell you what you need to hear, especially if you personally sought him out to get something off your mind.

If you aren't Rosie (and occasionally the residents), he would prefer not to prolong conversations unless he knows he's going to gain valuable information, be entertained or stimulated.

It's no secret that he has a soft spot for Niffty, his shadow does too; you can find them playing together sometimes with Alastor occasionally keeping a watchful eye.

He takes his title of 'King Roach' very seriously.

If you want some quiet time in the hotel, just seek out Alastor. If your social battery is running low but you don't necessarily want to be alone, either him or Husk would be your best bet.

If you've been invited to his room or his study to have a nightcap and a gab session, you're one of his most tolerable companions.

For the love of all that is bad and sinful, PLEASE do not ask about going up to his radio tower, especially during a broadcast; it's best if you just let him invite you.

However, he does allow Niffty up there to assist his shadow with cleaning the space.

If Alastor had a middle name, it would be Petty. It's also no secret that he's into mischief making. He and Angel got a kick out of the Prank Wars as a bonding exercise. They make a scary good team

He can dish out but he cannot take it. Don't even bother trying to get even with him because then everyone will have to hear about “the terrible slight on my honor”.

He's very chivalrous, even if his ways of showing it can be a bit twisted.

© helluvagyal ‧ all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, translate, share, or copy my work.

[inoreuct]

drink from me

a sherry-laced conversation about thirst and running away. zosan | 2k | hurt/comfort

Being a coward isn’t as easy as one might think.

It’s juxtaposition in its own right; cowardice is, as defined, a lack of bravery— And yet Sanji supposes it takes bravery to be able to ditch everything you stand for. To turn tail and run. Bravery to bear upon your shoulders the disappointment of everybody who had ever believed in you. 

He sighs deeply, tilting the bottle in his hand so that the dregs of liquor slosh within. This is why he doesn’t drink.

It’s relatively easy most days. To lock his past behind a set of double doors, bar the handles with a padlock and chain so he can pretend that everything he’s running from isn’t just three paces behind, snapping at his heels, starved and ready to eat him up whole. Alcohol slots the key back into place and twists it without his permission. Twists his heart until it aches.

He doesn’t know why he’d started. The bottle of sherry had sat, nondescript and guileless and half-full on the galley table after the night’s dessert, and Sanji had paused before he’d slowly wrapped his fingers around the neck of it and let his nails scrape against the dark glass.

The cork had popped almost too easily and here he is now, taffrail digging into his forearms as he takes a long drag from his cigarette and lets bitter smoke fill his lungs full to bursting. Blood orange coats the back of his tongue, cloyingly sweet, thick on the roof of his mouth— He’d made a layered trifle with cacao nibs and caramelised cream that had been slathered between slabs of boozy vanilla sponge, and the aftertaste clings to his teeth. Sanji peers down as what’s left of the sherry glimmers vaguely inside the bottle and fights the urge to chug the rest. 

He could, if he really wanted to. He hardly drinks but it certainly doesn’t mean he can’t. 

A soft scrape against wood catches his attention, barely perceptible. He fights to keep his spine from stiffening, fights to maintain his loose-limbed, easy demeanor; the liquid warmth in his veins helps some but not enough, and he’s halfway through another drag when near-silent footsteps stop just behind him. 

Zoro’s haori shifts in the wind, palm loosely wrapped around the end of Wado’s hilt where she’s strapped alone to his hip. “Was wondering where you went,” he says easily, looking out over the ocean. 

Sanji scoffs. It burns his throat more than the sherry did. “For someone built like that, you’re surprisingly quiet, marimo.”

The immediate urge to kick himself is something new. He rarely feels it— It appears often, don’t get him wrong, he just. Ignores it. It’s a little more difficult tonight. Built like that. The noise that escapes him is mirthless. What’s that even supposed to mean, huh? Alcohol’s always made him snappy and he does feel bad for once — But he’s tired, and the chores won’t do themselves. 

“Make it quick, would you?” he mutters when Zoro still hasn’t replied, low and quiet in the still evening air as he curves down to dig the heel of his palm into his temple. “My spice jars are still all over the counter, and I have to mop the floor before I wash the dishes—”

“It’s done.” 

Sanji blinks, before his eyes narrow and he turns his head to look at Zoro properly. “The dishes?”

“Everything.” The swordsman huffs when Sanji gives him a dubious look, gaze flicking over and away again as he rolls his eye. “Luffy asked me to clean up the galley. Said you needed a break.”

Well. The cook exhales, measured, and buries his face into the crook of his elbow. Taps his cig so that ash doesn’t fall into his hair where he’s holding it aloft above his head. “Tell him thanks, but I don’t.”

He clocks it out of his peripheral vision when Zoro smirks and waves a hand to gesture to his cigarette and his slouch and the glass bottle dangling against wood. “What’s this, then?”

I don’t know. Shop’s closed, please fuck off and come back tomorrow morning. 

The other words that sit at the tip of Sanji’s tongue are far more scathing. He feels them, bites them back viciously before he can burn anyone other than himself. “If there’s a single thing out of place in there I’m gonna—”

“Kick my ass, I know, I know.” Zoro chuckles under his breath. “Don’t you get tired of saying the same things over and over again?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t constantly choose to be selectively deaf, moss-for-brains.”

The swordsman huffs another soft laugh, and conversation peters out after that. Sanji feels an itch building at the base of his skull, flickering just under his skin; it’s making him restless. He taps the bottle against the rail just to fill the silence. Zoro reaches a hand out and Sanji gives it to him easily, unthinkingly, watching and pretending he isn’t as the swordsman thumbs over the faded paper label that’s peeling at the corner. 

Zoro’s hands are scarred, he notes. He knows this, of course, but he never gets tired of letting his gaze drift over tan skin and old scars, thin slivers of pearly tissue painted silver in the moonlight. A breeze ruffles his hair as Zoro finally drinks, and he’s distantly surprised to see that it’s a measured sip and not a swig like what it usually would have been. 

Fucking hell. Sanji’s inhale shudders when he pushes himself up and stands straight, now-free hand wrapping around lacquered wood as he finishes his cigarette and tosses the butt over the side. He needs to stop thinking. He’s paying too much attention. There’s a pressure building behind his forehead and Zoro is an overwhelming presence beside him, unavoidable, stoic and staunch as ever, perfect posture, perfect honour, a sentinel with a pure white sword like some sort of— of hero from a storybook. Perfect perfect perfect.

It’s all building like a scream behind his lips, a river at a bottleneck, and he clenches his jaw to keep it in. Grits his teeth until he hears them creak because what would happen if he opened his mouth? Nothing good, he’s sure. Nothing anyone needs.

Sanji nearly startles when the bottle taps against his elbow. “Talk to me.”

“Nothing to say,” he replies immediately, taking a careless gulp and holding in a cough. 

Zoro’s slow exhale feels like it shifts the wind itself. Their ship creaks gently. “You always have something to say, curls.”

“Look, you—” He cuts himself off, tempering his breath. “I’m tired, alright? So can you just get to the point?” Fuck, he needs another cigarette. 

Maybe that’s the problem. He knows he’s the problem, sure, but Sanji suspects that he’s been running for so long that he’s forgotten how to walk. It’s grown into him like weeds wound through his ribs, the way he sees poison in water that’s perfectly clean, the way peace makes him more anxious than chaos does. He needs to stop running. He doesn’t know how. 

Zoro pries the sherry from his fingers and it’s only then that he relaxes the death grip he’d unintentionally had, a shudder slipping over his shoulders. Zoro holds the bottle loosely between his scarred fingers and doesn’t drink.

The silence thickens. Static crackles within his bones.

Sanji doesn’t know why he starts talking. Doesn’t know why it feels like a dam breaking in his chest, but his mouth is open, and the words are emptying out. “I’m tired of looking over my shoulder for something that isn’t there. Luffy gave me something to run towards, for once, but—”

He doesn’t know how to say it’s not enough without sounding ungrateful, without being greedy. “Sometimes I think I could… consume every one of the Blues, and still want more,” he allows. “Need more.” His fingers lace together, and Sanji dips his head with a wry smile even as he looks at the endless expanse of sky in front of them. “I’m afraid I’ll drink the world and still come up dry.”

There is a thirst in him. Something different than what had wracked him for a month on that barren rock. Hunger he can handle; he eats just enough to stave it off and goes about his day. This, though— Sanji can’t help the way it buzzes in the back of his head and keeps him wound up like a coil of electrical wire. He kneads dough and whisks egg whites just to have something to do with his hands. He defaults to his usual barbs when he’s feeling ungrounded so he can kid himself into thinking he possesses some semblance of normality. His shoulders ache as he stares out over the sea and wonders what it’s like to hold so much and still, still, be so achingly empty.

The winds change, carding cool fingers through his hair. 

“Drink from me,” Zoro says, and Sanji’s breath catches between his teeth.

His head snaps up to find Zoro already looking at him, face unreadable, elbows on the taffrail and bottle cupped in his hands. The swordsman looks serene, Sanji thinks. Gaze trained straight ahead, ever clear of his objectives as Wado gleams at his side, starlight in an ivory sheath. 

“Drink from me,” he repeats. The words are solemn as they always are in moments like these, the liminal space just after dusk but before true night, as his eyes shift over to Sanji and lock in place. “I won’t let you go thirsty again.” 

Sanji’s mouth dries. It’s hard not to feel pinned as Zoro looks at him; the weight of his gaze is almost physically tangible, like a familiar green coat settling over his shoulders. That’s the thing about Zoro— For all Sanji jokes about him having plant life in his skull, the swordsman has a penchant for dropping absolutely earth-shaking statements without even seeming to think about them at all. The cook swallows once, twice, tries to find his words as his lips part and loses them as soon as he takes his next breath.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop feeling like a ticking time bomb. But as Zoro’s lashes flutter and he looks away, Sanji feels something in him settle. The relentless buzz that always seems to sit just beneath his skin soothes out into a quiet hum. 

Maybe part of it’s how Zoro’s scarred and still perfect. Untouchable. Sanji couldn’t hurt him even if he tried, even if he blows apart.

His fingers wrap, unthinking, around the neck of the bottle as it’s pushed back into his hand, the pressure of Zoro’s touch lingering until he’s sure that Sanji has a good grip. The swordsman’s boots brush softly across the planks as he turns to leave and he’s halfway to the stairs before Sanji speaks.

“Marimo.”

He knows Zoro turns without even looking. “Hm?”

“Did Luffy really ask you to clean up the galley?”

A pause, before Zoro starts walking again. “Get some sleep, cook. I’ll take the rest of your watch.”

The silence he leaves in his wake is honey-thick. First watch is Sanji’s shift, it always is— He cleans up the galley and stays awake until Zoro comes to take over. 

(The galley is clean. His watch is covered. His mind is quiet.

For once, he can’t find himself another reason to stay.)

 

The sherry holds no evidence of them ever having shared it. Sanji lifts the tinted glass and there’s no trace of Zoro, no proof that his mouth had ever been where Sanji’s is— None of the candied orange and rosemary from the duck they’d had for dinner, gamey and blood-sweet.

I won’t let you go thirsty again.

Sanji tastes it still, gentle in the back of his throat as he drains the bottle.

[e-vay]

I love your first date with Aurora and Shadow, it’s so cute!

But I wonder; with Aurora spending all day at the cafe and coming home late (obviously without telling her parents she was on a date) would Sonic and/or Amy do the classic ‘sitting in a dark corner waiting for their child to come home’? They flick on the lights when Aurora gets back and question where she’s been all day, and why she’s so giddy? Sonic would probably eventually get suspicious and end up being over protective, following Aurora and hiding in bushes to catch what she’s up too 😂

Aww I'm so glad you enjoyed their first date! 💖🖤

You're in luck! The fabulous @sherrydoodlez illustrated that exact scenario!

This comic is an oldie but I still think about it all the time 🥰

[moonlight-prose]

wip wednesday!

i don't think anyone tagged me in this last week (but if you did then thank you). i also just really like dropping little snippets here each wednesday so here's a big one for the one, the only, eddie alden fic.

this fic has consumed me entirely and well i've got a surprise that goes with it but that's for a different time.

hopelessly devoted to you

Trailing to the kitchen with you hot on his heels, he rummaged in the take out drawer full of old menus that needed replacements eventually. Pages were stained, ripped, and crumpled from years of use. You snatched the only pizza place one out of his grasp, eyes flicking through the selections with a grin. Predictable. He could have ordered blindly for you if he'd have known your tastes were the same.

"Lemme guess–"

"Pepperoni–" you began.

"With sausage and jalapenos," he finished.

"Fuck off Eddie."

He smiled, confident enough to have your mind falter on anything except the man before you. How did he do that? Render you a bumbling fool who could barely put the correct words in order to form a complete sentence. One day you might have to ask if that was just his Eddie charm, or if it only worked on you in particular.

"I would. But it's my place kitten." Dialing the number he knew by heart, he left you to wander spots in the apartment that hadn't been on his grand tour.

A corner table held a photo of Eddie's mother, his father nowhere to be seen in the background. You didn't blame him for avoiding the man entirely. After what occurred you were surprised that Eddie hadn't killed him; although he once came close at nineteen.

The night his mother spilled the truth over one too many glasses of sherry; the night Eddie figured out the man he once looked up to had a different family in an entirely different state.

If you trailed your fingers down the back of his neck you'd find the spot his father had slammed him into the banister of their front staircase. The fight bordered on brutal. A viscous act that left what relationship remained tattered and torn to shreds on the floor around them. Both men landed hits with no true aim, teeth bared and seeking blood through the red haze of their anger.

Eddie wanted revenge. His father wanted submission.

They'd always stood on thin ice ready to crack beneath the weight of their baggage. A horrendous cycle of push and pull—each one aware of how to tear the other down with ease. Their bond was built on torment. And to watch the tension explode, drowning them both beneath the glacial waters, left you stuck in a dark chasm of helplessness.

Stupidly you got a scar to match when you threw yourself in front of a near unconscious Eddie, attempting to stop the man from landing a final punch to his son's face. He hit you instead. The scar on your shoulder was small, barely there, but you could still feel Eddie's lips on it when he cleaned the wound. Apologies spilling from his lips until he fell asleep in your bed.

But you supposed that was Eddie. A protector above all else.

The man who would throw himself into the heat of battle before considering the consequences that came with a choice that reckless.

"They'll be here in twenty minutes." He crept up behind you, glancing at the photo of him on his Mom's birthday. "Thinking about that night?"

You jumped, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Yeah."

He nodded. "Hard not to."

"Has he ever..."

"No." The darkened shadow across his face gave you enough of a response. It was time to move onto a different subject.

"So..." You settled on his couch with a heavy sigh. "Your work."

Dragging the throw blanket his mother sewed him over your legs, he clambered onto the empty space beside you. The heater was slowly sputtering to life—radiator giving it all it had to keep the both of you warm. But beside him you felt the heat practically emanate off his body in waves.

What you wouldn't give to curl into his lap and seek it from the source.

"The drama has been exquisite," he stated, draping his arm on the top of the couch behind your head. "You remember me tellin' you about Jane?"

"Goodall?"

"The very one." He settled further into the cushions, legs spread beneath the blanket until he nudged yours. "She and Ray broke up. It's been hell in the office dealing with their confused tension."

"Wait, isn't this the guy who cheated with her?"

He nodded. "Now I'm not saying he's horrible. But you gotta at least break up with the girl before you go with another."

"Ahh you're taking my teachings to heart," you smiled, leaning your head against his arm.

"I have to Kit. Every time I don't I feel like you're gonna pop out and whack me–" Landing a weak hit to his side, he clamped his hand around your wrist, tugging you close with a laugh. "Like that!"

Attempting to free yourself was futile when he outmatched you in strength and speed. Yet you found that you enjoyed being this close to him. Laughing as you once did in the years of your youth. When all that mattered was which movie you were seeing that Friday and what school the team was playing.

Somehow—in the blink of an eye—you were two adults stuck in your own travesties. Forced to forgo the blithe energy of your childhood. You'd jump at the chance to go back; if only to get more time with Eddie. To spend a few more hours in his bedroom watching horror movies that left you both shell shocked and restless.

To cheer him on at every game with the promise of burgers and shakes at the local drive in afterwards. To watch him grow up and move to New York. Only this time...you'd follow him the second he asked.

His eyes softened as your smile slipped from your lips, fingers curling around his fist. Hazel had never been your favorite color until Eddie left. You rarely thought of it when he was home, but as his absence became a reality you could no longer suffer through you began to see the color everywhere. In the trees, in the color of your old blanket you stole off his childhood bed, in the flannel that once belonged to his grandfather.

You found traces of Eddie Alden in every little aspect of your life, except him.

"Kitten," he murmured, a fraction closer than he'd been a minute ago. His eyes dropped to the curve of your lips, how they parted so sweetly at the sound of your pet name.

"Eddie..."

All that remained was the space between your heads—your body practically leaning into him the longer you talked. He could lean in and kiss you. He could finally learn what you tasted like, figure out how you'd sound if his tongue licked along yours. Fuck he'd never wanted something more.

 The dazed glint in your eyes made his heart twist, his tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. Your gaze fixed on the movement immediately and Eddie felt his cock twitch in interest. One day he'd explain to you how fucking beautiful you were; how his mind went haywire at the sight of your smile. How he'd destroy himself to get you to look at him like he hung the moon and stars.

One day he'd spill his deepest darkest secrets to you.

Starting with three little words that kept him up at night tossing and turning.

He swallowed thickly. "I..."

The door buzzed loud enough to scare the shit out of you. Leaping back, you felt the breath catch in your throat painfully and like an idiot you began to cough. Eddie's eyes went wide, his hand tapping your back as you waved him off to get the pizza. Leaving you to sit there on his couch and choke...on air.

Dumbass.

"Thanks man," Eddie muttered, handing off what cash he had left in his wallet. "Keep the change."

He rushed back to the couch, pizza in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "Kit, you okay? Here drink this before you die on my fuckin' couch."

"Shut up Eddie," you snipped, eyes burning with a glare. Though the smile on your lips told him something else. "Hand over the pizza before it's you dying."

"Yes ma'am," he muttered, flipping open the box and swiping the remote off the coffee table. Taking his spot by your side back with a grin.

tagging whoever wants to do it!

[tetras-stuff]

I asked my sister who knows nothing about Resident Evil to look at pictures of the characters and describe what she thinks of them. Here is what she said for each character

Jill

- massive asshole

- a little gay

- needs a haircut and a shower

- shops exclusively at thrift stores

- she looks greasy

Chris

- gay

- bottom

- likes baking cookies

- has a nicki minaj American flag

- does the white girl dance to romans revenge in the club

- would ask the DJ to play ABBA at a rave

wesker

- OOO THATS A GAY MAN

- very homophobic but he's still gay

- loves the movie mean girls and watches it religiously

- he smokes candy cigarettes

claire

- "I'm not racist but"

- makes POV tiktoks unironically

- posts thirst traps thinking she's that girl

- peaked in high school

- mean lesbian

ada

- follows you round a puppy dog if she likes you, if she doesn't like you she's a mega bitch

- "I'm not like other girls"

- watches POV tiktoks unironically and religiously

- "I'm not even wearing makeup today guys omg stop 🙈"

- says she's goth because she listens to Arctic monkeys

Luis

- gay

- Italian

- "is he gay or european" but he's both

- extremely extremely gay

- loves lego batman but only lego batman

- a flirt

- loves fashion and fragrances

- gay

- looks like he comes from what we do in the shadows

ethan

- loves Ben shapiro

- would spit on a drag queen

- is so homophobic he has to be a bit gay

- thinks men are too feminine these days

Sherry

- Russian and thinks singing Russian songs is cultural appropriation

- doesn't care about male or female attention

- loves horror movies and chick flicks

- thinks she's different because she likes earl grey tea

jake muller

- would spit on a service worker

- shoplifts but only small things like pens

- steals all his clothes from dumpsters

- acts gangster

- a bit fruity

- paints his nails and is embarrassed so wears gloves

leon kennedy

- is the drag queen ethan spits on

- loved the barbie movie and has an "I am kenough" hoodie

- can't drive

- either really gay or an over the top ally who wears "my friend is bi I don't ask why" shirts to rallies

- dog person

- would have a giant dog and a tiny dog

- he's a romantic and goes all in for relationships

- unironically finds scary movies really scary

Carlos

- was bullied in school

- would sit through a chick flick with a girl

- really feminist but also a "wheres my hug at" guy

- posts about how much he hates Andrew tate on Instagram

- loves emo girls because he was bullied for being emo

- loves guns n roses

- loves girls who don't wash

[k-marzolf]

Make me your Maria

Okay, I’m not sure how this will be received. I just wanted to try this idea out. That being said, I really had fun with this.

@e-dubbc11 @terry2227 @kayhi808 @firequeensposts @milea @thejanecampaign @aoi-targaryen @zz-kennedy @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @danzer8705 @idaofinfinity @bookloverfilmoholic @cant-help-simping @firexfate @tortilla-chips-and-allioli @rosaleenablack @fictional-hooman @disneyloverjaime @oops89 @ittybxttykxttytxtty @littleblackcatinwonderland @vaguekayla

763 words.

&&&

It’s 1920.

The streets of New York are filled with new things, motor cars in particular had your interest, and it had you sticking your head out of your apartment window on the third floor, ignoring the scolding from your mother as you hung out.

“Don’t lose your pearls!” She shouted, and then you saw him standing there, smoking with Frank Castle, and wiggled your hips, sliding free and down the ivy under the window.

Your mother looked out the window, face blotchy from drinking too much sherry. “Honestly, girl, there’s a door!”

You waved your mother off, sprinting over to Billy, and grabbing his cigarette, like you knew how, taking a long drag and inhaling, coughing wildly a second later, nearly dropping the cigarette on your dress.

A smile played on his lips. “That’s not for women, don’t you know, canary?” He teased playfully, and took the cigarette back, admiring the lipstick stains.

“You should take me for a drive in your new car, mister.” You said, fixing your pinned hair.

Frank was laughing and shaking his head at your audacity. “Did you know one blew up recently?” He asked, putting his own cigarette out on the sidewalk.

You rolled your eyes, “Then I guess Billy and I will go to purgatory. He won’t be able to leave until he crochets a granny square.” You rambled, “And maybe drink a gallon of water. He doesn’t drink enough, too much whiskey. His urine must be strong.”

Billy choked as he inhaled smoke, “Jesus, canary—“ he rasped.

You wagged your finger at him. “Takin’ the Lord’s name in vain. That’s two granny squares.”

“Yeah? And what do you gotta do?”

You smiled playfully, “Babysit you.”

He scoffed, “More like stringing pearls the way you lose those things. Alright, I’ll take you for a ride, canary. I expect a kiss at the end.” He teased, leaning into your face.

You leaned closer, “If you don’t crash into cars, causing the one in front of you to crash, creating a block wide collision because you saw a bee in the car and swatted at it.”

He flicked your forehead, “Sweet girl, I wouldn’t swing at the bee. I’d let it nest in your hair.”

Frank looked back and forth between you both as you made a mountain out of a molehill. He hit Billy, “Take her in the goddamn car, Bill.” He said, voice husky from all the smoking he did. He was in a simple shirt and trousers, working the mines.

Billy came from poverty, but struck it rich, though he would not say how, and so now he lived a comfortable life. Especially after the war, and he had the scars to show for it.

But you never missed the haunted look in his eyes he sometimes got, a thing you’d never understand, living a life of comfort, never being drafted, never working with your hands. But god, he was fond of you. A reminder that the world wasn’t completely evil, that there was some good in it. That you were the thing he was fighting for.

“You make it home, Bill. You kiss her, or Maria’s boxing your ears.” Frank grunted in a trench.

Billy laughed, holding his gun. “What? She gonna resurrect me just to tell me off?”

Frank pulled Billy by his ears. “I’ll drag you home if I have to Russo. You’re my brother. My family.”

Billy had lowered his eyes. “You’re mine too, Frankie.”

“Then pick your ass up, and get ready. We got company.”

You were his soft landing after the war, an embrace against the screaming.

You grabbed Billy’s arm, dragging him to the street, and ooh’ed and ahhh’ed at it. “It’s so pretty, like onyx. Like your eyes. You have to teach me how to drive.”

He brushed hair from your neck, tenderly. “Society won’t like a woman drivin’, too free.” He said pressing his face into your hair, breath tickling your neck.

This you knew, but well behaved women didn’t make history. “Is it loud?”

He knew the argument was far from over.

He leaned over hitting the horn, making you laugh in delight. “Do it again, mister.” You demanded, the summer heat making you sweat, but you couldn’t be bothered by it, fixated on something you never dreamed could exist. But some hated the cars, and so there were still horses in the street, but as far as you knew they’d never been shmucked.

And Billy was sure he could be happy at your command for the rest of his life, and into purgatory.

[hikarry]

💖💖💖must hear more about the new fic you're working on. Does it have a name yet?

No, not yet. For now, let's call it...the sick fic

And, here, let me give you a snippet:

When Crowley glanced back at Aziraphale, he saw that the angel hadn't approached him directly. Instead, Aziraphale leaned against the counter on the other side of the man, offering him a gentle smile. Being this close made Crowley's hands ache, just as they always did when Aziraphale was near. He would burn the world for a chance to touch him, to be close to him. The twenty years of absence felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He could smell Aziraphale's sandalwood cologne and the unmistakable scent of old books that felt like home, even from this slight distance. After giving the man between them that smile, Aziraphale waved the bartender over. Crowley's eyes flicked nervously between Aziraphale and the man beside him, trying to gauge the situation. He couldn't shake the feeling of the angel's presence, his heart pounding even harder with every second. The warmth and familiarity of Aziraphale's scent enveloped him, making it hard to focus on the task at hand. "A sherry for me, please," Aziraphale said to the bartender, his voice calm and pleasant. The angel’s eyes never left Crowley’s. The man between them, sensing the intensity of their exchange, cleared his throat. "So, you two know each other?" he asked, a bit of suspicion in his tone. Aziraphale's smile widened, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, you could say that. We go way back." Crowley forced a smirk, trying to maintain his composure. "Yeah, ancient history." The bartender returned with Aziraphale's drink, and the angel took a sip, his gaze still fixed on Crowley. "Fancy seeing you here," Aziraphale said softly, his voice laced with something that Crowley couldn't quite place. Crowley shifted uncomfortably on his stool. "Yeah, small world," he muttered, finishing off his refilled glass and setting it back down with a bit more force than intended. He needed to focus. Hastur was watching. Aziraphale, however, seemed completely at ease, as if the chaos and danger around them were nothing more than background noise. "So, what brings you to this charming little gathering?" the angel asked, his eyes sparkling with genuine interest. Crowley hesitated. "Work," he finally said, his voice tight. "Always work." Aziraphale nodded as if understanding something deeper in Crowley's words. "Yes, well, we all have our duties, don't we?" The man between them looked increasingly uncomfortable, clearly sensing that he was out of his depth. "I think I'll... uh... give you two some space," he mumbled, quickly standing and moving away.

[literary-motif]

II. The Dead Travel Fast

In which you take a trip and admire architecture. ~5,200 words

Overview // I. The Symposium

The curtains in your brother's room were tightly drawn. He was still buried deep in the pillows when you opened the door to check on him. The rays of sunlight sneaking past the fabric illuminated his sleeping figure softly, and you smiled as you approached him to thread your fingers through his golden curls. 

"Theodore?" you prompted quietly, waiting for any sign of movement.

You had told him of your meeting with Lord Claiborne yesterday in the carriage ride home, but you had a faint notion that he had not fully grasped the meaning of your words in his drunk state. 

“Theo, come on,” you said, shaking him a little.

He rolled over, groaning in displeasure and muttering something incomprehensible. You brushed some strands of hair out of his face, and he blinked his eyes open slowly, closing them with a wince at the dim brightness of the room. 

“I am leaving. A gentleman asked me to do his portrait yesterday. Expect me to be back in a few days, four at most. Alright?” 

There was no reply. 

You sighed, feeling a smidge of guilt for waking him in the first place. After the headache he had had and the sherry he drank yesterday, Theodore was sure to need rest and plenty of sleep to recover. 

Picking up a loose paper from his dresser, you scrawled down the message with the pencil you always carried around for sketches and left it on the nightstand. Muttering a final goodbye, you closed the door to his room softly before descending the stairs.

There was a faint nagging in the back of your head that leaving your siblings alone again to go off into the country only a day after your return might not have been the best idea, but it was too late to go back on your word to Lord Claiborne now. Your excitement had gotten the better of you last night, and now you had to live with the consequences.

Elisabeth was looming in the doorway of the library, watching you silently. “Leaving already?” she asked, making you halt and look up. She raised an eyebrow but did not otherwise betray her thoughts. “Good thing you did not bother unpacking. Send me a croissant when you’re back in your République.”

“I will be back in a few days,” you said, showing her the blank canvas under your arm. “I was commissioned to paint a portrait.” You reached the foot of the stairs, looking around the entrance hall and finding your bag exactly where you had left it the day prior.

The room was no longer shrouded in shadows as you had opened all the shutters, allowing the morning light to flood the house and reclaim some of its previous vivacity. You had left the wilted flowers in their vase — a much too poetic still life given the circumstances. 

You looked up towards your sister, who was now leaning over the banister. “Did your delivery arrive yesterday?” you asked, trying to make conversation.

“Yes,” she said, not elaborating further. 

You were about to comment on her newfound darker interest but thought better of it. Your relationship felt strained already, and you did not want to add to it by judging her for something you did not understand.

She disappeared from your view an instant later. “Goodbye,” she said flatly, letting the door to the library fall shut behind her.

You clenched your jaw in displeasure, making your way to the front door. As you opened it, you found a man leaning against a shiny black carriage.

He flicked his cigarette to the ground when he saw you, straightening and brushing some ash from his dark brown coat. His graying hair was partly concealed by the hat he wore, and the deep lines on his face made him look more severe than the kind glint in his eyes warranted.

“Good morning,” he said huskily, opening the door to the carriage for you.

It was an older model of a closed carriage, with side windows and glass in the doors. The black was decorated in parts with gold, the colors harmonizing well with the red cushions on the interior.

The driver offered a hand to take your luggage. “Lord Claiborne sent me to collect you. I’m Mr. Fint, at your service.”

You took his hand to shake instead. He stuttered, looking at you baffled. 

“Good morning,” you greeted, “I am the artist hired to do his portrait. It is a pleasure.” Letting go of his hand, you heaved your bag onto the cushions yourself. You placed the canvas against the opposite door carefully before climbing. 

As the carriage set into motion a moment later, you tried to get comfortable while picking up the novel you had begun the day prior. Edmond Dantès had just started talking with Abbé Faria.

You looked forward to reading more of Dumas’excellent penmanship. The effortlessness with which his sentences stretched across the pages enticed you, making the novel one of your favorites thus far despite having read less than half of the lengthy tale. 

It was a thrill to read it in the original French. Not that you mistrusted the translators, but there was always a part of the text and the sentiment with which it had been written that got lost in translation. 

You were delighted to be able to read the language, remembering Theodore’s complaints not too long ago about the available translation of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. 

The French version, which you had read in Paris close upon your arrival there, had been the basis of the English translation by Clara Bell, sparking his disappointment at having the Russian text twice translated and thereby further away from the words and tone Tolstoy had originally intended. 

Raising your head to gaze out of the window, you noted distantly that you had already left the city. With the rolling fields and the fresh green of the country outside, you remembered how much you had missed the peaceful quiet of nature. 

The grass seemed to stretch into the horizon. The Ash and Oak trees flanked the road, their leaves rustling in the wind and reminding you of the splashing of a stream.

There was a time when you would chase your brother around the fields, making sure your little sister did not stain her light blue dress irrevocably as she stumbled over roots or threw herself on the ground just to be pouty.

The memory made you smile, a pang of melancholy hitting you as you looked at the sea of green. So much had changed since then. Thesesimpler, calmer times seemed a lifetime away.

Your parents had gone, disappearing without a trace as they thrust Theodore into the deep end, selfishly leaving him to pick up the pieces of their recklessness without a care. You were worried he would cave under the pressure.

He was determined and the most reliable person you knew because of his sense of responsibility. You knew he would rather die than fall short in his duties, but it was that which worried you so. He was fragile, pushing himself beyond his limits to meet the expectations your parents' constant badgering had made him believe he needed to achieve to prove his worth.

Elisabeth had turned nearly unrecognizable in the five years you had been gone. When you left, she had pleaded for you to stay, unwilling to see her family broken up and fighting for everything to remain the same. She had wanted you to stay close, begging you to take the London art school instead. 

In the end, she made you promise to write her at least one letter each month. You remained true to your word, even when she stopped replying in the second year. Her cold greeting replayed in your mind, making you wonder if she had bothered to read them at all.

Closing Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, you raised your fist to knock twice on the roof. There was no point in trying to focuson the book in your lap when your thoughts were consumed by worries and uncertainties. 

The carriage slowed, allowing you to open the door and call out. “Would you mind if I joined you in the front, Mr. Fint?”

He muttered his consent, and you were sitting on the perch a moment later, closing your eyes and imagining that the gentle rocking of the carriage were the waves of the ocean crashing against the hull of a boat. You missed traveling. There was something particularly inspiring about the ocean. 

Every time you heard the waves rolling against the shore, feeling the gentle breeze from far across the ocean ruffling your hair, your chest filled with a deeply seated longing for infinity. It was the wish for that moment to encompass all of time itself, for the sun already low on the horizon to stay in limbo forever and never to die.

Birds chirped, tearing you out of your reverie. You opened your eyes again, blinking in the bright sunlight. The countryside might not be the coast you were dreaming of, but you felt reborn nonetheless, with the fresh air caressing your cheeks and the amazing world of nature all around. 

Sighing in contentment, you relaxed into the hard seat. “I have missed this,” you said, looking to the side of the road to admire the stretch of little white flowers growing there. “Look, Mr. Fint, wood anemones. I haven’t seen them in years.”

He hummed in response, keeping a tight hold on the reins.

“They were the first flowers I painted,” you continued, gazing at the delicate white petals. “They are — I suppose they were, I am not quite sure anymore — my sister’s favorites. She would get terribly sad when we left the country. Elisabeth loved the ‘white stars,’ as she called them. When I gifted her a painting of them, she was overjoyed.” 

You recalled the large smile on her face when you had given her the canvas. She had beamed, her eyes shining in awe and gratitude as you had immortalized the flower bud she loved to look at. It had taken you days to get it right, and Theodore had to distract her for hours not to spoil the surprise. 

“I wonder if she still has it,” you muttered. “I fear we have not been on the best terms lately.”

Mr. Fint did not reply, and you cleared your throat awkwardly. 

The silence between you stretched on, but just as you had resigned yourself to a quiet ride, he raised his hand, pointing to the right.

“Snowdrops,” he said sadly, hesitating before continuing. “I saw ‘em in Crimea.” His gaze flickered to you before returning to the delicate flower. 

With a solemn expression, he shook his head as if to shake memories he would much rather forget. He bit his tongue, searching for words before opening his mouth, only to close it a moment later. 

You waited patiently. 

“I joined the army in November of the last year,” he said bitterly. “Kars, if you remember” — he looked at you closely —“well, I suppose it was before your time. We lost Kars in one of the last big battles of the Crimean War. It was my first. I got there in time to—” he paused, tearing his eyes away from the flower to stare straight ahead. 

You saw him swallow thickly, and his hand shot up to wipe at his eyes.

“I had a friend. A good friend,” he said, “He had joined at the beginning of the bloody thing. I had traveled there to watch him die.”

You were taken aback by the heaviness of his story. It was unusual for someone to confide such a private tragedy to a stranger, but you supposed you had set the mood of the conversation by talking about your sister.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said, snowdrops more tragic in your eyes now. 

“It’s been years,” Mr. Fint said, waving a hand as if to dissipate the ghosts of the past he had summoned, “but they always remind me of him. It was not fair what happened, but war never is. I returned home to the country cheering for our victory, and all I could think about was the loss I suffered.” 

He took out a battered pocket watch, presenting it to you. It was a beautiful silver piece that had seen better days. It had dents, and the engraving on its side was worn down, making it unrecognizable.

It would have been a miracle if it still managed to show the time, but Mr. Fint opened it, and sure enough, the hands of time were still ticking. 

“The only thing I have of him now,” he said, checking the time and storing it securely in his left breast pocket with a pat on his chest. “You must excuse me. My honesty is like a curse. Once I start talking, I cannot stop until I reveal the depths of my soul.”

“Not to worry,” you said with a smile, scrambling for threads of conversation to reassure him and fight the oppressive silence you felt was settling back between you. “Lord Claiborne’s estate must be beautiful,” you said, hoping he was passionate enough about architecture to allow you to change the subject.

“It is,” he said. “I have been working for Lord Claiborne since taking my father’s post. It took me years to understand the enormous grounds.”

“You have known him all your life, then?” 

Mr. Fint nodded. “My father served his father, and I served him after he inherited the estate from Lord Lawrance Claiborne. A very long line of nobility, all with ruby eyes and nearly white hair,” he said the last part almost dreamily.

“How interesting,” you said, curious to learn more about your host. “What was the older Lord Claiborne like?”

The driver frowned. “He was much like the current,” he said, falling silent again. 

You glanced at him, contemplating whether you should try to rekindle the conversation. You had the feeling that you better not pry. Your eyes remained on the road, and you took a deep breath to shake the uneasiness suddenly coming over you. 

The forest grew thicker, the branches of the trees looming over the road threateningly. They all looked rotten and dead, twisted at odd angles like snakes slithering across the sky. You did not recall ever taking this road. Then again, a lot had changed since you had been here last.

Lady Alderton’s warning, although you had tried to disregard it as either a stupid superstition or an unrecognized bias on her part, returned to your mind. Still, it would have been foolish to cancel the agreement and risk attracting gossip. Things had to run smoothly for a while until you could break the tragedy of your parent’s supposed deaths, and you could move on with your life.

Lord Claiborne seemed polite, if reserved. He was interesting, the air of mystery around him intriguing you immensely, and perhaps it was because of Lady Alderton’s warning that you were now all the more curious to catch a glimpse behind that cloak of secrecy.

The forest thinned, and you saw the setting sun through the trees. The red light was painting the scenery in a mesmerizing glow. You could not tear your eyes away from it. As the woodline ceased, you saw a sea of green fields tainted faintly orange in the light. You had an unobstructed view of the sunset, the red deeper than you had ever seen. It felt threatening, like an omen of disaster.

You shuddered as you could not shake the feeling that the glowing orb looked very much like an eye, silently watching.

You turned away from it, looking to the other side to behold the majestic Claiborne estate. Your eyes widened in amazement. Mr. Fint glanced at you but did not comment.

The building was massive, filling out the open space of the field splendidly. It looked like a cathedral from the 13th century, kept in excellent condition. If you had wondered if Lord Houghton had grossly overstated your hosts’ wealth, those doubts evaporated as your eyes roamed the faintly red stones, almost blood red in the setting sun.

The facade facing west was decorated with columns and pillars placed alongside it in even intervals, giving it structure. A large rose window was directly over the entrance, similar to the one you had seen in Notre-Dame de Paris. The stained glass reflected the sunlight, making it seem like a burning eye, looking back at the sun as if returning its glare in a staringcontest that had been going on for centuries. You were transfixed by the tracery dividing the windows on each side of the large entrance into smaller, elaborate sections.

Lord Claiborne’s mansion looked like something crafted with delicate care and a keen eye for detail. It spoke of utmost patience, the serenity evoked by its long-standing and excellent fit into its surroundings tinged with a darkness that youcould not place. The work for it to be completed must have taken decades. 

Mr. Fint guided the carriage along the twisting road. You caught a glimpse of the southern front, which was just as detailed and meticulously constructed. The flying buttresses you saw gave the structure an added grandeur and elegance that kept your gaze prisoner.

You looked up in awe at the tall steeple, rising from the rest of the structure like a thorn in the sky. It towered over the land but did not seem out of place in the complex arrangement of architectural detail. The pointed arches of the lantern were the same in the smaller windows on the first floor. 

As the carriage drew nearer, you could observe the piers more closely. A central column was at their sides, surrounded by multiple slender colonettes, creating a cluster column typical of High Gothic architecture. You longed to admire the rest of the castle, enticed by the beauty of the building.

The carriage stopped in front of the black double door, its arch pointed like all you had seen. As your feet touched the ground, standing before the gigantic structure, all your excitement vanished as an oppressing feeling came over you.

Only a single line of light was visible from where you had previously seen the shining rose window, reminding you of the enormity of the structure. Your own smallness was shown to you, and you realized that you were about to enter something much bigger than yourself.

It was intimidating to be reminded of your mortality while gazing at the stones that had been here for six centuries and would outlive you for six more. You shook the feeling, retrieving your luggage. For a moment, your gaze lingered on the beauty of the scenery to the west, the fields stretching seemingly into infinity with lines of trees adorning them to their sides. 

You stood with your belongings, only managing to avert your gaze from the scenery with difficulty. Mr. Fint had remained quiet throughout your marvels, looking up at the facade with a sour gaze. He was waiting.

“Completed,” you said, catching his attention to give him a polite smile. “Completed is our ride.” 

A dark glint appeared in his eyes, and you wondered if he had understood the reference and did not like its implications. Before you could thank him, he inclined his head, driving off and leaving you alone in front of the monstrosity. 

Being previously too taken with the architecture, you had not noticed how deserted the place looked. The front was empty, not a soul in sight nor any indication of someone having been here in ages.

It was beautiful, yet bleakly so. Death seemed to cling to the walls.

You felt uneasiness creeping up on you again. Something was not quite right here, but you could not say distinctly what.

The door opened to reveal Lord Claiborne before you could think about it for too long. You recognized him immediately by his blond hair and ruby eyes that seemed to shine like the rose window in the fading sunlight. 

“Welcome,” he greeted warmly, holding the door open wide and inviting you into his home. “Enter, please, and allow me.” He did not wait for a reply as he took your bag, leaving only the light canvas for you to carry. 

You tried to protest, but the thought of doing so vanished as you beheld the interior. The heavy door fell shut behind you.

Your eyes were fixed on the rib vaults. The shapes they created on the high ceiling reminded you that architecture was its own form of art, overlooked much too often. Turning, you saw the interior gallery — the triforium — from which one could overlook the entrance hall. It merged with the clerestory, its high windows making the interior as bright as possible in typical High Gothic fashion.

“Your room is on the first floor,” Lord Claiborne said, waiting for you at the bottom of the stone stairs. They were black, much like the rest of the stone used to coat the walls inside.

“Apologies,” you said, silently cursing your fascination and hoping you had not been too rude, “you have a beautiful home.” 

He nodded in thanks, leading you up a flight of stairs and down a corridor drenched in the red sunlight. “It used to be a cathedral, I believe,” he said, pushing open one of the first doors to his right and holding it open for you to step inside. “I have never bothered inquiring further as it was repurposed a century or so ago. It does not interest me much. I only know that now it is mine.”

You placed the canvas against the free wall near the door, taking a long look around the room as he set down your bag at the foot of the bed. 

There were two large windows with tracery, allowing ample light to stream into the room. A small desk was under one of them, with two sets of candles on it. The light of the second window streamed onto the soft double bed, its pillows puffed and calling to your exhausted mind to lay down and rest as if on a cloud.

There was a wardrobe on the other end of the room with a dresser next to it, although you doubted that you would be using either. The ceiling was a minuscule version of the one you had seen in the entrance hall, and you traced your hand over the pointed arch of the window, looking up toward it. 

He glanced at you in amusement as you were taken again with the columns and vault. “Dinner will be ready in a little while,” he said, "I will fetch you." Closing the door behind him, Lord Claiborne left you to settle in and marvel at the architecture.

The first thing you unpacked was your sketchbook. Sitting down on the cold stone with your back resting against the foot of the bed, you looked up to sketch the beautiful pattern of the arches onto the page.

Gothic architecture struck a particular artistic cord with you. Simply its atmosphere inspired you to create art — perhaps through the evident edginess of the vaguely threatening air it had, or perhaps because it was so thought out and beautifully composed. 

You closed your sketchbook only when you were satisfied with the near-perfect replica of the pattern you had imprinted on the page. Setting it aside with your pencil, you looked at the inviting bed. The trip had exhausted you, and there was a familiar soreness in your neck and upper back that you feared would turn painful come morning.

The cushions of carriages were not the most comfortable, and your body would be paying the price for your extended travels in the last few days. You contemplated lying down but decided to spare yourself the embarrassment of missing dinner when you inevitably fell asleep.

Instead, you strolled down the hallway, walking along the red carpet covering the black stone floor and gazing out of the large windows towards the fields outside. From the vantage point, you could better see the sea of flowers and plants surrounding the estate.

You smiled faintly, wondering how much effort it took the gardener to hold the grounds in this excellent condition. It appeared to be a superhuman task.

To your surprise, the walls were nearly empty. Only occasionally were there old gas lamps that stemmed from the beginning of the century, judging by their design. Lord Claiborne, true to his word, must not have been concerned with the new trend of electricity.

You descended the stairs, halting briefly to marvel again at the interior gallery and the stained glass window, which you could now say was a mixture of purple and blue. 

A few artworks were lining the walls of the entrance hall. To your dismay, you recognized none. 

They all depicted landscapes, peaceful and idyllic. Your eyes searched for a portrait in vain, finding no human shape even in the landscapes. There were no photographs on the walls either. Not a single person was depicted, which was odd for an estate and a noble family line such as his. 

The emptiness of the place struck you again, and you wondered if he lived alone. It was peculiar that you had not caught a glimpse of a servant in the house. Halting again at the foot of the stairs, you tried to listen for any sound of people — chatter, laughs, whispers — but there was nothing. The castle was quiet, deadly so. 

Even with the beauty of the architecture, the mansion could not chase away its haunting coldness. The most magnificent facade could not disguise the tomb for what it was.

Frowning and silently unnerved by your thoughts, you made your way quickly towards what you supposed to be the dining room by its warm candlelight streaming into the hallway, mindful not to disturb the silence of the dead.

You saw Lord Claiborne as he set down a plateful of food. He looked up, inviting you in with a grand gesture and motioning towards the seat opposite him. “Perfectly on time. Sit, please,” he said, hiding his smile as your eyes widened at the meal. 

It was pot-au-feu, a French dish of the haute cuisine. You smiled in appreciation at the thoughtfulness, sitting down and eating some of the boiled potatoes on your plate as Lord Claiborne picked up his fork. 

The spook you had given yourself felt foolish in the warm glow of the candlelight, and you wanted to laugh at yourself for being so unnerved. It must have been the eerie atmosphere of the Gothic architecture that had put you on edge. Perhaps you had gotten lost in its grandeur for too long.

“You have already found the dining room,” Lord Claiborne said. “The east wing is the one I frequent most, with the drawing room down the hall to the right and the study opposite this one with my chambers beside it.” 

He watched you keenly, seemingly preferring it to eating a meal himself. You had seen him raise the fork to his lips only once to nibble on a piece of carrot halfheartedly. 

“The library takes up most of the ground floor of the north wing. You may move around freely and use the rooms at your discretion.”

Nodding, you resolved to look around the library on your way back to your room. It had to be right beneath it, although you were perplexed as you had not seen a door to the right upon entering.

“It is a refreshing combination,” you praised, motioning to your half-eaten meal. “Compliments to your cook, truly. What a pleasure to be greeted with a French dish back at home.” 

Lord Claiborne smiled, foregoing an answer. “Pardon the lack of garlic bread. I have read that it has become rather popular, but I despise the smell.”

“Not to worry,” you replied, not daring to correct him that garlic bread was not commonly served with this.

You finished your plate in comfortable silence while his remained nearly untouched. 

“I have everything to start painting straight away if you would like. Perhaps tomorrow morning would be a good time to start, Lord Claiborne, if that aligns with your schedule.”

“Xanthus,” he said, rising from his seat to put the plates aside. He poured you a cup of tea. “You are my portraitist and my guest. Please, call me Xanthus.” He pushed the porcelain towards you. “I’m all yours for the rest of the week.”

“Very well, Xanthus,” you said, taking a sip of the tea and gazing at him over the rim of the porcelain. His words intrigued you, making you bold. “And I am all yours.” 

He smiled sharply, flashing his white teeth at you before hiding his smile behind his cup. “I am delighted to hear that,” he said, taping the plate of pastries between you. 

You nearly choked when you saw the Parisian macarons. 

“Not the easiest to come across, I have been told,” he said, popping one into his mouth with a pleased hum, “but I have grown fond of them.”

You picked one up carefully, perplexed how on earth he got his hands on them in England. “Did you travel?” you asked, taking a bite and closing your eyes in bliss. The taste was divine. You took another. “To Paris, I mean.”

“I did not,” Xanthus said, twirling his tea and looking at it in thought.

It was a new blend imported from India he had been forced to try after the Chinese teas he had enjoyed for years started steadily disappearing from shelves, a sign of changing times. He had yet to grow used to the change in taste. 

“I prefer to stay in England. The world is all the same, and I have seen it all. There is nothing of interest for me out there.”

You nodded slowly, furring your brows. If he stayed in England, how come you had never seen him before? 

The Alderton’s circle of friends and acquaintances had remained nearly the same, so why had you never met him? You were sure someone with features as distinct as his — nearly white hair and ruby eyes — would not have slipped your mind, but you had never set eyes on him nor his father. It was unlikely for you never to have met, considering your parents' good standing and the noble line of his heritage. 

What reason would he have for lying to you?

Perhaps it was part of the secret making him so dangerous to Lady Alderton’s eyes. Maybe she knew something you did not. The melancholy darkness clinging to him like a cloak enticed you, making you want to lift his secret even more.

Annotations // III. Mais, Vrai, J'ai Trop Pleuré

[travistee34]

Just a random Disney AU idea

Deep in the Indian jungle, Shere Khan, the mighty tiger, strides through the undergrowth. His mind, as ever, is focused on getting his hands on the man-cub Mowgli. He has proven elusive so far... but Shere Khan is a hunter. He knows how to bide his time... All he needs is a trail to follow, and then-

His musings are interrupted by rustling in the bushes. He turns to the sudden sound... and sees Bagheera, the Panther, leap out between the trees, with a weirdly panicked look in his eyes. Shere Khan prepares to pounce, when Bagheera notices him, and stops, catching his breath.

"Shere Khan! You..." He's panting heavily "You need to get out of here!" "Oho" the tiger chuckles "You mean to order me around, Bagheera? How quaint. Now, as tempted as I am to agree, how about you instead tell me where that man-cub has gone, and I promise I'll let you leave in more or less one piece" He punctuates his threat by baring his teeth in a sinister grin.

Bagheera just stares at him, and then slowly moves closer "No, Shere Khan. You don't get it. I'm not trying to order you, I'm actually trying to warn you. you need to leave. You have NO idea what's coming! There's a ship down at the beach." "HA!" Shere Khan throws his head back in a scornful laugh "A ship, you say? Some measly humans come for a pleasure cruise? Then maybe I should give them a proper welcome!" He saunters away, flicking his tail in mockery at the still panicked Bagheera.

"No! You don't understand!" The panthers protestations trail off as Shere Khan moves swiftly towards the beach. First the man-cub dares to intrude, and now a bunch of tourists think the jungle will be their playground? No, this will not stand. It's time for the humans to learn to respect the lord of the jungle. Finally, he arrives at at the edge of the forest, his mind swirling with deliciously sinister ways to make these tourists pay for intruding. It doesn't take him long to see the ship Bagheera talked about. A handsomely sized pleasure cruise. Not even a packing ship or something. And on deck, a couple of figures are sitting around. Easy prey to a hunter of his caliber. All he needs to do is wait for nightfall, and they will become his...

Meanwhile, aboard the ship, one of the figures, a tall, middle aged woman in a burgundy summer dress, is sitting in a deck chair, sipping on a glass of sherry.

"For the love of God, Mim, would you stop hiding under that parasol like a child. A little sun won't hurt you." Her voice is sharp and with the slightest hint of an accent to it, and she's turns to look at a short stocky woman, with an unruly mop lavender hair, is sitting in underneath a big umbrella, her arms folded and her snub nosed face contorted in a frustrated scowl. The stocky woman glares at her.

"That's easy for you to say Tremaine. You know I hate the sun! I'm used to nice overcast skies!" Her voice is surprisingly high for her size. "Are you sure I can't make just one little rain cloud? A bit of thunder and-"

"Don't you dare!" they both turn to look at another figure, a woman with sickly complexion and a face covered in wrinkles, lying in a deck chair, dressed in a flamboyant headress and wearing a thin, purple one piece bathing suit. She pulls down her oversized sunglasses, and looks at Mim "This is the first decent weather we've had all week, and I'm finally starting to feel at home." Mim gives them both a weary sigh "Well, I was told we would go to the deepest darkest jungles, Yzma! I was expecting snakes and salamanders and all kinds of lovely creepy crawlies! Had I known this is what we'd be doing, I never would have agreed to come!" She looks to the sky, scowling again. "Oooh, if only I was back in my nice, damp, muggy cabin, instead of here on this... sunny pleasant tropical beach! I can almost feel my sinuses clear up! It's awful!"

Tremaine rolls her eyes "Well, if you're lucky, there might be some horrible parasites in the waters here, or some flying pests with rabies..."

Mim looks at her with an almost wistful look "You really think so?"

Suddenly, the doors to the cabin open, and a thick, noxious cloud of cigarette smoke billows out.

"Come on, Mim, cheer up. I've talked to the captain, and he tells us we're finally here!" The woman struts out onto the deck, revealing a tall, almost skeletally skinny figure, holding a foul smelling cigarette in a long mouthpiece. Her hair is parted in the middle, one side black and the other white, and she's wearing a black-and-white two piece bikini, underneath a zebra-themed bathrobe, hanging loosely over her gaunt frame. She takes a deep breath, taking in the smell of the jungle, and walks over to the railing, looking at greenery in front of her.

"I've been looking forward to this for over two months, girls. We've travelled halfway across the world to get here, and now we're so close to our goal!"

Tremaine gets up and strolls up to the woman. "Your goal, you mean? I just came for the chance of a tropical vacation, myself. I still think we should have gone to the riviera, myself. Though I guess this is a more rational choice than that coat made of dog fur you were talking about"

The skinny woman waves her hand, dismissingly "Yes, yes, that was just a passing whim. I thought it might be the next big thing, but fashion is a fickle world, it seems. I forgot the cardinal rule of high fashion: Unusual is good. Exclusive is better."

Tremaine leans onto the railing, gazing at the jungle. "So you decided to bring us all across the world, just for the sake of you getting a new fur coat? Look, Cruella, I don't mind the vacation, but it seems a bit... excessive, don't you think?"

"Well, what's the fun in just buying a pelt in from a supplier? No, I want the most exclusive, and money is no object here"

Shere Khan listens intently, and chuckles to himself. A bunch of pampered socialites, coming all this way, just to get themselves a pelt? Well, if it's a wild beast they want, that's what they'll get. He gives the stocky woman a hungry smile. The others are all a bit too lean, but he'll savor that one. Should he save her for last, or maybe take her first, just to see the others scream in terror? He smiles to himself as he turns back into the jungle, to find a place to wait. Just you wait, ladies. Soon, you'll get what you're after and more. Just you-

Suddenly the air is pierced by Cruella putting two fingers in her mouth and giving out a sharp whistle. Yzma sits up with a start, and Mim falls off her chair, clasping her hands over her ears. Shere Khan turns around as well at the sudden noise.

The next moment, the door on the side of the ship is kicked open with a loud metallic klank. Three figures emerge from the ship and walk out onto the beach. One of them, apparently the leader, turns around and looks up at Cruella from under the brim of his large slouch hat. He gives her a toothy grin.

"Gentlemen! I've hired you because I wanted the three best hunters money could buy, and from what I've hear, that's you. Now, I'm paying you handsomely to get me what I want, and I expect to get my moneys worth. Do I make myself clear?"

"It's clear as rain, Lady!" The man's voice is hoarse and gravely, but also filled with excitement. "Me and the boys'll get ya what ya want, so long as the moolah's good!"

The second man, a broadchested man in a pale safari suit, surveys the jungle in front of him, ponderingly stroking his thin black moustache. "Agreed. I had my fair share of experience with jungles. This shouldn't be much of a problem at all."

The third man, equally muscular, with a large blunderbuss slung over his shoulders, stretches his muscles, which strain under the shor sleeved red shirt he's wearing. he strokes back his long black hair and adjusts the band keeping it in a ponytail. "Of course not, Clayton. Why would it be a problem? I'm here, aren't I?"

Cruella gives them a satisfied smile, as Yzma and Mim walk over to the railing, next to Tremaine and Cruella, staring at the three men in awe.

"Perfect! In that case, Mr. McLeach, Mr. Clayton, Mr. Gaston, You've got a job to do. Get to work! First person to find it gets a 20% bonus to their pay" Cruella points at the jungle with a sinister smile, which sends a cold chill down Shere Khans spine, even at that distance.

"Right you are, Ma'am!" McLeach turns around, loading up his rifle. "You heard that, mates? Boss lady's given us the go ahead... You know what that means?"

Clayton and Gaston also load up their weapons, grinning in agreement.

"Then let's get going, gentlemen..." McCleach racks the rifle "We got us a tiger to kill..."

[camels-pen]

Stand name: [ Death ] (wait no that's taken-)

Summary: Polnareff finds a boy bleeding in alleyway. And he is definitely not a local.

For @dp-crossover-angst-week-event Day 3: bleeding out in an alleyway - Jojo's Bizarre Adventures: Stardust Crusaders crossover

Ao3 Link

“Iggy don’t chew on my boots!” Polnareff shook his foot, dislodging the stupid mutt. Iggy growled and turned, kicking up a wave of sand all over him. “Seriously?! You’re using your stand for that?”

Iggy laughed and trotted away as Polnareff scrambled up to wring his dumbass little neck.

As he passed an alleyway, he paused a moment, something bright catching his eye.

There was a kid, sitting in a pool of green and red juice. Seemed he got some spilled on his side, the way he—

Something blue and wispy slipped from his lips. 

“Silver Chariot.” Polnareff's stand appeared, rapier pointed at the kid. 

The kid’s breathing stuttered. His eyes were glued to Chariot’s rapier. Polnareff frowned. “So you are a stand user.”

The boy squinted at him. “A what?”

“A Stand user.” He pointed to Chariot. “This is a stand.”

“It’s… not a ghost?”

“No.” Polnareff walked closer, covering the mouth of the alley. Chariot moved with him, the tip of the rapier practically touching the boy’s nose. “Sorry kid, but I’m not taking chances. Bring out your stand and tell me what it does.”

“Uh, I don’t—”

A bead of blood welled up where Chariot’s rapier was pressed against the skin. “I’m not asking.”

“Seriously, I don’t have one of those,” the boy said. “I’m good at standing, but I don’t have a stand or whatever.” Nervous, but not about the sword. He didn’t look for an exit, didn’t shake or yell or cry. The closer Polnareff looked, the more he noticed he was tense from whatever injury he was putting pressure on, rather than covering up a juice stain. 

He moved as if he didn’t care about the threat of injury to his person. The only sign he was even bothered was how he kept shifting his eyes to anything other than Chariot’s body.

No, he wasn’t nervous of Chariot. He was nervous of Polnareff.

Polnareff bit the inside of his cheek. He looked like he was Sherry’s age, before she…

The boy hissed, pressing his side harder. Chariot moved with hardly a thought, aiming to slash his cheek for a little scare.

The boy lost all colour for a moment, the sword passing through him without any resistance. Then his body started to get fuzzy around the edges and he cursed, bending over. “What the hell? It shouldn’t hurt—” he choked on his words as the fuzz was pulled off his body and solidified into a gray ball. The ball shifted and stretched until it took on a humanoid shape. 

The boy’s stand.

“Name?” The boy kept staring at his stand. Was this the first time he’d manifested it? “Kid, what’s its name.”

His eyes flicked to Polnareff then back to his stand. With his free hand, he tentatively poked it. “...Death?”

“Nice try, but we already met Death Thirteen.”

“Death Fourt—”

Chariot raised his rapier.

“Alright alright.” The boy held up his hand. His stand mimicked him. “But uh, shouldn’t you introduce yours first? It’s only polite.”

“Fine, this is Silver Chariot.” Polnareff shifted the rapier to the boy’s stand. “Now, name.”

“What is that a band?” he mumbled. “Uhh, shit, I don’t know. Fall Out Boy?”

“And what does it do?”

“Normal stuff, like playing video games or—” the boy coughed harshly, fresh blood running down his side. “Not that this isn’t fun, but are you done yet? I’m kind of in the middle of something.” His stand gestured at his wound, which the boy was now pressing both hands against.

The pool of blood-and-something under him was getting alarmingly big.

Ah, fuck it. Polnareff might regret this later, but if he did, well, there was nothing he couldn’t solve with Chariot. 

“How about we start over?” He crouched down, holding out a hand. “I’m Jean Pierre Polnareff. You?”

The boy’s stand pulled closer to him. He tensed far more than when Chariot was threatening him. 

“Come on, I promise I won’t bite. Though Iggy might when you meet him.” The boy’s brows furrowed. “He’s the dog I’m stuck babysitting right now.”

“You have a dog? Is he another ‘stand’?”

“He’s not a stand, just a pain in my ass.” And probably stealing some poor sap’s dinner, wherever he’d run off too. “Er, but he’s kind of cute when you give him a treat. Especially coffee gum.”

The boy watched him, tense and wary.

“I can get you something for that injury too. I’ve got cash and know the local language.” 

“How do you know I’m not—?”

“You’re speaking fluent American English and pale as a sheet.” The boy glared, as if wanting to throw the words back at Polnareff. “I’m not a local either, but I understand them. Can you?”

The boy pressed his lips to a thin line. “And don’t try to be tough, just accept my help before I change my mind.”

The boy turned away, grumbling that he could figure it out if he tried. Barely a moment later he sighed, slumping further against the wall. Fall Out Boy shook Polnareff’s hand.  “Danny.” He started to sway. “If you turn out to be a kidnapper I’ll… scream….”

Polnareff caught him as he passed out. He got a good look at Danny’s wound too. 

“Tough kid, keeping quiet with pieces gouged out of him.” He hoisted Danny into his arms and started walking back to the others. Iggy would sniff his way back when he got hungry. “And it’s rather bizarre…” He looked over his shoulder.

“Why is his stand still here when he’s unconscious?”