#They should pay me to use their wretched service if anything

[feast-for-the-worms]

Why is it so impossible to find hosted shows online. Maybe I don't want to have to torrent everything to watch it. Where are my beloved websites gone and why does everything only have 2 of the 8 seasons on disney plus but only available to watch in the us and 1 other season on netflix and the rest of it doesn't exist in any form any more. I fucking hate this shit I'm not paying you fuckers for anything

[accultant]

☕ JUST RANT

"Is it really, truly that difficult to keep your receipts unsoiled?" Iago hisses, waving a bloodied piece of paper in a Bhaalists face. They scoff, "Don't give me that look. This has nothing to do with sensitivity, it's about how legible this is! Do you understand how much paperwork I have to go through? Do you understand how this-" They shove the page in his face again. "-Is damn near unreadable because you gorehounds can't use your brains for anything more complex than a beheading! Honestly, do you think things run around here on fervor and bloodshed alone? Do you think severed hands and blood sigils pay the bills? Oh, don't look so offended, this isn't blasphemy, this is simply fact. Someone here has to think with something other than their blade."

They really should calm down, but something about the lack of sleep and the overwhelming pile of work ahead of them and the Bhaalist rolling his eyes when he thinks they aren't looking sets them off. It's hard for Iago to stop when they get going like this- There's a reason people are warned to stay away from their office while they're working.

"I would say I'm surprised this place is standing at all if it weren't for the fact that I know exactly what keeps it afloat. Here's a hint: It isn't any of the cretins that spend all day slashing around in a pile of innards! Hells, speaking of, no one even has the decency to clean up after themselves- Do you have any clue how costly custodial services for a murder palace are?"

The Bhaalist tentatively raises his hand and Iago promptly shoots him down, "Let me guess: 'we don't need to mop up the blood...' or maybe 'oh, but it adds to the atmosphere!' Do you know what else it adds to this lovely little place of worship? Diseases! Infestations!" He sheepishly lowers his hand.

"I swear, it's like working with a pack of wild hogs! This place could be quite literally falling apart and no one would notice a thing as long as they had their guts and gore to keep them content. It is, by the way, falling apart. The infrastructure here is wretched and I've had to dip into the reserves for hush money three months in a row now just to cover repairs. Maybe it's simply the latest murder fad I haven't caught up on, but some of you seem to think that a little roughhousing adds to the flair of a good sacrifice. We have altars for a reason- plenty of them!- there is absolutely no excuse for flinging around victims into load-bearing columns!"

There is a bored and mumbled, "Yes, my Lord, I apologize, my Lord," that is entirely ignored.

"And another thing -

[princeofgod-2021]

LIGHT OF LIFE 357

John 1:4

TOO LATE 20 – AGENTS OF CHANGE? 12

Eze 14:19-20 “Or SUPPOSE I WERE TO SEND A PLAGUE INTO THAT LAND, AND POUR OUT MY RAGE ON IT WITH BLOODSHED, killing both people and animals. EVEN IF NOAH, DANIEL, AND JOB WERE IN IT, AS SURELY AS I LIVE, DECLARES THE SOVEREIGN LORD, THEY COULD NOT SAVE THEIR OWN SON OR DAUGHTER; THEY WOULD SAVE ONLY THEIR OWN LIVES BY THEIR RIGHTEOUSNESS. NET

We were talking about people hating Prophets so much that you wonder if we have any more prophets “in business” today.

O yes we do, and people love the type we have everywhere today.

Mic 2:11 These people don't want to listen to me. BUT IF A MAN COMES TELLING LIES, THEY WILL ACCEPT HIM. They would accept a FALSE PROPHET if he comes and says, "THERE WILL BE GOOD TIMES IN THE FUTURE, WITH PLENTY OF WINE AND BEER." ERV

There are countless numbers of married Christian [immature] women, with spiritually sick or unstable husbands, who go around looking for these prophets to lay hands on, or bath them clean of their “spiritual filth”.

Most of them end up hypnotized, broken, siphoned and sexually abused.

They commonly can’t relate their stories to anyone, so they go back home in shame.

2Ti 3:6 For these are they who go secretly into houses, MAKING PRISONERS OF FOOLISH WOMEN, WEIGHTED DOWN WITH SIN, turned from the way by their evil desires, BBE

Sin weighs many down but instead of dealing with that, they go around looking for someone to pray sweetly and tell them bring sand from their door entrance, fast 7 days and drink olive oil.

Pathetic!

O yes! There are real Prophets yet in our lands but what happened to most of them?

Amo 2:11-12 I raised up some of your sons for prophets, and some of your young men for Nazirites. Isn’t this true, you children of Israel?” says Yahweh. “BUT YOU GAVE THE NAZIRITES WINE TO DRINK, AND COMMANDED THE PROPHETS, SAYING, ‘DON’T PROPHESY!’ WEB

The Real Prophets are either being corrupted with pleasurable gift and money, or they have been threatened to either keep silent, or die!

We surreptitiously influence the direction of the Prophet’s message, by constraining them with “juicy” topics and promises of “fat” honourarium.

1Sa 9:7 Saul said, "HOW CAN WE TALK TO THE PROPHET WHEN I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO GIVE HIM? We don't even have any bread left in our sacks. WHAT CAN WE GIVE HIM?" CEV

Do you see the concept of approach to a Man of God?

“If we don’t have anything to give, we mustn’t go there”.

We have terribly abused our minds with unguarded, unwholesome “laws”.

I Sam 9:8 "I have a small piece of silver," the servant answered. "WE CAN GIVE HIM THAT, AND THEN he will tell us where to look for the donkeys." CEV

Did you notice the “Pay before service” connotation?

Give him the silver, THEN, he will tell us…

Wretched sinners carry gifts around and throw before covetous Prophets, who instead of look into the live and future of the person, prophesy through the gifts they collect.

But what did Jesus tell us to do with our Ministerial Gifts to people?

Mat 10:8 Heal the sick. Bring the dead back to life. Heal the people who have leprosy. And force demons out of people. I GIVE YOU THESE POWERS FREELY, SO HELP OTHERS FREELY. TPT

But did Jesus say the man of God should not collect? No!

He only emphasized that you shouldn’t make the merchandise of His gift; focus on the needy and God will settle you through the people He has appointed to help your Ministry.

Mat 10:9-10 "DON'T TAKE ANY GOLD, SILVER, OR EVEN COPPER COINS IN YOUR POCKETS. Don't take a traveling bag for the trip, a change of clothes, sandals, or a walking stick. AFTER ALL, THE WORKER DESERVES TO HAVE HIS NEEDS MET. GW

Yes! Every man of God will be fed because they deserve it.

However, did you notice that Prophet Samuel, whom they thought to give the Silver to, was too engrossed with his message to Saul to care about honourarium?

1Sa 9:15-16,19 The day before Saul came, the LORD had told Samuel, "I've seen how my people are suffering, and I've heard their call for help. ABOUT THIS TIME TOMORROW I'LL SEND YOU A MAN ... I WANT YOU TO POUR OLIVE OIL ON HIS HEAD TO SHOW THAT HE WILL BE THEIR LEADER."…"I am the one who sees visions!" Samuel answered. "GO ON UP TO THE PLACE OF WORSHIP. YOU WILL EAT WITH ME TODAY, and in the morning I'll answer your questions. CEV

The Prophet was the one who fed Saul and his servant.

It doesn’t even seem like they ever gave Samuel that silver though.

May God keep our consciences alive and flood our Souls with righteousness and integrity, IN JESUS NAME.

Join us on Friday as we proceed with this thought-provoking Subtopic.

Keep Shinning!

Brother Prince

Wednesday, May 24, 2023

08055125517; 08023904307

[robininthelabyrinth]

I really like your takes on the Nie brothers! Could you maybe do something with NHS being a sneaky little badass (not that he isn't always) and NMJ being all "wait, you thought I was the brother you should be afraid of? I'll be over here laughing while NHS wrecks you in all ways but physically". I know that's not a lot to go off of so I understand if this doesn't click with you

In Here, With Me - ao3 (chapter 3/3)

People never seemed to understand, and Nie Mingjue was honestly tired of trying to explain it to them.

He’d never been especially good with words, or at least he wasn’t on a personal level. He apparently had a talent for speeches, especially wartime speeches made to soldiers in order to buck up their courage and build up their morale; that was easy enough, standing up in front of them and telling them the same sorts of things he’d been telling himself for years whenever the dreary endless sludge of politics and other people’s unwillingness to move themselves even in their own best interest started getting him down. He could use his height to his advantage there, towering over people, and couple that the strength of his voice – he suspected that half the time people didn’t even really listen to him, just looked at him and made conjectures for the rest, and that was just fine by him. Whatever worked.

But when it came to explaining complicated things like his brother…

Yeah, he had nothing.

Nie Huaisang had never been good at the things the Nie sect usually prized – he was a weak cultivator and bad at fighting, and at some point Nie Mingjue had more or less entirely given up on trying to teach him the fundamentals of saber fighting in favor of teaching him a much more narrowly targeted set of skills, designed to help keep him alive in a pinch. Even with that, he’d whined and complained, dragged his feet and resisted…he didn’t even have significant scholarly talents to make up for it, not really. Nie Mingjue had no taste for art, but those who did suggested (in however polite terms they could manage) that Nie Huaisang’s poetry was wretched, his composition barely serviceable, his attempts at philosophy convoluted and contraindicated, and as for his painting skills…

Well, he could draw birds pretty well.

But he could play a mean game of weiqi, even against Nie Mingjue, and he was lively and personable - nobody ever disliked him, assuming they bothered to pay him attention at all. He liked to barter with merchants whenever he went shopping, and shopping was the one thing he really did do with a passion; he could make the most grim-faced cynic on the street break out into a smile, and collected half a dozen or more free treats every time he went to the marketplace despite them all knowing he could afford their wares if he so wished.

Nie Huaisang, in short, was good for nothing, but he was fun to be around.

He was also – and this was the part Nie Mingjue could never explain to people – one of the most persistent and vindictive sonofabitches to have ever been born.

One would think, wrongly, that Nie Huaisang would have learned to be more forgiving on account of his personal weakness, but in fact, it just seemed to make him even more inclined to get vengeance on those who had wronged him. He bore grudges without ever feeling the weight, as immovable as the mountains – there would be times when something would blow up spectacularly in Nie Mingjue’s face and he’d turn around only to find Nie Huaisang there, smiling at him and reminding him of some grievance from years before.

And that was if he were lucky – if he were unlucky, he’d find himself in some blissful situation, given everything he’d ever wanted, and find Nie Huaisang patting himself on the back for arranging it.

When Nie Mingjue had been forced by the Wen sect’s overweening arrogance to send Nie Huaisang to them for reeducation and indoctrination, about nine-tenths of what he’d felt had been terror, thinking about all the things that the Wen sect could do to his weak little brother who had nothing but good humor to defend himself with. The last tenth, though, had been the lingering thought that he’d been unable to fully banish: I don’t think they know what they’re getting themselves into here.

Sure enough, they hadn’t.

Now, Nie Huaisang hadn’t personally delivered any of the finishing blows there, but then, he never did, preferring to use other people to do it for him - even in vengeance and spying, he was lazy as always. Wen Chao, who had mocked him, had been left to the vengeance of Wei Wuxian with his brand new demonic cultivation; it’d been an ugly sort of death. Wen Zhuliu, who’d threatened him, had ‘accidentally’ gotten his hand broken when Nie Huaisang’s saber had temporarily ‘gone out of control’ and pierced the key meridian of his wrist – those few months of forcing Nie Huaisang to take classes on medicine had clearly not gone to waste – and then been executed by Jiang Cheng with his steely-eyed hatred. Wen Ruohan, who had murdered their father and made Nie Mingjue’s life a living hell for years, had seen his sons murdered, his empire destroyed, his war lost, and in the end had been stabbed in the back by a trusted subordinate.

Throughout, no one had paid any attention to poor little Nie Huaisang, preserved only through the Wen sect's desire to humiliate the Nie sect by using him as a clown.

Even Lan Xichen, who ought to know better, had persisted in comforting Nie Mingjue throughout the war regarding Nie Huaisang’s health, as if Baxia wasn’t full up on all the complaints Nie Huaisang could possibly fit in given the size of his saber and the quantity of his qi. Meng Yao knew, Nie Mingjue supposed, but that was because he was himself another object of Nie Huaisang’s vengeance – he’d find himself with everything he’d ever wanted, the poor man, and in Nie Huaisang’s eternal debt to boot.

Poor, poor man.

It was a good thing for everyone, Nie Mingjue reflected, that he was too virtuous to sic Nie Huaisang on people.

Usually.

“You promised me that Jiang Cheng would be made Chief Cultivator instead of me,” he reminded Nie Huaisang, who sighed dramatically. “Huaisang. You promised.”

“I promised I’d try, da-ge!”

Nie Mingjue crossed his arms and glared.

“It’s a work in progress, all right? I’m going to have er-ge suggest it.”

Nie Mingjue’s eyebrows went up. “Xichen? How?”

“As a wedding present to his new in-law –”

Nie Mingjue held up a hand. “Stop right there. Who’s getting married?”

“Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji,” Nie Huaisang said obediently.

Nie Mingjue thought about their respective personalities and started to detect the start of a headache. “Which one are you punishing for some unremembered petty slight, this time?”

“Neither!”

Nie Mingjue gave him a look.

“…Wei-xiong screwed up helping me cheat on a test, and Lan Zhan bit me.”

“He bit you? How old was he, five?”

“Six! Old enough to know better!”

Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes. “And which one is going to think that they owe you their lives for arranging this?”

“Lan Zhan knows I’m working on it,” Nie Huaisang said promptly, and Nie Mingjue nodded. That made sense: Lan Wangji was honorable and dependable, and would be easy to extract things out of in the future if things went the way he wanted. “Also, Mistress Wen promised to give me anything I want if I can make Wei-xiong stop pining.”

“Mistress Wen? You mean Wen Qing?” Nie Mingjue’s eyes narrowed. “She’s a doctor, isn’t she?”

“Her brother Wen Ning helped poison a whole bunch of Wen sect soldiers one time, very impressive, you’ll like him,” Nie Huaisang said, not answering the question. “It’s the least I can do, really!”

“Huaisang…”

“Listen, if Wei-xiong and Lan Zhan are going to start their own sect up, they’re going to need some support first,” Nie Huaisang said with great dignity. “We’re not taking in the Wen sect, we’ll just be housing them for a little while, that’s all!”

“Huaisang…”

Nie Huaisang grinned at him.

Nie Mingjue threw his hands into the air. There was really no point in worrying any more about Nie Huaisang, he decided – ever since he’d found his talent for spying, and for managing other spies, Nie Huaisang had decided that he was going to rearrange the entire cultivation world to his liking in just the same way he’d rearranged the furniture in his quarters in the Unclean Realm.

No, really, there was no point in worrying for Nie Huaisang.

Now it was time to worry for everyone else.

[bontenten]

Sleeping Beauty

Pairing: Shirabu x f!reader WC: 5.6k Genre/Warnings: smut, fairy tale retelling, incest, dubcon/noncon, drugs (sleeping pill), somnophilia, abusive past relationship, implied rape (not Shirabu), panic attack, victim-blaming, hero-complex with a bit of god-complex, hints of yandere, uhh medical malpractice, Shirabu’s bangs

Summary: The real story of Sleeping Beauty is anything but beautiful. Shirabu will do everything he can to keep you in a safe haven where you can freely dance with your prince once upon a dream.

A/N: This is a part of the whorehouse intoxicated collaboration, rest of the pieces of this toxic journey can be found here! Thank you Ria and Angel for helping beta <3 Love you both so much.

Unofficial bgm: Once Upon a Dream & Once Upon a December 

"You'll never wash me from you," he sneers, pulling you back by a handful of hair. You feel a blanket of pain shoot across your scalp. "You'll never really get away. Time to wake the fuck up."

"G-get away from me!" 

You thrash and kick your legs wildly hoping something will land. The moment you hear a pained grunt and feel his grip loosen, you scramble up to your feet and run. Your shoes grate against wet cement as you take off. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you will your legs forward one after another. The caw of birds seem to act as a beacon leading you through the twists and turns of the terrain.

A left turn here, two blocks straight. Past the corner store and beyond the stoplight. Three blocks. Right turn. Two Blocks. Five steps away. Four...Three..Two...Safety...

----

"In the forest, the princess played with a lot of animal friends. She grew up there in the cottage with three fairies looking after her."

Thunder claps and lightning strikes outside.

"It's so loud Kenjirou-nii!" you cry, burying yourself into Shirabu's arms.

"Shh, I'm here," Shirabu coos, rocking you back and forth until your sobs subside. "One day, the princess was singing with the songbirds..."

Shirabu begins to recount the fairytale of Sleeping Beauty to you, slowly easing your mind away from the turbulence outside.

"Do you think you can sleep now?"

You shake your head and jump again when the thunder claps over the roof of the house.

"It's okay, I'm right here. Big brother’s always going to protect you."

"Like the prince protecting the princess?"

"Yes, exactly. You're always my princess, now go to sleep. I'll wake you when the sun's up.”

After a while, you calm down and slowly drift into sleep with your breaths evening out. Shirabu pulls the covers over both of you and enters sleep as well.

The winds continued to howl outside the window...the branches tapping...tapping against the window...tap...tapping…

----

Shirabu Kenjirou opens his eyes. He had just fallen asleep while studying for the third time that night. There is no use staying at the library if he is going to treat it as a hotel; he’ll be better off going home first. He yawns and stretches his neck, then packs his bags to return to his apartment. There are few students left in the building at this ungodly hour. Dark clouds loom overhead and the air is filled with the pitter patter of autumn rain hitting cement. Shirabu zips up his coat, opens his umbrella, and walks into the dark.

You would have been so frightened by this sort of weather, whimpering under your blankets, counting sheep with shaky breaths. Just like how you did in that dream of his earlier.

While growing up, Shirabu hadn't cared all that much about anything else considering he spent most of his time with his studies or playing volleyball. Although there was you, his little sister, he figured you had your little bubble anyway. But on a stormy night, you teetered down the hall after finding your parent’s room locked. Afraid and sleepy, you looked for comfort elsewhere and arrived at Shirabu’s room.

Shirabu had been most irritated and decided to shoo you out with strings of curses and profanities, but he couldn’t. The sight of your form huddled right outside his bedroom, with young eyes pleading for him took hold of a bit of humanity in Shirabu’s heart. So, he let you into his room, a safe haven, and eventually a world that was composed of only the two of you against the rest of the world.

Shirabu has known for a long time that you are the most brilliant, precious, and purest thing he’ll ever encounter. Always perfect. Forever unsullied. 

There are many things that Shirabu wants to shield you from. If he can secure one more hour of innocence, one more day, one lifetime, he’ll do so without a moment of hesitation. The real world is unlike the fairy tales that you hear about while growing up. 

The real story of Sleeping Beauty is anything but beautiful. There isn’t a handsome prince the princess meets in a forest. No color changing cake. No kiss of love. In the real story, the princess is put into an endless slumber and has her virginal body taken by some unknown beast of a king, used like a rag for his carnal pleasure. When he leaves, the sleeping girl is then forgotten like trampled daisies under the hooves of horses. And she will wake to find her womb bulged with bastard life as a result of the damnation. The stretches clawing around the navel as permanent reminders that nothing will wash him from her.

The real world is dark. Horrible. Wretched. Dirty. Filled with suffering. That is why he, Shirabu Kenjirou, responds to the call to action and enters a life of service. In his heart he yearns to save and help, even if just a little, by becoming a prince with a white coat. He will not give up trying to salvage pieces of humanity he’ll touch, and in the process, carve out a haven, a little forest with a cottage, for his dearest sister to safely live in.

It has been a while since he last heard from you. Partly his own fault, really. Ever since Shirabu entered university and then medical school, the number of times you two would meet up dwindled. The hours on the phone became texts and soon after, communication vanished into mostly silence.

You are in university now, grown up and stepping into the real world, but that doesn't mean you are no longer his little sister. And because you are the one and only, Shirabu feels that he should try to do a better job as an older brother and check-in with you to see how you are doing. So, Shirabu takes out his phone that’s still on silent after studying.

27 missed calls from Sister 

Shirabu pauses in his tracks and returns the call. Cars zoom by on the streets while he waits for the line to connect. 

He was right, you must have been frightened.

The first call doesn’t connect, so Shirabu immediately tries the second time. You pick up on the third attempt.

"It's me, I'm so sorry I didn't pick up earlier."

"K-Kenjirou-nii..." your voice weakly translates over the speaker. 

Shirabu presses the phone closer to his ear and turns up the volume. "Where are you now," he demands. "At school?"

"...Your place..." Your voice sounds so dangerously faded, like petals beaten to the ground from the rain.

Shirabu bolts. His apartment is just a couple blocks away. Around the corner just up ahead. Shirabu makes a sharp turn and splashes through a puddle. 

"Stay...on the phone with me," he urges, paying no mind to his soaked shoes and socks.

You nod in understanding, as if he’ll hear your action.

"I'm almost there okay, almost."

Shirabu isn’t lying. A few moments later you hear the frantic footsteps coming closer to you. The stomping noises make your skin crawl, but the familiar face of your brother melts those fears away. He appears with his wet bangs stuck to his face and his shoulders heaving up and down. It’s him, your niichan, your prince finally here.

You scramble up and dive into his open arms, in relief that you are safe at last, as you finally allow tears to mix with rain.

"I was so scared. I missed you so much, Kenjirou-niichan," you sob into Shirabu's wet coat. "Where were you, where were you?"

"I'm sorry. I'm here now, I'm sorry," Shirabu apologizes, "Let's go inside first, alright? We’re both drenched.”

----

Under the bright lights of the living room, Shirabu gets a better look at you. You catch his discerning eyes studying you up and down, visually tracing the markers of your demise. That’s when you crack.

“Kenjirou-nii...the real world, the world is a horrible place. I trusted him, you know? I trusted that man.”

Foolish and stupid, Shirabu wants to say. It’ll be easy to simply yell at you.

Shirabu is not someone without a temper. He was quite known for it back in his high-school days. The bruises, the scars that did not heal well. Shirabu reminds himself to keep his composure, especially in front of you. He’s to be a doctor. He’s to be a protector, a savior. And with the training he already has so far, Shirabu knows he’s already as good as any board certified, licensed white-robed saint. He just needs to do what he’s meant to do. Heal. Clean. Purify.

After listening to your brief tale, Shirabu tells you not to worry about anything else tonight other than take a hot shower and get some rest. He gives you a reassuring smile and sends you off to the bathroom with towels and a large t-shirt.

While you wash-up and lose your thoughts piecing together the messy events of the night, Shirabu paces in the living room after he changes his own wet clothes. Nevermind the medical books he still needs to pour over, all Shirabu wants to do right now is track down the culprit and stick a scalpel through his socket. No, that’s just too easy. That bastard deserves something much more horrible, a slow and patient torture, a death within grasp but just out of reach. As if agreeing with Shirabu’s thoughts, your phone on the coffee table lights up. Shirabu picks up the device and watches the notifications pop-up.

Shirabu sees an unknown number call you. He doesn’t pick up, letting the phone ring while he reads the numbers across the screen and commits them to memory. The phone calls stop and an onslaught of texts follow; some coherent and others far from decipherable. There are messages of broken apologies and confessions of persistent love. Requests for you to go back to him. Shirabu scoffs at the language.

Shirabu continues to wait with impassive eyes, but the tight death grip around the device gives away the boiling rage beneath his skin. How dare the man behind that accursed number treat you, his little sister and princess, in such a foul manner. This beast who stole from you. Who is the reason behind the tainting of your now sullied innocence. 

Finally after a few minutes of silence, the screen lights up with a series of curses and condemnation that show the man’s true colors. A morphed beast due to your lack of response. Shirabu scrolls through the list of notifications again with impassive eyes, but the tight death grip around the device gives away the boiling rage beneath his skin. 

"You will pay," Shirabu seethes, taking a knife from the kitchen and ramming the sharp end straight into the device glass. The phone buzzes desperately and goes dark. You have no use for that phone anymore after all of this anyway, and the cursed number is already memorized by Shirabu for his own purposes.

----

Shirabu’s room is tidy. The two bookshelves on either side of the table are filled with books, photos, and many other accolades. That’s your older brother alright: perfect, proper, always right. Always right about everything, except one thing. The world you know really isn’t the wonderland he told you about growing up. Not at all. 

You bury your face into Shirabu's pillows and will yourself to sleep. You are safe here in his bed. It’s a haven...safely tucked in a forest. You are in a forest. The trees and the breeze. Songbirds are singing. 

You can dance here, twirl about...safe...free…

The trees melt.

Birds squawk and screech, scampering away…

Ink engulfs you....swallowing you whole

Falling...falling…

"You'll never wash me from you," he sneers. "You'll never really get away. Time to wake the fuck up."

NO! you try to scream. You can’t, the weight on your chest sinks you deeper, only silence is uttered...choked…

Wake up.

Wake up.

"Wake up!"

Your eyes fly open and you see him. Him. A blood curdling shriek finally tears through your throat and you thrash. "Getawaygetawaygetaway! NO!"

"It's me, hey, it's me. You're okay, you're safe." Shirabu’s eyes widen with worry at your outburst, but gives you ample space to breathe and compose yourself.

This familiar voice. It does not belong to him. It’s definitely not him.

"...Kenjirou-nii?" you ask quietly. The shadow is backlit from light coming in through the door and your vision is still fuzzy from the nightmare.

A tender hand closes around yours. "Shhh, it's okay, you're okay now. It was a bad dream, you're safe. You're safe. I'm here."

Cold sweat runs down your temples. Your breath is fast and shallow.

"Follow me, okay. Breathe in..." Shirabu takes a deep breath. You follow his voice and movement as if they are lanterns guiding you through a maze. "And breathe out. Good, you're doing great. Breathe in...and out..."

You feel your mind slowly beginning to clear with each inhale and exhale. Finally, you see Shirabu clearly again. You can smell the scent of his body wash from him. The texture of the blanket rubs against your fingertips. You’re here in Shirabu’s room. Safety. Haven. 

"I'll be right back," Shirabu tells you, before leaving you for a moment and going towards the bathroom. He opens the medicine cabinet, pops out a few white pills from a box.

"Here," he says holding out the small tablets in the middle of his palm. The off-white seems to almost glow in the dark.

"It's zolpidem, a sleeping pill I sometimes take for insomnia. It'll help you for tonight, and then we'll get you something else tomorrow that'll work better."

You look at the pill and then at Shirabu. Shirabu is someone you love and trust with all your heart. His embrace is your anchor and haven when the rest of the world has turned a blind eye. He’s your brother. One and only. There’s no reason not to trust him.

"I won't see him will I?"

"No," Shirabu affirms. The pills don't really manipulate dreams, but if reassuring you can placebo sweet dreams, then what harm really is there? He didn’t pass Ethics with top marks for nothing.

Shirabu gently presses the pill body against your lips and you part them, allowing the small object to slip through. He feeds another and you open your mouth obediently. You look at Shirabu’s eyes which are fixated on the way your lips wrap around his three fingers.  Kenjirou-nii’s lashes are so nice and pretty, you think. 

One gulp of water later, and you feel nothing but a cold sensation traveling down your throat and disappearing into your belly.

"It'll take about half an hour, I'll stay with you until you fall asleep," Shirabu says. He supports your back and gently lowers you back into the comforts of the plush mattress. Shirabu will surely carry the same attentiveness and care when he becomes a full-fledged doctor. You are sure of it. The big brother you grew up with has truly grown up and matured. But no matter how much he changes or how much you mess up, he’ll always be your big brother.

"Can you lie down next to me again, like when we were young?"

An innocent request from a patient-in-need. Shirabu complies and lies down next to you.

"I remember when we were young, I would make you dance with me to live out my princess dreams. You remember?”

Afternoons next to the stereo, crayons scattered on the floor. The smell of something baking in the kitchen. Shrieks and laughter in the living room. Even though Shirabu would be mildly annoyed at first, he found humoring your imagination to be a pleasant and soothing experience. Even he was sometimes whisked away from textbooks into a magical forest that was just you and him. The stress and burdens of everything else all seem so much lighter on his shoulders when you’re simply just there.

"Of course I remember, silly."

You hum softly and continue waiting for the medicine in your bloodstream to make its way through your body.

"Do you...remember the sleeping beauty story you would always tell me?"

"Yea?"

You pause for a moment before quietly asking, "Kenjirou-niichan, why did you lie to me?"

Shirabu does not respond and only glances over at you, eyeing your closed lids. Closed though they may be, the tiny beads of glimmering tears are beginning to emerge from between the lashes and trail down your cheeks.

"There is no prince, Kenjirou-nii...no prince for me, no one...niichan...," you mumble between your breaths. The drug is starting to take its effect, ushering your mind into another dimension far away from hurt and pain. It swallows you like a pit of ink, sinking you deeper and deeper...

----

Kenjirou-nii, why did you lie? Earlier, Shirabu felt his breath hitch when you asked that. 

He calls out your name softly, brushing over your cheeks, and listening to your soft breathing for a good while to make sure you are in fact asleep. At long last, maybe this is a good dream.

A lie? No! Not a lie, Shirabu wants to tell you. For you, his dearest sister, who only ever deserves happiness, in the rawest and truest form. You are supposed to have a life of others giving gifts of love, never having to offer anything of your own.

Shirabu feels his blood boil once more at the thought of that man who stole your innocence away. The one who took your body for his own carnal pleasures. The one who dared to steal you from him, Shirabu Kenjirou. If Shirabu's nails are not kept in immaculate condition for his profession, no doubt, his grip would be drawing blood from his palms.

Those marks and scars across your skin. Shirabu traces his finger down your neckline and along your arms...

Your head turns from left to right and you manage to shrug the big collar of the t-shirt off your shoulder. Shirabu can see, under the glow of moonlight from the cleared night sky, a nasty mark. A permanent mark. And before he realizes it, his fingers are already traveling over, tracing along and testing out the patterns and bumps.

Shirabu feels his chest burn beyond the anger and fury. Guilt. Where was he all this time when you were suffering? Why hadn't you just called him then? Anguishing thoughts of his little sister writhing in pain under that beast's grasps tear Shirabu apart. Did you cry? Were you scared? All these years studying for what? For what noble purpose is Shirabu trying to pursue if he can’t even save those closest to him?

Shirabu continues to search for any other marks or discolorations that are splayed across your skin like a map. It is what it is now. But Shirabu still has his calling. He is a man who answers to a life of service and healing: a prince in a white coat. No matter what happens, even if you’re tainted now, you’ll still be his little sister.

Even if your naivety and stupidity got you into the mess in the first place. Of course, why didn’t you listen to your brother’s warnings and stay in a safe haven like a good girl? Stay in your room and study for your future like a good student? Like him? Why did you think running off for fun, enjoying “youth and freedom” like the other degenerates would be a good idea?

Shirabu grits his teeth. Look at you now, damaged and past the point of no return, used. Injured and ill. Still, he needs to get the full story first, and see where else you might possibly be hurt. A complete diagnosis needs to come first. After the messages from the man, Shirabu is all the more certain that there are more clues left, and he needs evidence. He needs to know. The comforter is pulled away and careful hands examine the lines of your palms.

Once upon a time, you grabbed Shirabu’s hand and tried to use the methods of schoolyard palm-reading on him. You even exclaimed, “Kenjirou-niichan, this line means you’ll live a long life! And we can be together forever because my life line is really long too!”

Shirabu smiles at the memory and presses a kiss to the center of your palm. It must have been so painful, how could you have possibly endured? But you did and you survived. You are so brave. 

Probing fingertips trace across your collarbone and push the fabric of the large t-shirt up to reveal your torso. Shirabu blinks, realizing that this is now the body of a fully matured woman. You take a deep breath in your sleep from the cold air running across your exposed breasts. Shirabu can see the nipples perk up from the chill and hesitantly touches the bud with a hint of academic curiosity.

“Mmm, that tickles...” you giggle softly. Your hand pushes Shirabu's off and scratches the same spot he just traced, fondling your own breast briefly before letting go and continuing to sleep. Even grown up now, still the same adorable little sister.

Shirabu lets himself tease your nipples and knead the soft flesh of your breasts, toying around and watching your cute little expressions. Sometimes you’ll respond again and paw the tickling hands away. It’s fun, like playing a little game.

But when he lets his eyes wander down, Shirabu’s eyes narrow. Below the breasts, on either side of the waist, Shirabu sees damning marks of deep purple turning into a disgusting yellow. Like cursed claw marks. Shirabu hesitantly presses on the bruise, watching the color transform under his touch. He stops immediately when you begin to whine in pain. Carefully, Shirabu presses a kiss on these markings too, just like any other little injury you sustained in the past. A kiss so the pain flies away.

Foolish, foolish girl. Naive princess. Why did you let this happen to yourself? In the future, don’t run anymore. Stay here where it’s safe. 

There is just one place left Shirabu did not examine yet, a hidden spot that is supposed to be locked away that someone else discovered. Shirabu looks down at the dark lace panties obstructing his view like gates of a castle. It’s a poor “keep out” message; if anything it entices anyone who sees it to come in. A tempting invitation to see what’s behind.

Shirabu allows his clean fingers to easily slip through and begin a thorough investigation through the soft folds of flesh. His fingertips dip into a pool of wetness. He furrows his brows. When did this happen? 

Why are you wet? His eyes focus on your sleeping face that still has a relaxed smile. What are you dreaming about that makes your body like this? Shirabu drags the fingers covered with your slick to circle your clit. In response your thighs clamp and twitch. So sensitive, still inexperienced, even if you’re sullied. 

Shirabu slides the soaked panties off and pushes your thighs apart so he can continue his examination. That person must have touched this area too, his fingers have been here, and then…plunged his fingers into you like so. Your body trembles as Shirabu’s two fingers probe in, fully examining your inner anatomy. Soft, warm muscles clamp tightly around his digits and try to stop them from entering further. It’s for your good and his knowledge. He pushes deeper into you, dragging alongside the bumps and ridges of your walls.

You whine loudly and arch your back when Shirabu’s fingers find a sweet spot. Your head shifts on the fluffy pillows.

“Did you like that? Did that feel good?” Shirabu asks, probing your hole once more. As if in agreement, your body twitches again and your hips automatically roll against the palm, pressing your sensitive clit into the surface. Your breathy sighs are soft and sweet, unlike any other sound Shirabu has heard from you. It’s like a spell that enchants Shirabu and beckons for him. He shudders as he feels his cock responding to each noise coming out from between your lips.

It’s good, something feels so good. Under the sunlight, you feel warmth pooling throughout your body. There are tingles in the soles of your feet, like grass tickling skin while running around barefoot. Your body feels so light and relaxed. It’s warm and you’re not in this forest alone. The shape of a prince appears. You know he’s a prince because his voice is gentle and his touch feels safe.

If this feels good, it’s only because this is an act of love. If this makes you happy, it’s because it’s love. If it’s love, it’ll fill the empty pools of hurt. And if you’ll be whole again, you’ll heal. Shirabu makes up his mind and caresses your cheeks tenderly, So beautiful. Always beautiful. A sleeping beauty. His hand reaches to the waistband of his pants.

The prince rests his hand on your hips and excitement jolts through your body. You wrap your arms around his neck and smile back.

Shirabu freezes the moment he feels your arms wave into the air and reach for him. The sneaky fingers run across his skin.

"Dance..with me," you slur before falling back into silence.

The alarm washes away when he confirms you are still sound asleep.

"Are you dreaming of your prince?" Shirabu asks while tearing open a condom packet. Medical safety. He should have worn gloves earlier too, if he wasn’t already too entranced. "Dancing? Then I'll dance with you."

Forever. I'll be your prince, my sweet darling.

Shirabu runs the length of his hardened cock along your glistening slit. Rather than take, rather than pillage and steal...Shirabu will give. Replace the gross markers of pain with soft fleeting kisses. Replace the innocence stolen with love given unconditionally. Shirabu will give you all the love you deserve and more.

Shirabu’s fingers weave into your delicate ones, the palms join together, and your fingertips automatically lock with your niichan’s. It’s the starting position for a waltz in the forest, once upon a dream.

The man takes the initiation, the leading step. Shirabu closes the gap, sinking his length into your sweet embrace in a fluid and wet squelch. You respond, digging your nails and tightening your grip on his hands. Your other arm hugs around your partner, your niichan, pulling his body close against yours. Your blank eyes flutter open briefly to look straight at the shadow of Shirabu. Of course, you don’t see anything, you’re actually in a warm forest shyly gazing at your prince. Shirabu almost thinks that he woke you up, but you only let out a quiet moan before your body relaxes again.  

Shirabu groans and rests his cock in your warm and tight embrace. This is the way it should be, how it ought to be done. No one else can lead you in this dance the way he can. The way he will. This is not the self-fulfilling king stealing the princess’s virginal body for his own pleasure. This is the loving prince who loves and gives selflessly. Your big brother knows you the best, knows how you’ll respond, knows how you’ll like it. Shirabu slowly draws himself out and thrusts back in.

The prince presses himself so close to you, and you inhale sharply. During the waltz, you always have to maintain body contact with your partner. You feel his breath on your cheeks, and you’re sure he can feel your hammering heartbeat. The intimacy builds in the tender but secure hold. The steps are quick but the movements are not violent. It’s just enough that the heat stirring in your core spreads throughout your body.

Breaths become more labored and raspy into the act. Shirabu sees your face morph into bliss as he continues his pace and rocks his hips into you. His own brows furrow as Shirabu feels his grip over rationality falling apart with each thrust. Each flutter of your walls against him only invites him to come in deeper, farther. Harder. 

“...K-Kenjirou-nii...,” you softly cry out.

Your honeyed voice is a thick syrup trapping Shirabu, coaxing him. It’s like a melody inviting a weary traveler, a lost prince, in for rest. Your voice, your body, it’s tantalizing.

"Too good," Shirabu groans to himself. Why is it so good? You, his little sister, how? He looks down towards where he sees his cock, covered with your fluids, disappear into you. The thin latex barrier doesn’t stop how close the two of you are, Shirabu feels each clench and spasm around him. “My little sister, I didn’t know…” 

Shirabu can now understand just why that man did all that to you. Why that man wants to keep you by his side. Why he incessantly sends messages and tries to manipulate you back into their world.

It’s the only explanation, really, when you don’t even know how bewitching your body is. How enticing your voice is. Anyone would want to keep it as their own. Your warmth, your sweet, sweet hole. This cunt of yours is itself a safe haven. And Shirabu feels like he’s the one being made whole from you. It’s all because of you.

Each moan from you. Those gentle mewling cries, a witch’s spell, an incantation for addiction. That man is trying to manipulate you? How? When your whole existence manipulates everyone first, drawing them all in with the image of your unsullied purity.

Shirabu feels his impending release around the edge. His pace quickens and his thrusts meet with each of your twisting squirms. Your head tosses side-to-side on the pillow as your sleepy climax washes through.

Spin. Faster and faster in the forested ballroom. Twirl for the finale. You feel a dizzying jolt as the prince dips your body back. It’s a whirlwind of love. In your dream, the sunshine is so warm and growing so much hotter. It feels like you’re floating. So light and free. That prickling tickle in your feet is growing stronger until little fireworks set off across every corner of your body, filling you completely. The forest melts as the colors blend together in a dreamy painting. 

Euphoria, as Shirabu finishes spectacularly, clutching your sleeping body close to him in a messy ending pose. The final winds of the dead storm outside sound like a rumbling applause for this sinful waltz. He can hear his own pants and your shaky breaths mix into a fading duet. Shirabu lets himself bask for a moment, resting, entangled with you.

Everything makes sense now. He completely understands why the bastard king forces himself onto Sleeping Beauty. He completely understands why your allure is much too exquisite to pass on. Shirabu pulls out and carefully removes the condom, collecting the white essence you bewitched out from him into a little package with a tie. Dangerous little princess, that you are.

Even though Shirabu now fully understands the complete story after careful examination, there are still a few lines Shirabu will draw. One, that man has still committed a very grave sin, being the first to sample your purity, stealing that away from Shirabu? Damaging your flesh and skin? Unacceptable, he thinks as he tosses the used condom into the waste bin. A complete low-life who doesn’t know how to cherish. Punishment will be due.

Shirabu returns to the bed where your unconscious body is still sprawled between bunched sheets. His blank eyes study your spread legs and puffy cunt that’s still quivering every now and then. He taps his index finger against your sensitive clit. As if it is a magic button, your body briefly trembles on command. As if you are ready to enchant another unsuspecting traveler into your safe little haven. A little bit of fluid leaks out from your hole, presenting itself seductively. Welcome. 

Shirabu scoffs. And number two, you’ll be better off staying here with himself, your big brother. You’ll be safe here with a prince who knows best how to love you right, and give you the world. This is the way it should be; before you completely lose yourself into degeneracy and invite just about anyone into you. 

Those sleeping pills will be insufficient for the long-run. A different concoction while you are still healing from your terrible trauma will be needed. A cocktail of sorts that will target different needs. Yes. Shirabu files that thought away, putting it towards the top of his to-do list. There’s so many things he has to take care of. Too much pain in this world waiting for him to don white robes and be out there.

“But you’ll always come first on niichan’s list,” Shirabu whispers, slipping your panties back on and pulling the comforters over your body. He’ll never allow you to be sullied again. You’ll stay here in this safe haven, like a little cottage tucked away in the forest. Dream here. Find happiness with the only prince you need.

The first rays of dawn begin to brighten the sky, shooing away the cloak of night. The first songs from the birds announce the arrival of a new day. The morning light filters through the windows of the room, spilling over onto the bed and your quiet, unmoving form.

Time to wake up now, sleeping beauty.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for blood/violence and language Genre: Action with a lil bit of fluff Warnings: Lil bit of blood Notes: There's an unnamed character in here who may or may not end up as recurring in my stories. I don't really have anything in particular planned for her, she's kinda just here to fill a role/allow for some easter egg type shit in the next chapter. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1, Pt. 2

{Wounded Love 3: Bloody Valentine (No, not that Valentine)}

“Mother Miranda, I must insist, if these lycans stray any further they might start feasting on the village as well! Pray tell, who will you use for research then? We can’t just-... Forgive me… Mhmm. Yes, I understand. Of course… Have a good night, Mother Miranda,” Lady Dimitrescu said, before setting her phone down with a loud thunk. Her hands shake a little, and for a moment you worry that her vanity won’t survive the coming moments. Then you make eye contact with her reflection, giving her an encouraging smile, watching as her gaze softens. “I’m afraid there’s nothing she can do, my dear. I cannot allow Heisenberg’s negligence to go unpunished, but we will have to take care of it on our own, without Mother Miranda’s support.”

“Is that wise, love? To go behind her back like this? I can’t imagine she’ll be terribly pleased if we cause chaos for one of her favored few,” you replied, clicking your tongue as you thought things over. Again you see anger cloud Alcina’s face, though she makes sure not to direct it at you.

“We are not the ones who started this mess,” she reminded you, through clenched teeth. “But we will be the ones to end it, one way or another. I don’t care if I have to gut that wretched man-thing and bring Miranda his corpse as proof of his incompetence! He has shown his lack of loyalty hundreds of times… and now he will pay.” Gulping, you rise to your feet, wanting to comfort your girlfriend. While you had understood that your injury angered her, you hadn’t (until this moment) realized the sheer intensity of that rage. How much blood would be shed before this was over?...

-----------------------------

Crimson drips down the beast’s side, across matted fur, before hitting the wooden floor. A stench as awful as you had ever found filled the air, only made tolerable by the nearby presence of scented candles. What a mess, you think, glad that you wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. Why had the girls insisted on bringing the damn thing inside? Couldn’t they have simply snatched a few teeth from its jaw as a prize? Somehow you doubted that the thought had even crossed their minds. Violence was a passion of theirs, and they preferred their trophies to be as large as the effort they put into getting it.

“How close to the path did you find it?” You asked after finishing your examination of the lycan. Next to you, the eldest daughter is rapidly taking notes in a leather-bound journal. Both of her siblings stand near the fireplace, hands held out next to the flames, needing to warm up after being outside for so long. It wasn’t even that cold of a day, with temperatures averaging around eighteen degrees celsius. All the snowfall from the prior week had now melted. While you knew of the family’s weakness, you also knew that they had bundled up before leaving, and had even taken a torch with them in the hopes of using it on a lycan. Their powers had taken somewhat of a hit, temporarily, but not nearly enough to prevent them from killing a single lycan.

“Heard it howling almost as soon as we left the castle. We couldn’t smell it until halfway to the village, though. Once we could we tried to track it, only for the stupid thing to come charging at us. Must have been eight, maybe ten, meters away by the time we collided,” Cassandra answered. There’s a bit of a shiver to her voice, and you can’t help the rush of sympathy you feel in response. Being out on the path, wearing little more than a dress and scarf, had been absolute hell for you. Even if it was warmer outside now, you imagined that being weak to the cold just about made up for the difference. “There was a little more howling once we started walking back here. Louder, if not closer. Heisenbitch isn’t even trying to keep these fucking things in check.”

“Cassandra, language!” Came a voice in the distance, making everyone present look up at once. Strutting down the stairs was a clearly miffed Alcina, eyes narrowed, body tense. “Did you three really have to bring the mutt inside? Surely you advocated against this, Bela? Or did you think I wanted new bloodstains right by the entrance, where everyone can see them?” Next to you Bela winces, but doesn’t respond, too worried about angering her mother further. “And you, my dear, what on Earth are you doing on the floor? You should be resting, in an actual chair, if not lying in bed awaiting my return. There’s enough for me to worry about without you limping around on a useless leg!”

Now it was your turn to wince.

“Please, love, I know you’re stressed, but I can still help. Given enough time I could help ascertain these things’ weaknesses. At the very least I could pass on what I learned during my fight with one,” you pleaded. Then you tried to stand up, wanting to prove yourself, only to stumble, barely avoiding a faceplant- and only doing so because of Bela’s quick reaction time. She helped you to your feet, letting you lean on her, then lead you towards a bench. Begrudgingly you sit back down. “You’re only doing this because I got hurt. Helping you in your endeavor to avenge me is the least I can do.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Alcina snapped, now just a couple meters away from you. Even with that space between you, her presence was intimidating, and you almost felt like a child being scolded. “Were you to get hurt again, how would we avenge you? If you fall by your own hand, there will be naught I can do other than lock you away somewhere without any dangerous elements. What sort of existence would that be for you? I simply can’t allow it, no exceptions.” At this you pout, feeling rather disappointed. It’s not as if you were asking to carry a gun and shoot Heisenberg yourself! Not that you would be opposed to doing so, of course. “Try to put yourself in my place, my dear. Could you live with yourself if you failed to protect me?”

“I suppose I could not, love. Very well, I shall simply root you on from here, and kiss away any injuries you return with,” you replied, at last giving in. Then you found yourself smiling… and on the receiving end of a very soft forehead kiss. “Nothing will separate us, my love. None can tear apart that which the universe has stitched together.”

-----------------------------

“Like I said, my Lady, I already want him dead. Did you really think that your family was the only one to suffer because of his machinations? I know half a dozen people who would love to put a bullet in that fucker’s skull, bare mims,” the huntress said, white teeth showing in her half-smirk. There was an odd coolness to her voice, like this whole ordeal was just another job, and you couldn’t help but feel uncertain about her. Could she really be the solution to Alcina’s problem? You couldn’t even judge her arsenal, considering she had been instructed to come unarmed. After all, she was a hunter of monsters, with a sizable history to her name. If not for her hatred of Heisenberg, you would never have felt comfortable letting her come within two hundred meters of your girlfriend.

“How can I be sure that you’ll succeed? The last thing I want is to have that wretched man-thing come crawling out of the filth he lives in, angry and coming for vengeance,” Alcina responded, scrutinizing gaze locked on the huntress.

“Didn’t Duke give you my file? Or at least read the good bits out loud? I’ve been in my fair share of scraps, with all sorts of bioweapon mutant freaks. Besides, I don’t plan on leaving any receipts behind. If he manages to survive, which is already one hell of an if, there’s no way he can prove that you asked me to do it. Considering he’s already seen my face, and knows I want him dead… yeah, he won’t bother accusing you, not when I’m in the picture, and certainly not when you’ve got such a big reputation for following Mother Miranda’s word down to the very last letter. So, you gonna make this official, or what?” The huntress asked, gesturing her arms wide. Although you’re still not convinced, Alcina nods quietly, seeming ready to make her decision. Regardless of how you feel about the stranger in front of you, you’re more than willing to support your girlfriend in whatever she planned.

“Very well, huntress. Show us just what you’re capable of.”

-----------------------------

Flames licked at her heels, even as she charged forward, tickling like hot breaths against her skin. Behind her half a dozen lycans roared and screeched in unison. Smoke and ashes flew upwards, into the air, but could not poison her lungs, not when she had come prepared. Still, the mask was not as easy to breathe in as she had hoped, making her chest heave with effort at each intake of air. Good thing I’ll be gone soon, she thought, sparing a glance behind her as she ran. Dozens of trees were aflame, and countless glowing eyes watched from between the branches. They wouldn’t be there for much longer, not with what she had done.

Soon enough an explosion would shake the Earth. Then, finally, both the lycans who had killed her father and the man who desecrated the remains would be dead. And if a certain countess happened to pay her for her services? All the better, really. Funerals could be expensive, especially in such a remote village. More than that… there was no guarantee that she’d be able to outrun Mother Miranda on her own. A little money would make the flight out a hell of a lot nicer.

Assuming she made it that far. There was another scream behind her, this one more human, though somewhat warped by mechanics. It wasn’t a pained cry. No, it was filled with rage. Clearly Heisenberg had come out of his lair, hearing the fireworks, finding his scrap metal and werewolf army in chaos. From the sound of things- metal against metal, electricity crackling- he was coming her way.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” She muttered, desperately trying to get to higher ground. Even if the lycans succumbed to the overwhelming fire, it wouldn’t be hard for their leader to overcome. But the huntress was still too close to her explosives to risk activating the detonator. Just a bit farther, she thought, ignoring the way her lungs ached. Rocks kicked up with every step, loud enough to be heard from a distance, and made traction harder to keep. In the end she had to scramble to get up the side of a short cliff. A few scrapes appeared on her hands, making her curse under her breath.

But with one last movement, pulling herself up with both arms, she was finally far enough to be relatively safe. In one clean second she turned around, pulled the detonator out of its pouch and clicked the trigger. Just like that, a forest blazing turns into a mushroom cloud of pure hellfire. The setting sun makes for a beautiful backdrop, and the sight almost brings a tear to the huntress’ eyes. For a few moments she just enjoys the view. Then, without hesitation or remorse, she starts to walk away, mentally congratulating herself for a job well done.

Until something shoots past her head with terrifying speed. Before she can react another sharp piece of metal flies past her, grazing her arm, and there’s a blood-curdling roar from behind her. Then she’s running, fast as she can, pulse pounding harder than it ever has. One hand goes to the rifle on her back, pulling it out as quickly as she can. The area is rocky, with plenty of outcrops, perfect to hide behind (assuming there weren’t any hidden metal deposits). Quickly she ducks behind one, crouching to keep her head out of sight. Mere milliseconds later another metal spike slams into the ground just beyond her cover.

In the distance, more screams pierce the air, and something heavy drags itself across the ground. It almost sounds like a tank rolling through the woods. The thought alone worries the huntress, but she had never been one to let her fear control her. So she double checks her rifle, adjusts the scope, and pops out of cover. Less than a second later she has her target in her sights. It’s Heisenberg, for sure, more metal than man, but dripping with red. One press of the trigger sends a bullet straight for his ugly head. Unsurprisingly, it’s not enough to pierce his cranium, instead making him mad as hell.

Which is why automatic guns were invented, probably. The huntress holds the trigger down this time, though briefly, before dashing to the next piece of cover. She repeats the process a few times, hoping to kill the man before he could climb the cliff she stood on. If he managed to get up there with her… no, she couldn’t think about that, not now. She had to focus.

-----------------------------

Hidden among the trees, the Dimitrescu sisters watched as plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Even though they had been aware of the huntress’ plan, they hadn’t expected this much carnage. It was certainly exciting! But they really couldn’t see much from where they were. Getting closer was probably a horrible idea, and yet Cassandra shared a meaningful look with Daniela. A split second later they were forming a swarm, rushing into the trees, leaving their elder sister to yell after them.

“Mother’s going to kill me,” Bela said, before rolling her eyes and following. Maybe she could at least keep them out of trouble?... Probably not.

-----------------------------

Metal hands wrap around the huntress’ throat, squeezing hard, but do not twist or otherwise break their prey. No, Heisenberg does not intend to end this that quickly. This rodent had taken so much from him, set his plans back by decades. He was going to kill her slowly. When she still fights back, pulling a knife from her boot and trying to stab whatever she can reach, he does little else but laugh. It’s a crazed cackling that echoes through the surrounding rocky hills.

Just barely loud enough to drown out the sound of insects buzzing.

“Fuck that guy!” Someone shouted, right as a sickle descended upon the monstrous Heisenberg’s neck. The first slice isn’t enough to sever the connection, which is why it’s immediately followed by a second, from another sister, then a third, from the eldest, that finally does the job. Just like that the hands release from the huntress’ throat, and she gasps for air. Coughs leave her distracted as the sisters move to surround her. “Good thing we wanted to see the show up close and personal, eh?” Daniela asked, twirling her sickle with a little giggle.

“You idiots are just lucky I followed you,” Bela added, glaring at her sister. Internally, she was relieved that the end result was a success. Still, she worried about what her mother would think, and certainly didn’t intend to voice her satisfaction at delivering the killing blow. “Now let’s get back, before mother assumes the worst and comes to get us herself.” Sighing, she extends a hand to help the huntress up. Though their mutual enemy had been defeated, there was still much to be done. Who knew how Mother Miranda would react? Who, if anyone, would take Heisenberg’s place? There was plenty to be unsure about, and Bela let her mind wander the whole way back, hoping that things would only get better from here...

[hollyhomburg]

Reasons Wretched and Divine (Pt. 7)

(Hybrid au) (YoonMinJoon x Reader) (Mafia au) 

Summary: After years of abuse, you’ve all finally found each other. But for one of you- the fear still lingers, hidden in the shadows. Yoongi doesn’t want much, just a few more weeks, but he only has until the end of the summer. 

Parings: Snake hybrid! Yoongi x Dog hybrid! Jimin x Dog hybrid! Namjoon x Pregnant! Reader, Platonic Vmin, allusions to 2seok, 

Genre: Hybrid au, Polyamory au, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Pregnancy, Mafia au

Tags:  Domestic abuse, references to sexual abuse- and choosing to have sex even though you’ve been through sa, physical abuse, polyamory negotiations, Post-traumatic stress disorder, mute characters, brief gore at the end, pregnant m/c, frottage, marking kink, fingering, oral f. receiving, Voyeurism, exhibitionism, implied death but dont worry I do not write MCD!!!!

A/n: just for posterity's sake! i was drunk when i posted this! enjoy! full gangbang comes in (y/n) next chapter! (oh god im going to hell).

W/c: 10.5k

Song Rec: Like Real People do ~ Hozier

~ Series Masterlist ~

2 Years Earlier

-  If Jeon Jungkook where so esoterically inclined, he would write a book on how he had become the most dangerous man in the underworld. It would be a short book though; because Jungkook had only 2 rules for himself. The first was to always get up after he’d been hit during a fight (even if it took him a second) and the second was to know when to mind his own business. 

- Jungkook was always able to get up after being hit, Even when he’d been a street kid, with not a penny to his name and a whole lot of anger in his mouth. ready to spit vitriol at anyone who would pause and listen. He’d always been able to get up. The pain giving him a kind of sick clarity that he eventually sought out instead of tried to escape. Jungkook could never think as clearly as he did during a fight; or when he was in pain. And that was probably because of his father. 

- But whatever. That man was 6 feet under, (his mother on the other hand- no- that bitch certainly had more than one dept to pay still). He didn’t have a lot of time or energy to put into dealing with that particular trauma (why he honestly felt like sometimes- he liked being hit). Most of his energy went into staying alive. Even now- when living and surviving teetered on the same edge. Jungkook had more pressing matters to tend to than dealing with his own fragile mind. 

- The way he would get up and hop around for a second to soak in the clarity after being hit during a scuffle was one of the reasons why he’d been given his street name: The Playboy Bunny; further set in stone with his tattoo of the same moniker under his left eye. A cheekbone he’d tap and say “you want to hit me? why don’t you try your luck and see how well it turns out for you.” 

- He was doing reconnaissance, Sneaking around the back alley with his hood up and his glasses on- disguising his black eye that was sure to get more than a few looks from passers-by. The ears of the playboy bunny tattoo peeking out over the top of his mask. 

- He keeps his eyes on the crowd waiting for some sort of handoff- to see anything at all. But he’d lost his target through the crowd and has no drive to find them in the dizzying rush of people and umbrellas. Not yet. Not when the hum of addiction lurks in his veins. 

- Jungkook pauses lighting a cigarette, when a commotion to the side hidden around a corner- blurs his concentration. The world snapping back into focus when he sinks his fingernails into his palm. Terse voices. A couple fighting in the alleyway perpendicular to his. 

- Minding his own business was a particular skill of his- it took one kind of person to know when to step in, and another to know which problems weren't worth the headache. And unless it involved the acquisition money or some step therein, it wasn’t a problem worth getting into in Jungkook’s opinion.

- But Jungkook can’t stop his ears from hearing snippets of conversation, a low and angry male voice. The sound of a smack. “You just had to embarrass me like that, didn’t you? First, you come out dressed like a slob and then you act like a fucking whore- I swear if I see you give eyes to another man this week I'll beat you five ways to Sunday”

- The sound of a soft female voice, so quiet- almost indistinguishable from the pouring rain, “I wasn’t-” another smack.

- Jungkook has been hit so many times he knows the sound of it, the ragged gasp the woman lets out, also quite- like even the pain takes up too much space. 

- His body starts to move before his mind thinks it through as he gives up position in favor of investigating the noise. There he sees it, ivy growing up the wall next to the back exit of some restaurant. A woman, small crouching in front of a grotesque man. A baggy coat buttoned tight around her small form. hair swept back in a tight bun. Red lipstick smudged. Though you check your hands and think its blood for a moment before you remember you’re wearing it. 

- Jungkook waits for a moment before he watches you stand on shaky legs. you get up. 

- The rest of the underworld might be old grudges and blood feuds but Jungkook was only here to be a businessman. He didn’t have time for ego and arrogance, let alone time for altruism... 

- Usually. 

- He looks on for a moment, too sluggish without nicotine, but Jungkook’s lingering stare almost seems to spur the man on. He’s wearing a jacket with a military patch, a badge; some sort of congratulation for service done no doubt. and Jungkook feels his distaste for the man deepen. 

- “What you looking at punk?” he slurs. Stalking forward as if to shove Jungkook. He almost wants to tut- that would be an expensive action. Jungkook wonders if the man is maybe high or drunk or both. He’s has had his fair share of experience with junkies and he knows one when he sees one. 

- “Nothing, just a pig beating his girlfriend.” The man settles for shoving Jungkook back. And Jungkook lets him. You don’t look up, don’t do anything but lean to the side, like the brick wall is the only thing keeping you up. Jungkook sees the back of your hand, black and blue, the other bruises on your neck. You only make eye contact with him once. Just slightly. Barely in passing.  

- You look like Jungkook used to look. He remembers in the savage bite of an open-handed slap- the fear he sees in your eyes. He looks and looks. And it aches so viscerally as Jungkook watches you go, your hurt echoes through him. You look beaten down and broken like Jungkook used too; before he’d decided he was done taking punches from people who were supposed to love him- Were supposed to care. 

- (Before he realized life wasn't supposed to hurt) 

- He’s never been one to feel things for other people, the empathy sparing him through most of the suffering he’s seen. It’s not that he’s unfeeling; it’s just that Jungkook’s life has forced him to feel concerned only for himself and no one else. His own survival is his first priority; Not others. 

- He watches you walk away, And you don’t look back at him. Rushing to keep up with your husband's steps. He waits until you disappear into the crowd before he lifts his phone to his ear and makes a call. “Hey, I need you to flag all of the cars that leave the parking lot, they’re just a couple, should be coming to you soon.”

- Jeon Jungkook had become the most powerful man in the underworld because of two reasons; by being able to take punches, and by knowing when to mind his own business. 

- But For this, Jungkook thinks he can make an exception.

- (You won't remember meeting Jeon Jungkook, but Jungkook will always remember you).

~.~

Now

-It comes as no surprise that your little speech fades after a few days and the rest of the hybrids quick to return to treating Yoongi with a mix of disdain and fear. Though mostly- this seems to be caused by Minhyung's group and the other canine hybrids. Namjoon hears them whispering about ‘favoritism’ before they catch on that he’s listening in. And in the days following your impromptu departure from the farm, you find people quiet even further whenever Yoongi's brought up. Staring when Yoongi comes close, afraid to interact with him.

- Even Jimin is greeted mostly with silence from all but a few. The bunny hybrids don’t act so skittish anymore, and the cat hybrids could care less used to sticking to their own group. Taehyung seems to have encouraged the other bear hybrids to make an actual effort and they at least say hello now. It’s better than the derisive comments of the dog hybrids, or the snooty noses stuck high in the air of the dear hybrids and other exotic breeds. 

- They know Jimin is close to Yoongi and Namjoon, and now he feels even more like an outsider that before (somehow it doesn't matter as much as before). The only ones who don’t act overtly different are the new hybrids; Hoseok and the small lion hybrid. but They were never around to learn how to hate Yoongi in the first place.

- it's a little cute- the way that Hoseok will always shout Yoongi's name in greeting (though you're unsure if that's just his personality now that he's started to grow into himself). Hoseok is unbothered by Yoongi's reaction; to shy away from anything that will draw more attention to himself. But Hoseok's smile is so bright and elastic that even he has a hard time ignoring the otter hybrid. You hope there will be a friendship there eventually, that yoongi will open up to more than just your group. 

- The little lion kit is a new addition too, she's not the only young feline hybrid you have at the farm but she is the friendliest. She gets pretty close to the other cats that work in the kitchen almost instantly. Probably on account of her young age (she's barely 7) and the eldest cat hybrid seems to be particularly fond of the little one.

- She's curious and kind to Yoongi too- excitedly running up to him more than once to show him a little rock or some flower she found- and yoongi will marvel and nod, and if Jimin is near- he'll lean close and tell her how pretty it is. 

- She doesn't seem at all deterred by Yoongi's lack of voice. one day she even sees Jimin, her ears perking up excitedly, tail swishing. "Hello Yoonies voice!" it's a little cute- even if it does make yoongi splutter a little. But she's not exactly wrong; Jimin does talk for yoongi more these days. 

- She Always comes bounding up to you and giggling happily to be picked up. Her little legs stretching around your waist, small bottom sat atop your baby bump. Making you get the kind of look that makes Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jimin sigh and look impossibly fond. They can only imagine what you’re going to be like once your little one is born. Your due date is barely 2 months away.

- In truth- you’re starting to get a little bit big. You say it one morning with Namjoon. After he asks you why you’re looking into the mirror with such a displeased expression. The sound of your terse voices alerts Yoongi and he comes to the door to your bedroom to witness your spat. Making a flippant hand movement at Namjoon to back off. Namjoon could smell your distress on you when you looked in the mirror, his voice tense but breaking. “Baby just tell me, why you think you’re not beautiful like that? let me understand. Cuz to me- you look more irresistible every day.”

- It’s not that you exactly wanted him to agree with you that you were nearing the size of a whale- but this doesn’t help at all either. His unending insistence- doesn’t he see? when he looks in the mirror doesn’t he see what you do? His instance that everything is alright doesn't help when you’re feeling this self-conscious.

- Yoongi helps you, fiddling with Namjoon’s closet for a second before he pulls out an extra-large white shirt of his and helps you into it- tying it loosely over your baby bump so that it flatters your waist a little more. The attention that Yoongi shows you clearly making you flustered. Then he drags you to the mirror, tugging your hair out of its bun, the tension going out of your shoulders.

- Yoongi doesn’t know it, but Namjoon does. Your late husband used to always be so particular about your hair, yanking on it harshly if it was left down. and An easy way to avoid him yanking on it was to leave it up. And sometimes you still pull it up convinced it’s safer even though he’s dead and gone. It’s scary how simple it is- but the second your hair comes down your whole body relaxes.

- All the while Namjoon watches from your bed. And you take in yourself, the baby hairs free-floating against your forehead; Yoongi curls one gently around his finger and then lets it go. You take in the way that the fabric hangs now, making you look a little more proportional, Yoongi gives you a satisfied smile behind your back and you have to sigh and admit it. “Okay- okay- I’ll give you this- I’m not a whale”

- “And even if you where you’d be a pretty whale.” Yoongi has the good sense to hurl a pillow in Namjoon’s direction, but it makes you laugh all the same- the heaviness in your chest abated a little. Your sleeve brushing Yoongi’s as you head downstairs, Namjoon trailing behind.

- The beach trip was a nice distraction from chores but the real work comes crashing down on them the next few days. Your little group feels closer than ever, you rarely part from any of them for long and their intention, their little acts of care never fail to make you feel flustered and taken care of.

- Jimin always holds out a hand for you to take when you’re stepping over uneven ground, Yoongi makes a startled noise whenever you so much as get close to a hose that might trip you, always gesturing for you to pause and take a break whenever you’re working in the garden. Namjoon too, always running back and forth from whatever project he’s working on to check on you and make sure you have water or food.

- At night, Namjoon takes your stretch mark cream from you, rubbing down your baby bump and your hips, the little lines of lighter skin on your waist get little kisses from him.  

- Even if you want just a snack, Namjoon and Yoongi will bring you a full meal- convinced that you need to be eating more than you are. At dinner Yoongi fills up your plate- piling it high with more food then you could fit in your already crowded tummy. And he always eyes you suspiciously when you can’t finish the full plate. Namjoon too will level you with a look- asking if you really are full. 

- Since your pregnancy has progressed, you’ve become a little moodier, and a little hornier whenever way the wind blows. And Namjoon doesn’t help that much at all- and by that you mean, he makes it worse. When he comes out of the field with his shirt off and tucked into his shorts all of his thickness, his muscles that make you ravenous. 

- During lunch one day he drags you away to a forgotten tool shed, though it would be easier just to go up the hill to your bedroom- you feel like teenagers sneaking around like this. 

- Namjoon presses into you as he hits the latch on the door, muffling your giggles with kisses as you hide from the hybrids outside, voices that you can dimly hear, unable to pick out any one particular yet- but you know they're there. 

- You and Namjoon might bicker like an old married couple. But you also act like teenagers gooey and giggly and so so so in love. “Do you think that they can hear you like this? Or smell you, my love?” Namjoon is always quick to tell you how delectable you smell when you’re horny. His more sensitive nose-picking it up the second you feel a slickening between your thighs.

- You’re shaky when you respond. “I don’t know, maybe?” Namjoon always has this passionate intense air about him. He’s slightly possessive- but you’d never fault him for that not when it’s all about protecting and providing for you. Not when he always puts your pleasure first (you feel like you may have turned into a slight pillow princess with him). 

- Namjoon heaves you up onto the edge of a bench and then gets on his knees. Gently lifting your leg over his shoulder. He’s always mindful of how much you can move in your swollen state. He checks to make sure he’s not bending your hips in an uncomfortable way. 

- You put your hands back on the dusty bench to stabilize yourself as you lie back, Namjoon wastes no time in pressing his face close to your cunt and inhaling, His nose prodding at the thin fabric of your underwear. One of his ears caught on the hem of your dress. His fingers digging into the plushness of your thighs- so full and healthy it makes him hard in his pants. 

- He’s slow with the appreciation of your thighs and hips. Hands gripping and moving on to touch and feel like you have all the time in the world. But you hear voices outside the tool shed you’ve commandeered and you could just slip out and go back up to your house- but somehow you like this better. The thought of being discovered stirring an unsure heat in your stomach. 

- You can hear Taehyung's voice, and then- like a shock through your core- you hear Jimin’s. Namjoon can feel your jolt. And you realize- his sensitive ears must have known who it was before your own human ones did. He chuckles- teasing his fingers along the hem of your underwear, almost daring to slip inside.

- You almost whine when you think about what you’re being denied- the harsh pull of his fingers that you’re so addicted too, how thick his fingers and knuckles feel (almost as nice as his cock) when they pull out and push in.

- Yoongi and Namjoon have always had the most lovely hands, it’s strange that when Namjoon touches you- you think about Yoongi’s hands. The way you clench around his fingers at that has Namjoon’s tail wagging. "you're thinking about them aren't you," The way you clench around his fingers at that has Namjoon’s tail wagging. Because yeah; Yoongi and Jimin are apart of Namjoon’s pack too, and bonding and group sex are kind of the same thing to hybrids. You’d found that out the hard way when you’d found a group of cat hybrids all tangled together in the grass the other day.

- Namjoon is always so gentle with you because of your condition, but you find your hips jerking with want. His fingers still when he feels the way your wetness has spilled out the sides. His thumb pressed over your clit teasingly. “smell so good when you're like this So wet my love, are you thinking about them finding you like this?” 

- “Y-yes” you confess, and Namjoon growls, nipping at you through the fabric, the feel of his teeth brushing you, over the sensitive skin. The fabric cushioning the feeling, makes you almost gush, and you know you’ll be shakily legged by the time he lets you get down. And that he won’t let you get away from him until he’s taken care of you in this way, sated you in every sense of the word. 

- But he can also tell how shy you are, the heat under your skin at the thought of being discovered. always unsure how much of your dirty talk is a real want and not just something you like in theory. Namjoon knows the idea of sharing you with the others might seem like the most natural and hottest thing; to love you alongside them. but to you- a human, hybrid sex and hybrid bedroom dynamics aren't as given. 

- So he leans close, sliding your underwear down your legs slowly, letting you feel the heat of his palms on your skin. You're getting worked up a little too quickly, your heaving breaths needy. God damn pregnancy hormones you'd say if you could think beyond the plush feeling of his lips pressing a kiss to your clit. “Gotta clean you up for them, if they smelled you like this- then they’d know wouldn’t they?” 

- You prove Namjoons initial assumption wrong. “What if I-” you whisper- gasping quietly as Namjoon drags the fabric to the side and glides a delicate lick over your folds. “What if I want them to know?” the pleasure thrumming through your body as Namjoon licks up your slit. Namjoon stills, ears perked, eyes flashing in the half-light. The snarl against your cunt loud and echoic.

- The voices outside fall silent and Namjoon doesn't stop his ravenous licking no matter if you have to bite your lip to keep your noises in. One of your hands scrambling to pull at his hair and find something to grip onto and anchor yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. Jimin is the first one to puncture the silence, “What was that?” 

- Then comes Seokjin's voice “all of you- move along- whoever it is they probably don’t want the three of you listening in like a bunch of horn dogs” which is basically a confirmation that they were listening in, and that Yoongi was there too. 

- When you finally exit the toolshed with weak legs, sure you’re going to have to at least got change your underwear. You find a bleary-eyed Seokjin a few dozen feet away, obviously upwind of the toolshed. he levels Namjoon with a tired expression. “You both have dirt on your knees” Namjoon has the good sense to look shy at that. You hastily brush off the spots on his, and he on yours.

- If Jimin and Yoongi smell anything on you later- they don’t say anything and the idea that they might make you feel hot all over whenever they lean in too close. You think you see a blush on Yoongi’s face more than once, and maybe see him adjust his pants out of the corner of your eye, but Jimin seems blissfully unaware.

- You have a check-up at the doctor’s office in the coming days. And although only Namjoon is allowed in the room with you (they have a two-person maximum because the ultrasound room is tiny), Yoongi and Jimin also accompany you. Namjoon comes bounding out after, waving the picture and smiling so so wide, both Yoongi and jimin leaning in close to get a better look- they’re so enamored with the little photo. And when you get home- Namjoon shows anyone that asks how the check-up went, eventually hanging it on one of the two fridges in the kitchen.

- Jimin is the only one who seems to notice the jealous looks- because you went out for ice-cream after and come home with them still partially melting (you’d had another craving- french-fries dunked in ice cream of all things). One of the other hybrids having heard Jimin talk to Tae about the beach trip too. They come to you at the end of the day, 2 bunnies, a cat, a fox and one of the bears- a mish moshed group of hybrids; petitioning you to start the beach trips for everyone.

- You can only fit so many people into the back of your truck so you pick a day and start a raffle for spots. Jimin throws his name into the hat just in case but to his surprise, Yoongi doesn’t. No matter how much Jimin bugs him too; He won’t agree to accompany Jimin to the beach again. Shaking his head with a roll of his eyes back tipped back against the grass, his sunhat crumpled. Offering up a few sweet tomatoes to soothe Jimin’s sour nerves. 

- The peace lasts for a couple of days before they’re right back to treating Yoongi like shit and for some reason, it pisses Jimin off more. No matter how many times he’s heard Namjoon asks Yoongi to please tell him when anything happens. The snake hybrid seems unable to fight back.

- Jimin asks one of the hybrids why she won’t look at Yoongi (after the snake has already gone up the hill to retrieve another dish for dinner) and beyond a startled look, she just says “none of us can smell him” she throws a stack of paper towels down onto the table angrily. The deer hybrid across from them stumbling with their silver wear But she doesn’t need to re-iterate herself. Jimin understands- it’s hard to trust someone who can lie to your face- and in the world of hybrids where emotions can be decreed from a simple sniff, Jimin can’t say he doesn’t see where they’re coming from.

- Doesn’t excuse their behavior, however. After all- Jimin can smell Yoongi’s emotions through his scent and he didn't realize that was something strange until now. To Jimin, Yoongi’s scent is soft and sweet- something gummy and soft like a marshmallow. But that’s probably because he spends so much time with the hybrid. The others only spend so much time around him and are unused to his scent. And the fact that he never talks and never tries to socialize doesn’t help.

- Jimin can’t imagine not wanting to smell more of it- not leaning in whenever the other hybrid passes. Jimin wants to bury his face in Yoongi’s neck and rub his cheek all over it. The same way that Namjoon does to him in the morning if he shows up before he’s changed from his pajamas. And he knows he smells soft like sleep- an alluring smell to the older alpha when he comes down the stairs, ears straight up eyes wide as he takes in all of Jimin's vulnerability.

- and it might have to do with what Taehyung had said- that alphas eat up that sort of thing. 

- Namjoon smells good too, his scent all soft mornings and sleepy walks, the older hybrid large and so pliant in his sleepiness, eyes swollen and face puffy as he hides in Jimin’s shoulder. Sending his pine scent all over so that it sticks to jimin no matter where he is. So that jimin will smell like Namjoon all day. 

- One of the cat hybrids at the sink rolls her eyes. But when you come down the stairs smelling much the same. You touch his arm so softly in passing, like you can’t believe you’re allowed. And Jimin’s senses are a dizzying blur of cream, peaches, pine, and marshmallow. 

- when he goes back to the barns, hazy at being scented by Namjoon so thoroughly. Taehyung levels him with a funny look and a chuckle. "you're more devious than anyone gives you credit for" thought Taehyung means it good-naturedly- it's good to have a friend to ask how to go about flirting with. the other hybrids gathered on the couch in front of the tv; some cartoon playing- pretend like they're not listening in. 

- "How do you know so much when you don't have a pack of your own Tae?" he asks over breakfast, the two of them clutching breakfast burritos on their way to check Tae's bees. Tae doesn't meet Jimin's eyes "you're just lucky- most hybrids dont find a pack so easily Jimin" his words aren’t jealous- only a little patronizing. And Jimin accepts it because he knows he has a lot to learn.

- Taehyung is right- out of all of the hybrids at the farm, there are only a few who have paired up or even made stronger groups or multi-person packs. the bunnies and the cats don't form set generally- though there are a few pairs and more than a few throuples.

- Jimin as caught Yeonjun making out with a tabby more than once- has learned to avoid certain sections of the woods all together because everyone knows that's where the bunny hybrids like to go in the afternoons. The canine hybrids are the only ones who have packs, though there are more than half a dozen loners like jimin and namjoon.

- It's hard for Jimin to cohabitate with them even though there are other larger predators and more than a few prey hybrids living in Jimin's barn. he hadn’t really realized until taehyung pointed it out that each different pack occupied one corner of the punk room. More than once- the room in the barns has felt hostile if only for the packs that have claimed either corner of the bunkroom. it's usual to wake up and find more than one of the pups cuddling with another in one single bed. 

- Having reciprocated love in his pack shouldn't feel like an impossibility to Jimin. But still, when Yoongi steps close- an inch too far away, his fingertips barely brushing- Jimin just- yearns. It’s a soft sort of yearning, the kind that has jimin jumping up whenever Yoongi needs something. Has him settling a think knit blanket over Yoongi’s nobly knees during movie nights, and sticking his own feet underneath the edge of the blanket. Feet Pressed to the clothed line of his calf. Maybe nothing will ever come of it, But Jimin yearns with everything he’s got regardless.

- In the late hours of the night, when Jimin lies awake thinking about the three of you. An instinct welling inside of him that says he should walk up the hill and fall asleep on your couch just to be closer to you three (the pack instinct- Taehyung calls it, looking a little bit sad himself when jimin asks him, the other hybrid moving away before jimin can ask exactly what that means) Jimin wonders if his feelings will ever be reciprocated.

- But love is a strange thing, it’s not just about saying it with kisses or touches- though Jimin wants them too. There is love in the small things, in building something together so that’s what Jimin tries to do. Every day- he takes to gardening with a new vigor. Shouting in joy when you harvest some of the tomatoes- filling up a whole gallon bucket with the amount that have ripened over the last week. Your peppers and cucumbers are beginning to produce more too.

- Jimin and Yoongi run to Namjoon just to give him a handful. The alpha gives each of them a sweet nuzzle in thanks, even if Yoongi chirps and moves back after a moment. A flush high on his cheek. Namjoon looking up at Yoongi from where he’s stopped- cheek on the elder's shoulder. The snake relaxing after a moment. 

- You spend the rest of the day showing Jimin and Yoongi how to prepare the tomatoes to make a sauce, roasting them on low heat. Cutting garlic so so carefully, and whenever Jimin looks across the prep table- Yoongi’s gaze darts away. halfway through- yoongi stoops down, sticking his socked feet into jimin’s lap, and it feels so nice, to have their weight there. 

- You go over to Yoongi at one point, and he tips his head back to look up at you. The back of his head is at the right height to lye up against your baby bump. And Jimin watches, as you slowly, so slowly, brush the hair out of his eyes and away from his forehead. Yoongi’s eyes flutter closed and he tips his face into your hand. Letting out a low happy grumble when you take his action as positive reinforcement, and drag your nails over his scalp. In Jimin’s lap, Yoongi’s toes curl. 

- It feels strange- and Jimin can’t quite put his finger on it- but it almost feels like Yoongi is letting you all touch him more than ever. Suddenly okay with touches- as long as it’s in a more private setting. Jimin can’t say he’s unhappy about it. Maybe one-day yoongi will even let Jimin scent mark him. 

- Jimin smiles at Yoongi’s happy little snake grumbles. And keeps chopping his garlic. Is happy to receive the same kind of scratch from you a few minutes later. Though he might abandon his chopping in favor of rubbing his face all over your stomach when the instinct strikes him. Jimin unintentionally lets out a growl when you start to move away. Slapping a hand over his mouth and apologizing, no matter how you and Yoongi laugh.

- Still, despite the happiness, you have in your kitchen, in your house, whenever you’re around each other. The rest of the world is not so kind.

- An adoption day comes at arguably the worst and best time. There is still a fair amount of friction between your group and the rest of the hybrids. And a few outsiders at the farm only make it worse. Though Yoongi, Jimin, and Namjoon aren’t the only hybrids who wear red stickers to indicate that they are not available for adoption.

- Hoseok surprisingly- grabs a yellow sticker. And the three of your hybrids watch- as Seokjin hovers around him- a red sticker on his own lapel- wary of all and anyone who interacts with the otter hybrid. His glares putting off all but the most attentive patrons. That's where it starts.

- Jimin is unfortunately caught in the middle when seokjin confronts hoseok. off to help the three of them bring down 3 trays of cut watermelon for the hybrids and the patrons. The dinner tables have been set out on the side of the field piled high with Hors d'oeuvre. You’re there with Namjoon greeting the humans. Games are set out too- for the hybrids and humans to play. 

- it’s no secret that they’ve gotten close, and jimin had assumed they’d talked about it- but apparently not. Seokjin is so angry he’s nearly crying. “why- hoseok- why do you want to leave the farm?” Hoseok’s little otter ears are tight against his scalp. “I just- I didn’t want to assume?”

- “Oh- so you’d rather just- throw away everything that we’re trying- all of this- you don’t you dont want to stay do you-” Jimin has never seen seokjin looking so lost, and he knows enough to guess that Seokjin’s anger is at least in part to due to some trauma (later- Jimin will find out that Seokjin’s mother left him with his last owner- an abusive man- to save herself).  

- Jimin knows enough to get in between them, telling them to calm down and spend a minute away from each other. Jimin ends up with Hoseok- “it’s hard Jimin- how do you, how do you have so much sureness with Y/n? with Namjoon and yoongi too? How do you look at them and trust that you should stay?” Hoseok's eyes remain on Jimin's red tag. 

- Jimin sighs, thinking it through, “do you look at Seokjin and know he cares about you? like- do you know it in your bones?” Hoseok bites his lower lip, “yes- but-” 

- “Then you should stay Hoseok,” Jimin walks Hoseok up to the main house where the stickers sit on the prep table. Changing out his yellow one for a red one. And when they head off back down the hill, Seokjin is waiting on the path with Yoongi, apologizing and dragging Hoseok away to the barns where Seokjin’s own private room is. Hoseok goes willingly, smiling up at the older hybrid. His narrow shoulders cuddled under one of Seokjin's wide ones. 

- jimin has to admit, an otter and an alpaca are a weird combination for a hybrid pack (But no stranger than a pair of puppies and a snake). His thoughts drift towards Taehyung- and Jimin hopes that his friend won't end up alone. it must not be easy- to see all of you pair off like this. 

- in some ways, that adoption day is full of just as much bullshit as they usually are. there are always people who dont understand the effort it takes to take care of a hybrid- they aren't just like any ordinary pet. it's easy to spot the ones that view them as pets- and less like people. You get a few rich people looking to adopt a companion as always. 

- A substantial group of families also look to adopt similarly aged companions for their single children. And you agree to more than one possible test weekend. You’re always so particular about letting the children go, so wary and so careful in the way you let them interact with the families.

- Though they don’t have parents here- there are more than a few good role models and parental figures. More than one child chooses a red tag for themselves. And they always know have a right to it- no matter how young they are. You make it clear to the group of them; If they don’t want to be adopted they don’t have to be. 

- You even get one couple- the woman withdrawn and sad, and a slightly jealous look at your own pregnant stomach says more than any words could. It’s pretty common for women who can’t have children to adopt hybrid children. and though some of it doesn't sit right with you, You aren’t one to judge. 

- Jimin spends most of the adoption day helping you balance the need for food and for games. running back and forth to the house to help. Though there is a little work that needs to be done here and there just to keep the farm running as usual. grey storm clouds roll in halfway through the day, puncturing the blue sky- foretelling scattered showers and storms. and jimin hopes it will cut the adoption day short so that you can return to your routines. 

- Jimin is just helping Yoongi putting away a broken badminton net When it happens- Jimin isn’t certain why it does. Only that he hears the words outside the shed after Yoongi's just excited to grab the broken rackets (Namjoon isn't the only clumsy hybrid you have at the farm). 

- “oh sorry- ew gross,” a shrill female voice says, and then he rounds the corner and sees yoongi picking himself up from the dirt- a rich lady and her peacock hybrid looking down at him like he’s the dirt beneath his shoes. The peacock hybrid has Yoongi’s sun hat in his hands and there is another hybrid- a wolf hybrid from the farm with a green sticker on his shirt, who growls down at yoongi.

- His shoulders shake too the way they do when he’s been touched and he doesn’t want to be. Jimin has seen you brush your fingers over the back of Yoongi’s hand, has even felt the coolness of the snake hybrid through the fabric when the elder grabbed his sleeve. Has touched him even more intimately as of late. But he knows that Yoongi can’t tolerate being touched by people he doesn’t trust- doesn’t want to touch him. basically, anyone, that's, not you, Namjoon, or Jimin himself. 

- “Hey- what the fuck!” Jimin spits, grabbing the sunhat out of the hybrid's hand with a growl, his ears flat against his head. If Jimin had elongated canines like Namjoon they would be barred in anger as he shoves the larger hybrid back. Yoongi shrinks impossibly smaller behind him.

- Jimin is hot and itchy from the heat and the humidity, and he really just wants to shower and cool off. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with entitled people today. And more importantly- no one touches Yoongi on Jimin’s watch.

- The hybrid looks surprised to be talked to in that way, he’s nearly a head taller than Jimin let alone the slightly taller feathers that poke out of the top of his head that give him the appearance of several more inches- but Jimin’s intimidating enough with his set expression to send the hybrid huffing away. Feathers fluffed.

- The peacock's iridescent feathers stand up on end as he grabs the hand of his human owner, her diamond tennis bracelet glittering in the sunlight. “This was getting boring anyway. Sorry” he tosses over his shoulder at the canine hybrid, who looks so disappointed his ears pinned back against his head. They only give him that- barely a look, before they’re heading off down the hill in the direction of the line of cars parked on the grass.

- The wolf hybrid deflates audibly- watching the woman and the other hybrid disappear down the hill. promises of home and family disappearing in a moment, but Jimin has to think- if they’d be discouraged so easily- were they really worth it? The wolf hybrid doesn't seem to think so- Turning his angry tear-filled eyes on Jimin. 

- But Jimin can see the hate in his eyes and knows not to mistake the tears for only sadness. “You both ruin everything” he growls out- before they too run back towards the barns- no doubt to tell the others how Yoongi had sabotaged their adoption. Even though that was far from the truth. in all honestly- yoongi just bumped into the lady- or more probably- the lady bumped into him when he was on his way out of the shed.

- Jimin holds out his sunhat to Yoongi, who takes it from Jimin carefully, Jimin doesn’t linger on the fact that his hand still shakes. Jimin’s hand lingers somewhere close enough where Yoongi could touch it could reach out if he wants too. If he wants to get that kind of comfort from Jimin's touch- then Jimin will willingly give it. 

- a faint flush coats the elder's cheeks. Oh no- he must be overheating then, Jimin feels a rush of concern. He knows what you would do, hover your hand close enough to Yoongi’s forehead, usher him upstairs for a break in the air conditioning, and a glass of icy lemonade.

- All they can hear is the shouts of laughter at the games the others play in the fields, “I understand why you don’t want to stay in the barns, why you don’t want to socialize with some of them, they’re so unkind to you it makes me crazy.” Jimin shakes his head, sour anger filling him like a rotten peach.

- Yoongi, looks more than pacified, looking up at Jimin with an indecipherable look. Most of the time, Jimin can get a good guess on how he’s feeling but not now- not that indecipherable heaviness he finds there. or the strangely heavy marshmallow scent that’s fluffed around them. Jimin lets go of Yoongi’s hat.

- After a moment Yoongi nods, and Jimin takes it as a thank you. They’re done for the day and dinner won’t be for another few hours or so. Jimin is ready to avoid some of the strangers and hopefully take advantage of the empty showers. The sky is grey with incumbent storm clouds when Jimin makes his way to the shower buildings which he finds blissfully empty; except for the bear hybrid Jackson that tosses a greeting at Jimin before exiting.

- Jimin doesn’t even bother to flick the lights on, instead of settling for the calm light that comes through the skylights, grey and hazy. the storm clouds have started to roll in properly. He hums as he disrobes, goes to grab his favorite strawberry body wash, and picks the last shower at the end, disrobing in relative comfort, glad for a moment of privacy.

- The blissfully Coldwater does wonders for his overheating muscles, relaxing his body deliciously from a day spent walking up and down the hill. he digests the chaos of the day- seokjin and hoseok fighting, yoongi getting shoved. you'd looked frazzled the last time he'd seen you, smile strained as you made small talk with most of the humans, Namjoon always close incase you needed someone to lean on.

-  Jimin had been able to tell that your feet were sore just by looking at you. Namjoon will probably make you sit down before long, maybe he already has. You’ll probably cut off the adoption day because of the rain. Taking down names and information before you send them on their way. You rarely let a hybrid leave the farm after one adoption day, needing to have more private meetings and house calls to willingly part with one of them. You just want to make sure you dont release them back into another abusive household. 

- He hums as he washes, lingering in the water and taking a longer shower than he usually would. He hums, testing the way his vocal cords wrap around the acoustics of the empty high ceilinged room. 

Then he hears the scuffling of someone in the bathroom too and cuts off. A little abashed at being caught. The rustling getting closer and its a moment before he realizes that the rustling is coming from his own section of the bath. he smells him the second before he pulls the shower curtain gets pulled back. 

- “Yoongi!” Jimin shouts, furiously grabbing at something to cover his nakedness. Jimin furiously tries to cover his crotch, grabbing one of the large bargain bottles of shampoo and hold it there even as cold water runs over his face. Getting into his wide eyes. “Yoongi what the fuck! You’re naked!”

- Jimin is glad that the rumors about snake hybrids having double the appendages as a normal hybrid are false but he can’t stop his blush or his wandering eyes as he sees the snake hybrid in full. Or the hot lick of arousal that shocks him through his core- especially when he recognizes the heaviness to Yoongi's scent as being arousal. 

- there is a single moment, jimin can smell yoongi- can see the want in his eyes, can feel his own scent fluff out to meet his, yoongi sags under the weight of Jimin's scent as the surprise dissipates. "do you-" Jimin's face must be brighter than a tomato. He reaches out a tentative hand, "do you want to-" 

- Before Jimin can do much more than that Yoongi’s lips are on his, tentative but firm and passionate, the fire leaking into him from Yoongi as jimin stumbles in surprise. The kiss tastes like thank you and Ive wanted to do this for longer than i care to admit and everything yoongi can't say, can't let slip past his lips. jimin drops the shampoo bottle which narrowly misses his foot as Yoongi’s hands come up to encircle his jaw so softly like Yoongi is holding the most important thing in his world. Jimin is so shocked that for a moment- he doesn’t kiss back and Yoongi retracts- not before Jimin chases his lips and the snake hybrid returns to him.

- It’s the first time Yoongi’s ever touched Jimin so bare, and the snake’s hands on the back of his neck feel cold and shivery but good. As Jimin’s back hit’s the wall and their fronts press together for a moment, just brushing. Then colliding with more force as they both realize how good it feels to be so close to someone you trust. It’s dizzying- intoxicating, and Jimin knows his mouth is moving sloppily even if he wants to kiss Yoongi with just as much intent. 

- The snake hybrid bites- actually bites- down on Jimin’s tongue. And a strangled whine comes to live and die in his throat. A snarl in his ears from Yoongi's mouth as the snake hybrid keeps his biting, moves to Jimin's throat- bites hard Enough that Jimin knows he'll leave a bruise. "leave more- yoongi please mark me" jimin feels hot with the thought of it- the thought of all the other hybrids being able to smell yoongi on his scent gland. 

- Jimin doesn’t know where to put his hands, he knows enough to know that Yoongi doesn’t like to be touched and unsure if it extends to right now. but it seems okay if he’s doing the touching. His hands sliding down Jimin's back to his waist. He’s a good kisser, the best that Jimin’s ever kissed (not that there have been many) and he tips his head forward to put as much scalding force as he can into it when yoongi leaves his neck in favor of his mouth, trying to match Yoongi’s intensity even if he can’t match his skill.

- Yoongi takes a step forward, and Jimin’s cock brushes his hipbone, and he can’t stop the way his hips jump at the contact, brushing into Yoongi further. Jimin’s blood boils with arousal. Yoongi is equally as hard compared to Jimin. And Jimin doesn't know if its water or precum that he feels on his skin. Can't look down to check.

- By the time Yoongi leans back and finishes running his fingers through Jimin’s hair and over his shoulders. Jimin’s so wound up he feels like he’s about the pass out. The cool water cascading over his back doing nothing to settle him. Yoongi moves his hips- testing the waters, as he grinds, works jimin’s hips into an unsteady rhythm. and jimin moans. 

- Yoongi pulls back, looking at jimin, their noses brushing, like he can’t bear to have jimin farther away from him than this, want heavy in his eyes, and Jimin tastes the words on Yoongi’s lips as good as if he’d said them. “Yoongi” jimin breathes. Palms pressed carefully to the shower wall so that he won’t reach out and yank Yoongi closer. But he’s Weak against the wake of this of all this feeling.

- “fuck- kiss me again- can we- ” Jimin feels strung out, his body heavy with something like heat- maybe Jimin is actually having a heat and it’s not just in his imagination (he wouldn't really know what it felt like- never having had one before because of his malnutrition). But This kind of kissing is certainly enough to trigger one.

- Yoongi opens his mouth for a second, almost like he’s about to speak- or to try to, Jimin’s never been sure if he can- if it’s muteness or just Yoongi being selective. And then in the next moment, Yoongi’s gone, almost tripping on his way out of the showers with how fast he’s leaving jimin. A whine dies in his throat and jimin starts after him, But then Yoongi turns back. Gesturing with a hand for jimin to stay put. Yoongi looks angry, and it takes a moment for Jimin to realize that the anger wasn’t directed at jimin- only at Himself.

- Jimin stays in the shower, water thundering down around him as the sky overhead thunders too. Jimin listens to the faint sound of Yoongi dressing and then leaving the showers. Jimin lets him go. So sure that he has absolutely no idea what just happen- or even if he didn’t imagine the whole thing.

- jimin’s hand on himself doesn't feel nearly good as Yoongi’s did. 

- Yoongi’s hands shake all the way back up the hill, and he hopes his wet hair won’t be too suspicious especially when a mixed group of hybrids crosses his path. Returning to the barns as most of the adoption day festivities have ended.

 - Yoongi’s careful to keep his eyes averted. And like usual- the conversation comes to a halt when Yoongi passes them by. It no longer bugs him the way it might have once. They have a good reason not to want to associate with him. Yoongi’s body shakes with the weight of the things he’s done and the things he’s going to do.

- you gather with 3 families on your porch as you take down their names and contact information. You send yoongi a concerned look as he quickly heads inside the house. Pausing only for a moment before he decides to go to Namjoon first. Later- later he’ll ask you too. 

- Stupid- he’s been so stupid recently. Touching you- indulging in these short sweet touches because he wants more so badly. Knows he can never have it doesn’t stop the wanting. If his owner ever found out what he’s done- if she ever found out what he’d almost done with jimin- she’d surely have Jimin’s hands for it. 

- And as much as Yoongi wishes it were any other way- Jimin almost touching him does remind him of far worse times. Though he’d been the one to initiate it this time- the memories still linger. 

- Times when foreign hands touched his skin as he’d thrashed and screamed trying to protest against the taunting words of his owner. “I’ve never been interested in snake dick but if you want him for tonight you can have him- just be careful- he bites” and he shakes with those memories. Though its been many years. like most kinds of torture- eventually, his owner had grown bored with using yoongi's body as a bargaining chip. Yoongi wonders if he’s ever going to be able to be touched that way without feeling the revulsion at his own body.

- Jimin had come close, but he'd known- known that yoongi didn't want him to touch him. Had seemed more than willing to be touched himself. the revulsion hadn't hit him until the end. 

- The places he’s been touched without his consent feel black and decaying- or like ink, every time someone touches him- Yoongi’s surprised that ink doesn’t come away on your hands soft and delicate. But it didn’t change the fact that Yoongi wanted it- and wants it still. 

- he wants to see you soft and sated the way you look sometimes in the morning when he can smell Namjoon on you- wants to cause it- maybe, someday in the future if you'll let him. He knows you’d be gentle with him. Wouldn’t put your hands anywhere he didn’t want. Would check in with him- going as slowly or as quickly as he wanted too. Namjoon would be able to be gentle too- Yoongi’s sure of it.

- He wants it, even though he knows that want only put you all in danger. He’s an incredibly selfish person. He hopes he never gets to have that intimacy with you, for your sake.

- yoongi should only let himself dream of something good before he goes- sinks back into that life. But the temptation for more is too strong sometimes, his want filling him up like sticky sweet syrup that pollutes every moment. 

- Namjoon is on the second floor of your house and Yoongi takes the stairs two at a time. Folding laundry in what will one day be the nursery for your child. He’s taken the ultrasound up here now- hung it up so he can look at it. and Yoongi is reminded of A few days ago when he gushed about the development of your child to Yoongi in the kitchen comparing them to the size of a fruit. “a cute little cantaloupe- the cutest little cantaloupe”

- You and Namjoon have made the decision not to find out the gender, but the walls of the nursery are still pained blue, puffy clouds above and little flowers below, dandelions and daisies, a stalwart sunflower that curls over the arch of the door half-finished. Yoongi knows you work on the mural it whenever you can. But Namjoon gets a little paranoid about the fumes- you compromise and keep the windows open along with the door to your balcony to allow as much air circulation as possible.

- The crib, a fluffy white thing is already piled into the corner. And Yoongi remembers the first few weeks here when you and Namjoon had overzealously ordered it. He’d come downstairs after dinner one night and found both of you puzzling over the directions. And he’d shooed Namjoon away as he’d helped you put it together. The three of you ending up giggly and punch drunk tired by the time it was fully put together. And then had to carry it all the way up the stairs. 

-A mobile of little felted flowers that Seokjin made you as a thank you present a hangs above the empty Crib- colorful and cute. And Namjoon has set the laundry on the unused changing table in neat stacks. All of the other furniture is piled into the center of the room so that you can paint the walls. He turns when he hears Yoongi, his tail swishing.

- “Hey Yoon- what you get caught in a rainstorm or something?” the rain splatters against the windows with a soft patter and Yoongi drips onto the floor. He never bothered to dry off after the unintentional shower with jimin. Yoongi makes a shrug that means ‘something like that’ and if the younger hybrid hovers on the way that Yoongi’s lips look a little kiss bitten and swollen he doesn’t say a thing. Namjoon knows better than anyone- what they talk about and what they don’t.

- He hands over the slip of paper; “jimin should move into the main house, you and I could clean out one of the storage rooms and move the stuff into the attic.”

-  Yoongi watches Namjoon’s eyes rove over the words a few times. The hybrid purses his lips, “I’ve talked to Y/n about this- and she agrees- but I don’t know if he wants too? He seems pretty comfortable in the barns, he likes Taehyung and they’re friends. and we kind of want to leave it up to him if we can.”

- Yoongi snatches the paperback from him, annoyance flickering in his chest as he rolls his eye. Didn’t Namjoon see that nothing would change if they didn’t push him a little? Jimin is the type to take that kind of abuse again and again if it means not making a fuss. And Yoongi knows it’s only a matter of time before something happens again. He turns it over onto the other side and using the wall as a place to write.

- “He’s already being treated differently because of me” 'me' being double underlined- so that Namjoon really understands what he’s trying to say. Yoongi just wants to make sure Jimin is safe before he goes. Before he needs to leave and before it gets too dangerous and too near a time when his owner will physically retrieve him. Not that Namjoon knows that Yoongi’s presence has an expiration date. Namjoon searches Yoongi’s face for a source to his desperation and finds none.

- Yoongi has never felt worse for keeping secrets. Maybe in another world- Yoongi would have confessed and asked Namjoon, with all of his connections to the police, for help. Yoongi knows enough to put the whole crime system out of whack and yet. Years of negative reinforcement and beatings have taught him to keep his mouth shut and that isn’t going to change now; not when Yoongi’s life isn’t the only one at risk and he knows you’ll all live if he plays by the rules. He doesn't care about his own safety anymore. 

- The second he sees Yoongi’s distraught expression Namjoon steps closer Taking off his flannel and tugging it around his shoulders. Namjoon might not make moves to scent mark Yoongi but dressing him in his clothes is as good as he gets. Namjoon’s comforting alpha scent fluffs around him.

- Yoongi wonders if jimin feels the pull the same way he does. Dynamics are more mobile in snake hybrids and downright non-existent in humans. but they’re more set in canines. Namjoon puts his hand on Yoongi’s clothed arm and Yoongi shuffles close after a second. His nose centimeters from Namjoon’s neck taking in deep breathes to try and steady himself. He didn’t realize he was shaking.

- “It will be alright Yoongi, I promise. He’s gonna be safe.” Namjoon adds quieter. And below them both- in the first floor of the house, he can hear your voice, echoing louder and laughing at some sort of joke, Namjoon’s tail starts wagging at the suggestion of you. “I want them to feel safe too.”

- Yoongi wants to write “he should take my room- I won’t be staying in it soon anyway.” but Yoongi needs to make sure- before he leaves. Jimin has to be included in your little pack. He doesn’t want to think- about what the three of you will go through when he eventually has to leave. The days are counting down to the end of the summer. 

- He’s fucking selfish, so selfish, to kiss Jimin like that when he knows he won't be able to stay in the hybrids life. He’s selfish every time he begs affection off you, every day he keeps Namjoon Company when he’s cleaning up the other barns. Yoongi writing out words in the dust when Namjoon asks him questions. Eyes only searching when Namjoon turns his back. Looking for any sort of hidden compartment. Completing his task even if it’s the last thing he wants to do. Betraying you like this.

- Jimin spends the rest of the day wondering if the kiss with Yoongi was just a dream. But later at dinner, Yoongi won’t meet his eyes, and jimin knows he didn’t imagine the kiss. Guilt sticks to Yoongi, more distracting than honey stuck between your fingertips.

- Both of them go to sleep still thinking about the kiss. Jimin wondering if it will happen again and Yoongi thinking that he’d like it too. His fingers running over his lower and upper lips, mind awash with the memory of jimin’s mouth on his. And night falls heavy like a weighted blanket on the farm. The sky a big sheet with holes poked through for stars. A heavenly breeze tempting away the summer heat.

- All of the hybrids safe and snoring in their beds. Some even paired- if they’ve got it. Two furry bodies packed close on a single bed. Some even dream of homes they mind one day live in or of the people that one day they’ll get to love. The idea of being kept and treasured lulling them into a drowsy haze of anticipation and security. 

- That night, Namjoon knocks on Yoongi’s door. the hybrid leaning up against the doorframe as he watches the snake get ready for bed. “you know... you could sleep in our room if you want, we have an air conditioner in there too.” yoongi has a notepad ready, he knows that Namjoon likes to open all the windows and even the door to your balcony to let the fresh air in so that it feels like you're sleeping outside. He steels himself to think of someone other than himself before he writes- “I’m okay- thanks though” Yoongi writes out. 

- Namjoon lifts one of Yoongi’s blankets to his neck before he leaves, thoroughly scents marking it before he leaves it with Yoongi. And Yoongi sleeps easy that night with his nose pressed to the blanket. Safe and secure in his room. Nothing bad happens to yoongi that night even though he cuddles close to the blanket, and when he wakes in the morning. his heart beats a steady thumping rhythm- his whole body humming with anticipation. 

- It’s different to feel excited about being in love, excited for a day spent close to the people he cares about. And he knows he won't take a single day for granted. 

- The crickets and cicadas chirping in the field. And in a low tone on the tree outside, a morning dove gentle and unassuming. The sun rising over the hills. Tastes of idyllic and smells of Eden. Like lavender and honey.

- A hand outstretched, scrambling in the dirt before it goes still, fingers just a few inches from safety. Blood mixing in with the sand. The morning is not perfect for everyone.

- But even you would say the morning was peaceful, if not for the dead body dumped at the end of your driveway. 

Kofi

[re-diesirae]

Chapter 5

5. Leon

Leon walked in the darkness; his gun ready to shoot anything that could be a threat as he tried to find his way out of the tunnel. He had woken up a couple of hours ago and found himself trapped inside a tiny cell guarded by two men that, he guessed, were part of the terrorist group that had tried to kidnap Claire. The first thing he did after waking up was to look around the place, but to his dismay, there were no signs of the red-headed.

"Where did those bastards take her to?" he mumbled with irritation.

He was thinking of a way to break free when he caught the two men talking in whispers.

"What are we supposed to do with the guy?"

"That's what we are waiting to hear. The high-ups only ordered us to bring the Redfield chick. This guy just tagged along uninvited, but I bet they will find some use for him."

"Another lab rat," one of the men scoffed. "I pity him."

"He got it by himself. He shouldn't have interfered."

Leon heard the men laugh, but their laughter was interrupted by a soft slashing sound and a thud. After some seconds, the agent listened to the cell doors screech open, and a bright light pointed to his face. Leon raised his hand to block the blinding light and frowned at the familiar person standing in front of him.

"Ada?"

"So we meet again, Leon," the Asian spy said. Her lips curled into a playful smile, "here, from all places."

"What are you doing here?"

"Shouldn't I be asking the same? From how I see it, I've got more reasons to be here than you do."

"I doubt it," Leon said, walking out from the cell and facing the woman, "These bastards took my friend."

"Ah, yes. The Redfield girl. I had heard that you were close."

"Do you know where they hold Claire?"

"No, why would I care about her? She isn't my mission."

Leon raised his eyebrow, and Ada smirked.

"I think she found her way out. She's probably running somewhere. If she's alive, of course," she added, "but from what I've heard, I wouldn't bet against her chances."

No, it would be a stupid idea to bet against Claire. She was a skilled woman that knew how to handle herself in a crisis. Leon frowned. He never knew what to expect from Ada, but somehow he could not bring himself to distrust her.

"You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here, Ada?"

"Work," she answered, "nothing you should know about, pretty boy. I was about to leave when I heard that you'd gotten yourself caught. It's been a while, so I thought I'd pay you a visit. Here..."

Ada threw him some things, and Leon caught them in the air. His handguns and holsters, and also his phone.

"I believe you will need those."

Leon put his things back into place and looked at the spy.

"Thanks. Care to enlighten me of where we are?"

"Sorry, handsome, but I can tell you how to get out, though," Ada said, "if you follow this tunnel, you should reach outside. Don't worry about the guards. There aren't many."

"Took care of them for me?"

"No, guards are useless in this place," Ada smirked, "until next time, Leon."

Before Leon could say anything, the Asian woman was already gone. He would never understand her, but the time and place were not the right ones to ponder about the subject. He had to find Claire, make sure she was safe, and figure out where they were and how to get out.

Just like Ada had said, he did not meet any other guards on the way outside. However, once he was out of the tunnel, things became less friendly. Leon crossed paths with a bunch of people infected with Plagas, or at least, that's what the man thought. They lurked in the darkness of the forest, waiting for any unguarded passerby to jump over him, but luckily, he had managed to kill them without problems.

After a few minutes of trying, he managed to contact Hunnigan. The signal was not clear, but hopefully, it was enough for her to locate his position and send help. In the meantime, his primary objective was finding the youngest Redfield.

Tracking down Claire would not be easy. She could be anywhere, but if he knew her well enough, the first thing the woman would do would be arming herself. The best place to do that would be a place where people lived, so finding a settlement would help him find her.

Leon searched for a town or anything similar as he navigated the forest, but so far, he had not found anything. Then suddenly, he heard a loud bang, and he saw the flames of an explosion raise from a short distance from his position.

Smirking to himself, he could only guess if that was Claire, but he did not lose anything by checking it out, and so he had found himself walking in that direction.

For what he could see, it was indeed a town, or at least what remained of it. The fire was starting to spread, and the whole place was like a giant torch. Suddenly a soft crack of leaves made his senses snap. He turned around quickly, raising his gun only to find a rifle pointing directly at his face.

"Leon?" a familiar voice whispered.

The blonde could not say how relieved he was to hear that voice again. He lowered his gun and watched Claire do the same with her rifle. Thanks to the light coming from the burning town, he was able to see the woman. Besides looking exhausted and quite beaten up with her thorn clothes and scratches, she looked alright.

"Claire, thank god. I found you," he said, relieved.

"Likewise," she answered.

Claire let out a relieved sigh, and he saw her lose her balance and stumble down. Leon made a quick spin and caught her before the woman could hit the ground.

"Hey, easy. What's wrong?"Leon asked with worry.

"Sorry about that," she replied, "I think I might have a mild concussion. I already had one when I woke up, but I think the explosion just made it worse. I'll be fine. We need to take cover, Leon. There were some nasty monsters back there, and honestly, I don't know if I blew them up, but I don't want to be around to find out."

Leon nodded. He trusted Claire's judgment, and if she thought the monsters were no good news, he believed her. Claire was in no condition for a fight, so the wisest decision was to avoid conflict for the time being. They needed a place to hide and rest a little.

"Can you walk?"

"I can manage, I think," she replied.

Claire pushed herself up with Leon's help, but her legs gave up almost immediately. The adrenaline rush she'd used earlier was fading away, and the rebound effect in combination with the concussion was hitting her hard. Leon was surprised that the woman was still awake.

"You don't look like you can..."

"Jelly legs had never been an issue before."

Leon sighed. He put his gun back in his holster and knelt in front of her, offering her his back.

"Hop on," Leon said.

"What?"

"You can't walk, and it will be much faster this way."

Claire wanted to argue, but despite her broken pride, she knew Leon was right. She could barely stand, and that would only be a nuisance in battle. Without complaints, the woman climbed on Leon's back.

Leon immediately noted how light she was. Was she even eating at all?

"You can take my gun, and you're in charge of hostile control. How's your aim?"

"As good as it can be, I suppose."

"You'll be in charge of snipping then."

"I can do that."

Claire let out a weak chuckle. He was glad that the woman was still good enough to have some sense of humor.

Finding refuge was going to be a challenging task, especially when they didn't know the area, but Leon was not going to give so easily. Claire needed a safe place to recover, and nothing would stop him from finding one. It took him several minutes and some perfectly executed headshots from Claire to find a small abandoned cottage that was barely visible amidst the vegetation. It wasn't the most luxurious refuge; in fact, it was pretty wretched, but it would serve its purpose as a suitable hiding spot.

He made sure it was clear of unfriendly visitors before letting Claire down. The woman thanked him and settled in a corner with her back against the wall and rubbing her temper.

"Let me look at that," he said, approaching her.

Leon wasn't a medic, and his knowledge of wounds and injuries didn't reach beyond the standard first-aid procedures, but he could at least try.

"Be my guest," she replied, letting the blonde look at her.

She had a large lump on the back of her head, and there were traces of dried blood behind her ears and neck. He didn't see any open wounds, but that only made him worry that damage had been more internal. Concussions could be tricky.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Honest answer? Like shit," Claire snorted weakly, making Leon smirk. It'd been long since he had dealt with Claire's singular sense of humor.

"I am serious," he insisted. "You had a severe blow on your head, and I want to be sure there is no internal damage."

"That's going to be tough without a tomography unless you have some fancy instrument in your pockets, Mr. Super agent."

Leon snorted.

"I assume it isn't too bad if you can still talk like that."

"I am fine," Claire sighed. "I am a little dizzy, my vision is blurry, and I feel like I might throw up at any time. I also feel drained, and I can assure you that a hot bath would be nice, but you know, I'm not complaining. I am still alive.

"Well, I suppose you sound ok; I'll check again later, though."

"Be my guest, Leon," she sighed, "I am a little confused right now. Would you mind telling me what happened? How's that you ended up here, too?"

"Well, I was supposed to rescue you," he snorted, "but things didn't go quite as planned. Chris is probably pissed at me now."

"Don't mind about Chris. He's pissed most of the time for no reason. He will live through it as long as we make it out alive."

"Yeah. Something is jamming my signal. I can't contact Hunnigan or any of the other services, so I have no idea where we are."

"Germany. Bavaria, most likely."

"Huh?" Leon asked, surprised, "How do you know that?"

Claire dug inside her pocket and pulled out a piece of cloth. She unfolded it to show him its contents, and Leon saw a small branch.

"Sorbus pseudothuringiaca," she said. "It's endemic to Bavaria. I found a lot of it in the forest while I was looking for the town."

Claire always found ways to impress him.

"I didn't know you had a nag for botany."

"It isn't my forte," Claire said, folding the cloth again and putting it away, "but I am still a biologist."

"So we are in Germany," Leon sighed, "shit. That was a long trip."

"Yeah," Claire nodded, "now we are trapped in a forest infested by murderous monsters. How fun, huh?"

"Don't worry. I am sure we can handle that."

"You don't say," Claire nodded, massaging her neck, "I probably hold the record for waking up in the worst possible places."

Leon did not reply. He had heard of Claire's misadventures with B.O.W.s, mostly from reports. They rarely touched the subject in their occasional calls. He knew the woman had gotten involved in a couple of cases lately, one in a soviet island and another one on an island in South America. The reports on both were vague, but he remembered reading Claire's name among the survivors.

"You're still as tough as you've always been, huh?"

"I don't know," Claire sighed, "Maybe I'm getting old for this."

"Hey, if you're getting old, what about Chris and me?" he chuckled.

"Ah, right. I didn't mean it like that, sorry. My concussion is making me say nonsense."

"Don't worry about it. You need to rest. Maybe you should sleep a little. I can stand guard."

"Yeah..." Claire agreed, closing her eyes. "Sleeping sounds nice. Wake me up for a switch."

Leon watched Claire drift into sleep after some brief seconds. Her head tilted aside, and he caught her before she slid to the ground. The man placed her head on his lap carefully and watched her. She had to be exhausted, and he could not blame her. He didn't know how long she'd been running around, fighting hostiles, and escaping while dealing with the side effects of a concussion. She was admirable, and she deserved the rest.

He watched Claire's sleeping face, and he suddenly remembered their time in Racoon City. Eighteen years had passed since the incident; back then, both had been rookies in zombie fighting, and now they were among the veterans. Leon had become one of the DSO best agents, and Claire had not only survived multiple altercations with crazy scientists, but she had become the leader of a movement working to counter terrorist advances.

Leon smiled to himself. Claire had changed since the last time they met. She was no longer the girl he met in Raccoon. She was more mature and serene now. Then again, she wasn't the only one who had changed. All of them had, and all of them had chosen their way to fight against bioterrorism. Claire, however, had chosen a path that was very different from the one Chris and himself had taken. She was a fighter, but from another kind.

"What the hell does Neo-Umbrella want with you, Claire?" he sighed, brushing a hair strand away from her face.

NOTE: if you guys want to come and chat about the fic, or just about CLEON in general. Feel free to drop by the discord and say hi! http://discord.gg/wr48UmENbx

[estellaelysian]

Off the table

This really was something to write. It falls under angst, but I don’t know if i should even call it that or is it more horrible. I don’t really know. I feel miserable after writing this, but it just occupied my mind and I couldn’t get it out.

Please don’t read it if angst triggers you.

Song to listen to: Off the table - Ariana Grande, Better off - Ariana Grande

The sky was an odious grey, deep and mournful, and angry clouds, pregnant with rain held back their load, expectant, waiting. Alishka breathed in deeply as she filled a small leather holdall with the things she thought would be necessary for her two day trip, which she was going to face with a rock hard mind. But it wasn’t entirely possible, or that easy even. She had been with a conflict with herself about this trip from the beginning, but she had to go. She couldn’t not go and despise herself forever for not paying a final respect to that old woman who deserved it; all of it, and who had almost loved her like a mother would love her child.

Kathleen John was a senior nurse at the Edenbrook Hospital – a seventy-two year old with an infectious smile and a motherly heart. In the one year Alishka had known her, she had been one of the biggest supports Alishka had had in the hospital, to lean on in times of despair and hardship. Kathleen would get along with almost everyone, because she was quick to laugh, witty and because she could talk about almost anything. They had kept in touch even after she left everything behind. Kathleen would be closest anyone could ever get to her mother in Boston. Kathleen would be missed greatly.

Alishka knew Kathleen would’ve wanted her to go. She was who Alishka was going for.

Alishka’s hair now wrestled free from the poor braid she had attempted to lock them in, cascading down her shoulders in a glossy waterfall. She tossed a thick length behind her shoulders and continued packing before realizing that it was pointless. She turned to the mirror, staring at her green-eyed reflection in a moment of crazy resolution to never look at her the same way again, which crumbled to the floor the next moment. How could she not? It was like she was cursed, like the universe was waiting to watch her fall and leave.

No. she wouldn’t let those feelings in again. She had, once, and it was devastating enough.

Her arms strained from having to braid her hair over and over again, which, no matter how many times she tried, loosened from her grip.

‘Alishka, are you done?’ her mother asked, her voice ringing out in the suburban house.

‘Almost,’ Alishka lied. ‘I am trying to braid my hair.’

She was so engrossed in trying to get it right this time that she didn’t even notice her mother walk into the room. Her fingers worked quickly as she unraveled Alishka’s hair and braided them once again. ‘It’s okay to ask for help sometimes, sweetie. But I know you are too stubborn for your own good so…’

She turned around to find a wistful smile on her mother’s face.

‘Come downstairs,’ she said, patting Alishka’s shoulder affectionately. ‘Dinner is ready.’

‘I’ll be two minutes. I just need to finish up some stuff here.’

‘Very well, I’ll be downstairs then.’

She nodded and turned back to the half-packed holdall, staring at it for a blank moment which seemed to stretch to an eternity, before picking up a few clothes from the bed and stuffing them in.

‘Mommy, I wanna go too,’ said a mellifluous voice, cutting through her confusion. Alicia made a face from the doorway as Alishka looked up from where she was packing on the other side of the room, as if already knowing she was going to say no.

‘Honey, it is a funeral. What are you going to do there?’

‘I want to pay my respect,’ she said, looking down at her hands.

‘You didn’t know her, sweetie.’

‘But you did. And you’ve told me sooo many stories about her, I feel like I know her too. Please, Mommy, let me come too. Please?’

Alishka already knew she was going to regret this very much. And yet…

‘Okay, I’ll allow you to come if you be nice and help your Nana with setting up the table today.’

‘Okay, Mommy, I’ll go help her.’

‘Go on then. She is waiting downstairs.’

She disappeared from the room, and Alishka was left alone with her wretched thoughts.

What was she going to do?

***

They had dinner at the back patio, and afterward, Alishka washed the dishes and her mother dried them.

‘I am taking Alicia with me,’ Alishka said, trying to bring a note of confidence in her voice, but mustering none.

Her mom looked up at her with a skeptical face, setting aside the dish in her hand. ‘Are you sure you are up to that Alishka?’

Even after making so many attempts at hiding every feeling she was going through, it felt as if her mom saw right through her. As if she knew just what Alishka was thinking about.

‘Yeah, Ma,’ she looked away, avoiding her mother’s heavy gaze, a horrible feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. Her mind dived back into the memories, mostly back at that day when she was sitting at the back patio, crying, shaken to the core by what had happened. The day when she had let everything out in an unstoppable rush of words and tears, and the day when her mom had comforted her, put her to sleep, just like she would when Alishka was a kid.

A soft hand on her shoulder brought her back to the present, to the relentless noise of rushing water and clanking of vessels.

‘Honey, do you really think it’s too late?’

***

Alicia pressed a kiss on Fredo’s forehead. ‘Fredo, don’t trouble Nana much, don’t ruin any couch cushions, don’t chew out any pens and … read your medical journals!’

The golden doodle looked up at her with big brown eyes, and Alishka chuckled at the sight before her. ‘Okay, come on, bub its time to go. Say goodnight to your Nana.’

‘Goodnight Nana. Buh-bye. I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

Alishka’s mom laughed. ‘Okay sweetie. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

Alicia ran to the Jeep and slid in, strapped the seat-belt and waited patiently as Alishka spoke to her mom.

‘Alishka, call me when you get there, okay? And tell me if anything–’

‘I will Ma, don’t worry,’ she said leaning in for a quick hug. ‘Take care.’

‘I will. Be careful. I love you.’

‘Love you too.’

***

A cold December wind was blowing and Alishka crossed her arms as she stared out over the water. She found herself alone at the bay; it was 5:07A.M., and Alicia was sleeping in the car, and though she had spent almost twenty-one hours driving here with only two breaks, she scarcely remembered the trip. Her appetite was gone, her stomach in knots, and yet, she had stopped for food once because of Alicia, and besides, she would need it to make the drive, and at 4A.M., she fetched a coffee for herself.

She wondered if she was doing the right thing, bringing Alicia with her. Her heart fluttered at the thought of him, but the feeling was almost immediately replaced by that of disgust and pain.

She would never be ready for him.

The bay glittered under her thoughtful gaze. She could head to the hotel now, but she wanted a minute to herself before everything went crashing down. She knew it would. There was no way out of this mess for her. Not then, not now, even when she thought she had saved herself, rescued herself, protected herself from getting hurt anymore. But no. She was cursed, and so was her love.

Sighing heavily, she thought about the funeral. There was no way he wouldn’t be there. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought Alicia with her, but now it was too late to think about that. She had planned to stay overnight at first, but no. Looking at the bay and the dull Boston skyline, she knew she didn’t want to stay. She would leave immediately after the services were over.

***

The day brought with it the lingering gloom from last night, grey and colorless, as if it knew, much more than anyone, that it was a day of mourning. She absentmindedly touched the lace neck of her black dress before pulling her hair into a messy ponytail. Could people see it in her eyes? Could they tell? Or had she been successful in hiding seven years worth of pain?

She didn’t know.

‘Mommy, I want to bring this to the funeral,’ Alicia said, padding over, holding a small white oblong.

‘What is it, honey?’

‘It’s the note Kathleen Nana gave you, when you were an intern. I brought it with me. Is it okay if I bring it to the funeral and put it on…’

Alicia looked away sadly, and Alishka made a small smile at her daughter’s thoughtfulness. Sometimes it reminded her of him, but she had grown used to ignoring those feelings, for better or for worse. He had wanted to have nothing to do with her anyway, didn’t he?

‘Okay, sweetheart, you can. I don’t mind. But …’

‘I know,’ she mumbled, looking up at her. ‘I have to be nice and not talk to strangers, even if you have told me stories about them, and I have to be quiet, not talk too much.’

Another half smile. ‘Good, sweetie. I love you.’

‘I love you too Mommy.’

‘Can I have a hug, Alicia?’

She walked over as Alishka kneeled and wrapped her small arms around her. Alishka knew there would come a day when she would consider herself to old for such displays, which is why she squeezed tighter, letting the hug linger more than usual.

***

Ethan made imperceptible adjustments to his tie as he stood before the mirror, nervous and unsettled, staring at his empty blue eyes, lacking any emotion, now that he noticed it. Was it always this way? Was he always this cold? If not, then when did it change?

He didn’t know. As far as he was concerned, he had nothing left anymore. Nothing. He couldn’t save Dolores, he couldn’t save Kathleen, he couldn’t do anything right.

He couldn’t stop her…

Nor could he stop himself.

He wished he had died instead. Atleast he would be released from this pain he felt, from the memories which haunted him every night. Atleast he would get a pass, and a chance to fix everything in the next one.

If only he was given a chance that good.

But maybe he would ruin that too, just like he had ruined everything else.

He looked up at his own eyes again, his mind flitting back, almost unstoppably, to the last time he ever saw her, at Donahue’s, before leaving for Amazon. That was it. The final blow to her feelings, and his unbreakable wit and ego, which, finally had found a way to be shattered into a million pieces, which could not be restored. Not anymore.

Sighing, he reached stepped outside the en-suite, feeling numb and empty. A half hearted glance at his bed had him thinking that it was too big for his liking, and he wondered why he never noticed it before. He hated sleeping in it after returning from Amazon.

May be losing her meant losing himself too. No, it didn’t mean so. It was so. He had lost her the day he decided to leave for Amazon.

He hadn’t seen her after that. She had broken every string that tied her to him and disappeared into thin mist, nowhere to be found, no one knowing about it. Her friends were as clueless about where she had gone as he was. He dreaded the fact that he had not known enough about her. For all the time they had been together, in all the things they had talked, she had never mentioned much about her family. He knew she was from California, and he had tried looking too, only to fail miserably. She was not there. She was nowhere. She was gone, and she would never come back.

It was unbearable. The whole thing. He tried calling her, thinking about what he would say if she answered, but the number had been deactivated. The last few days they had spent together blurred into a mess, as if the pleasure of remembering had been taken away from him, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It was like losing every memory he had made with her, now that he had lost her.

So he went back to being the person he was before she came along – a terrifying attending with no feelings, whatsoever, of his own. And quite soon, he realized that wasn’t true. He had feelings. She brought them out in him. She brought out his better side.

Without her, he lacked a better side.

He stuffed his wallet and keys in his pockets and left the house, the door banging the frame with a loud bang.

With no perception of what was about to be, he headed outside, into a storm he had created for himself years ago.

***

The funeral service was small and attracted a dozen mourners, which stood huddled under giant black umbrellas with blank, expressionless faces as they stared at the ground in silence. The rain did not last for long, but how did it matter anyway? Kathleen’s children stood next to the coffin, hugging everybody as they passed by. For a while, he just watched people as they walked up to the coffin, all these people he had never seen before kneeling down next to her, look at her for a while, maybe crying. He had only really known Kathleen and her children, and those were who he came for. He knew she would’ve wanted him to come.

A little girl made her way over, putting a small white note on the coffin and whispered something before walking back and disappearing into the black-clad crowd. He did not know why, but he choked up at the sight. It was incredible, given how emotionally resigned he was at that time, and yet, when he tried to find that girl, looking back, he did not find her.

The next few moments were mostly a jumble to him; he did not remember much of what the priest spoke as he stood behind the coffin; he did not remember the minister calling up people and them making their eulogies. He did not remember much of when exactly the funeral service ended, or when people started to disperse. Everything happening there seemed to stark and yet blurred together, somehow, but that was until he rose from his seat and decided to leave too, and that’s when he saw her.

Standing near the rear pew, was a beautiful girl, with long dark brown hair and green eyes, the woman he fell for seven years ago, and the one he decided to hurt in the worst way possible.

But how?

She must’ve been in touch with Kathleen, he thought. His first instinct was to walk away, just like he had, years ago, but something about that sight made his throat choke up. It was the little girl from earlier, her hand clasped tightly in Alishka’s.

Maybe she had married and settled down after all, with someone loving her like the way she deserved to be loved.

But then the girl caught his eye.

And he felt like a huge blow had been delivered to his face, just as he recognized every single of her features mirroring his own.

No, this was a delusion. This was not the truth.

No no no no no…

It couldn’t be.

And then she recognized him, as if she’d already known about him all her life. He watched as she tugged at Alishka’s hand, as Alishka bent down, as she listened to what the little girl whispered before pointing toward him, and finally, Alishka looking up at him, pain clear in her eyes like a plastic sleeve.

He started walking toward them, he did not know why. He saw Alishka take a hesitant step back before steeling herself, and another blow was delivered to his guts when he saw tears streaking her face.

He did not know, and he would never know, what exactly brought him to his knees at the sight of the girl – the striking resemblance of his own features he saw in her own or the need he felt to get on eye-level with her, or the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach which made him feel too weak to stand.

**********

A/N: Let’s assume there was an elderly nurse in Edenbrook in the intern ear of Alishka

A/N 2: This happens in some sort of an AU where Alishka left Boston when Ethan went to Amazon.

A/N 3: I decided to stop here. I was planning to put this out as a three-part mini series, but couldn’t resist myself. Besides, it’s nothing if not the whole thing. Should I write more? I don’t know. Let me know.

Tagging: @tenaciouslandvoidgiant​ @choicesaddict5​ @schnitzelbutterfingers​

[earsofducks]

Day 3 - Mechanic

This is so much longer than I meant for it to be. Also, the wives are making an appearance. Also, there are no words for how much I love Anathema.

@ineffablehusbandsweek

I can’t think of any warnings. Unedited? Ridiculous? Very long? Aziraphale being smitten and Crowley struggling?

“Oh, dear,” says Aziraphale, well aware that she’s fretting and not helping matters but unable to help herself. “What can we do?”

“Not a lot,” says Newt glumly, looking nearly as worried as Aziraphale feels.

They’re in the middle of nowhere, and Newton’s antiquated car (He affectionately calls it ‘Dick Turpin.’ Aziraphale calls it ‘wretched thing.’) has finally decided to give up the ghost. The clock is ticking ever closer to midnight, and all because they went to watch the latest Greta Gerwig movie. (Which was, admittedly, worth it.)

“Oh, you’re both ridiculous,” huffs Anathema, pulling out her phone. “We can just call a tow service. Didn’t this occur to the two of you?”

Aziraphale and Newt are quiet. This option had not, in fact, occurred to either of them. (This is probably because neither of them are very intuitive about technology. Newton has single-handedly destroyed every mobile phone he’s ever had, and Aziraphale hasn’t even bothered getting one. The landline at her shop works just fine, thank you.) 

“Honestly,” says Anathema, rolling her eyes and dialing a number. She explains their predicament to whoever’s on the other end of the line, listens, nods, says “see you soon,” and hangs up. “Now,” she says to Aziraphale and Newton, “that was a two-minute conversation, and it means that we’re going to be home in, like, a couple of hours, tops. Surely that’s enough to convince you that phones are good, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale tries to look like she’s considering it. “Well, I suppose that it would be frightfully convenient to be able to call someone at any time,” she says, trying to sound placating. 

“Yes!” says Anathema.

“But isn’t it a bit concerning, the fact that it could run out of battery at any time?” says Aziraphale, and Anathema looks like she might cry.

“I give up,” she says, and Aziraphale tries not to feel smug. It’ll take a lot more than that for her to cave and buy a mobile.

*

They wait for twenty minutes, during which time Aziraphale and Newt grow more and more skeptical and Anathema becomes more and more insistent. And impatient. 

“Honestly,” she says for the umpteenth time. “Just because the mechanic owns a tow truck doesn’t mean she can break the sound barrier. She’s still beholden to the laws of physics like the rest of us.”

And that intrigues Aziraphale. Old-fashioned, she knows, to be intrigued by a female mechanic, but here she is. Blame it on her sheltered, shuttered upbringing. She wonders what the mechanic will look like. She wonders what prompted the mechanic to pursue a career in mechanicking.

And then she doesn’t have to wonder anymore, because there are headlights shining in her face and she feels nervous, of all things. Don’t be silly! she scolds her foolish, hopeful heart. As if she’d be interested in you.

Anathema gets out of the car, and so does Newt, so Aziraphale does, too, because it’d be weird to stay in the vehicle when no one else is, right? The mechanic swings her door open and slides down to the ground. Aziraphale’s breath catches in her throat.

She’s not sure if it’s the purply-pink light of the setting sun or the fact that she’s had a little bit of time to convince herself that the ‘she’ mechanic might be her soulmate, but the woman striding towards them is stunning. She’s tall and slender and her hair is fiery and Aziraphale isn’t sure how she’s supposed to act like a normal person when faced with such a magnificent woman. 

“Hello, folks,” says the mechanic, offering them all a lopsided grin that makes Aziraphale’s heart speed up. (Down, girl, she thinks.) “What seems to be the trouble with your lovely vehicle, here?”

She gives Dick Turpin a glance that is decidedly amicable, and Aziraphale thinks that she really needs to get her heart under control. She could never date someone that liked the wretched thing. 

Newt details the wretched thing’s ailments and Aziraphale busies herself with trying (and failing, mostly) not to stare. Oh, but there are so many things to stare at. The long, elegant fingers with which the mechanic is pointing at Dick Turpin. The twist of her torso as she looks back towards her truck. The curve of her mouth and the flash of her teeth as she smiles at something Newt said.

“You could be a little less obvious with the drooling, you know,” Anathema says into Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale jumps.

“I’m not - It’s not - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says guiltily.

Anathema is grinning like the cat that got the canary.

“Oh, yes you do,” she says gleefully. 

“I do not, and I’ll thank you kindly to leave it alone,” says Aziraphale, flustered.

The mechanic, who hasn’t introduced herself, looks over at them and smiles. That smile, turned in her direction, is overwhelming. And then Newt says something and she turns back to him and Aziraphale feels like she can breathe again.

“Yep,” says Anathema, who is smiling so widely that Aziraphale is surprised that her face hasn’t cracked, “You’ve got it bad.”

Aziraphale would protest, except that now the mechanic is walking towards them and any and all words are catching in her throat.

“Hi,” says the mechanic, flashing them another grin. (They seem to come far too easily for such devastating things.) “The two of us haven’t met yet, have we? Anthea J. Crowley, at your service.” And she proffers a hand which is far more attractive than any hand has the right to be, topped with black, glossy fingernails. Aziraphale thinks distantly that mechanics should not have manicures.

Her voice is stuck somewhere in her stomach, but Anathema’s elbow nudges her ribs again and dislodges it. 

“Hello,” says Aziraphale, taking Anthea’s hand and trying not to think about how strong and slim and wonderful it feels in hers. Her voice is a little rough but no one comments on it. “Aziraphale Malak.”

“Ah, an angel,” says Anthea, eyes twinkling. “Makes sense - you look like one.”

Aziraphale feels herself blushing and splutters a little, trying to figure out how to say “how absurd” and “thank you” and “how do you know anglicized Arabic?” and ends up saying none of them. 

“She does, doesn’t she?” says Anathema, who hasn’t stopped smirking since Anthea sauntered towards them.

Aziraphale finds her voice, and it says, “You’re ridiculous,” and Anthea smiles again.

“Ah, friendship,” she says.

“Indeed,” says Aziraphale, and Anthea meets her eyes, still smiling, and Aziraphale is mesmerized by how very like gold they are. She has never seen eyes that colour, and she never wants to again, because she wants to lose herself in Anthea’s forever and always. 

“So!” says Anathema. “Enough space in your rig for all of us?”

“Oh, yes,” Anthea says. “Bentley can handle anything.” 

“You’ve named your truck?” asks Aziraphale, feeling amused and still incredibly disoriented due to Anthea’s amazing eyes.

“‘Have I named my truck?’” parrots Anthea, rolling her eyes. “Of course I’ve named my truck! Haven’t you named your vehicle, angel?”

“Aziraphale doesn’t have one,” says Anathema. “They’re too modern an invention for her.”

Anthea gapes. “No car?” she echoes. “How do you get around?”

“Mostly I find charitable people that are willing to take me somewhere in return for a small payment,” sniffs Aziraphale, feeling (irrationally, probably) attacked. “Otherwise, I take the bus or walk.”

Anthea holds up her hands placatingly, clearly picking up on the defensive tone. “I meant no offense,” she says, “I was just surprised. This may come as a shock, but I love cars.”

Aziraphale, feeling foolish but amused, says, “Trucks, too, apparently.” Anthea grins again (she has to stop doing that) and nods.

“Trucks, too. And vans. Oh, and motorbikes! Speedy little machines.”

She looks off dreamily. Aziraphale doesn’t have to fake a little shudder.

“Heaven help us,” she mutters, and Anthea throws back her head and laughs. 

“They won’t need to,” she says, “I’m not taking you home in a motorbike. I’m taking you in Bentley. She doesn’t move very quickly.”

“About that,” says Anathema quickly, “you don’t have to take us home - ”

“Nonsense!” says Anthea cheerfully. “You’re paying me enough, and I haven’t got anything else on for the evening. Now,” and she jogs back to ‘Bentley’ and opens the passenger door, “hop in!” 

*

Aziraphale isn’t sure what Crowley’s (she prefers Crowley, it turns out) definition of ‘very quickly’ is, and she’s very sure that she has absolutely no interest in finding out. The truck zooms along the motorway, with Crowley cheerfully answering the questions that Newt and Anathema are asking her. (Aziraphale still can’t quite seem to find her voice. Something about the curve of Crowley’s neck, the grip of her hands on the steering wheel, steals it away.

“Didn’t grow up thinking I was gonna be a mechanic,” Crowley says, changing lanes so abruptly that Newton lets out a little shriek. “Got kicked out when I was sixteen, dropped out of school, and didn’t have anything better to do.”

Aziraphale would dearly love to know why she got kicked out but is also aware that that’s not an appropriate thing to ask someone you’ve only just met.

“And do you have a partner?” asks Anathema, steering the conversation. “Kids?” 

“Nah,” says Crowley. “Got a godson, though. Adam.”

”“How old is your godson?” Aziraphale asks, surprising herself.

 “Four,” says Anthea, smiling a little. She has a lot of smiles, Aziraphale is starting to realize. This one is soft and fond and makes Aziraphale’s tummy perform some impressive acrobatics. “He’s adorable, and also a menace. Little hellspawn needs to be doing something at every hour of the day. You know how kids are.”

“Of course,” says Aziraphale, who has not seen a child younger than the age of eighteen since she was one. Anathema smirks audibly.

“What about you, angel?” asks Crowley, glancing at Aziraphale and then back at the road. Aziraphale tries to pretend that a little tingle doesn’t go through her every time Crowley calls her ‘angel.’ “Got a family?”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “I am currently unattached.” But I could be attached. I’m not averse to attachment. I - 

“We’re right down this street,” says Anathema, and Aziraphale forces herself to focus.

*

Crowley drops her off at her flat, and Aziraphale is overwhelmed with panic at the thought of never seeing her again, but she needn’t have worried. 

“It was good to meet you, angel,” says Crowley, rolling down her window so she can speak to Aziraphale, who is on the pavement. For some reason that Aziraphale would very much like to know Crowley is blushing. “If you ever - uh, I know you don’t have a car but if you have a friend that - yeah. Um. Here’s my card.”

And she all but throws a piece of paper out the window in Aziraphale’s direction, and Aziraphale doesn’t have time to respond to her hasty “bye!” before she takes off down the street. 

Aziraphale stands outside for longer than she’ll ever admit, clutching the card to her chest and feeling butterflies.

*

They text a little bit, after Aziraphale works up the courage to send a ‘thank you again for the ride,’ and then they call each other once or twice, and then Crowley, amidst quite a bit of stammering, suggests that they go out for lunch.

Aziraphale spends the morning fluctuating between telling herself that it doesn’t matter what she wears, that if Crowley doesn’t like her as she is then she isn’t worth her time anyway, and changing in and out of five different outfits.

“Heya!” says Crowley, when she opens the door to a brisk knock. She’s showing no sign of the nervousness she displayed on the phone, which makes Aziraphale jealous, because her nerves are on full display.

“Hello,” says Aziraphale nervously.

Crowley immediately switches tactics.

“Hey, angel, you know it’s just lunch, right? There’s no, uh, no pressure. I have no expectations. Zero expectations. Less than zero. Negative expectations. Not that they’re negative! But, you know - ”

“I do,” says Aziraphale, because she thinks she does and she can’t seem to stop smiling. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley turns a vibrant shade of vermillion but smiles back at her.

“Where to?” asks Aziraphale, once they’ve settled into their respective seats. (Crowley is not driving the truck today. She’s driving a black convertible, which she has also referred to as Bentley. Aziraphale has decided not to ask.) 

 “Wherever you want, angel,” she says, flipping on a turning signal, and Aziraphale looks out the window, hating how hot her face is. Crowley misinterprets it.

“Oh, no,” she says, and then says something that is a lot of consonants. Aziraphale is very impressed with how suddenly Crowley’s composure seems to have fallen apart. “‘M really sorry a - Aziraphale. That - sorry. I never even asked - and I’ve been saying it all this time - ’

“Don’t worry,” says Aziraphale, incredibly endeared. “I don’t mind.”

Crowley visibly relaxes and risks a glance over at her. “Thank goodness,” she says. They ride along in silence for awhile, and then, “So, where to?” 

*

They end up at Crowley’s auto shop, because after a lot of wheedling on Crowley’s part Aziraphale finally admits to being curious. She has, after all, never been to one. 

She’s struck by how glorious Crowley is in the place she’s made for herself, how incredibly well the sleek black lines of the garage and the minimalist design of the waiting area suit her. 

“And these are my plants,” says Crowley with a flourish, indicating a wall that is nearly entirely lined with shelves, upon which is a veritable garden of plants.

“Oh, they’re lovely!” says Aziraphale, darting towards them and stroking a leaf with her hand. “Absolutely beautiful!” 

She turns around to beam at Crowley and then gets distracted, because Crowley is staring at her with a look in her eyes that sets Aziraphale’s heart quivering. She licks her lips, and watches Crowley’s gaze drop to follow the motion. She feels entirely too warm. 

“Do you grow them yourself?” she asks in little more than a whisper.

Crowley seems to come back to herself, shake something off. She clears her throat and offers Aziraphale yet another smile, but this one seems shaky, like its foundations aren’t solid. 

“Yep,” she says, shoving her hands in her pockets. 

“Well, you’re quite the find,” says Aziraphale. “You own a garage and a garden.”

“Well, what can I say?” says Crowley, shrugging, blushing again. Aziraphale is entranced by the way she can watch the pink flush spread across her face. “I do my best.”

Aziraphale thinks of a lot of things to say, but says none of them, just turns back to the plants and strokes another leaf. Her heart is pounding.

Crowley clears her throat again. “Well,” she says, “I promised you lunch.”

“That you did,” agrees Aziraphale, stepping through the door to the garage that Crowley’s holding open. 

“Did you have a place in mind?” asks Crowley, and when Aziraphale looks back at her she’s still holding the door, watching Aziraphale, something very soft and warm and thrilling in her eyes.

“Not particularly,” murmurs Aziraphale, and then Crowley is stepping towards her, hands in her pockets, looking incredibly nervous. Aziraphale’s heart seems to have relocated to her throat. 

“Look,” says Crowley, “I don’t - I’m not - aghck. Can’t believe I’m doing this. But you - and I - you’re gorgeous, Aziraphale, you must know that, must hear it all the time, and I know I’m just a scrawny awkward car enthusiast but you’re beautiful, good Lord are you ever beautiful, and if you say no then of course I’ll respect that and no hard feelings, obviously, and I hope we can still be friends - or friendly acquaintances - or just acquaintances, at least - and of course we can still go to lunch after, of course, if you want, and if this is too - well, I just wanted to know if you’d - um - would you maybe - ”

And then Aziraphale, driven by impulsiveness for perhaps the first time in her life, does what she’s wanted to do since Crowley sauntered towards Dick Turpin, backlit by the setting sun. She reaches out and tugs Crowley’s face towards herself and kisses her like her life depends on it.

Crowley stiffens, and for one horrifying moment Aziraphale thinks she’s read it all wrong, and then Crowley makes a small, desperate sound and wraps both hands around Aziraphale’s waist and melts into her and Aziraphale is tingly everywhere and extra warm in a few places and she’s kissing Crowley, she’s kissing Crowley, and it is wonderful.

Crowley pulls back after awhile, looking dazed, and keeps one hand on Aziraphale’s waist but brings the other up to cup her cheek. 

“You’re perfect,” she says softly. 

Aziraphale hides her face in her shoulder, and Crowley wraps her arms around her tightly. 

“I mean it,” she insists. “Blush and deflect all you like, but you’re perfection. You’re amazing. You’re - ” she makes a frustrated noise and Aziraphale squeezes her and she relaxes. “You’re everything, angel.”

“Oh, my,” whispers Aziraphale, a little overwhelmed.

Crowley promptly (predictably) starts to panic.

“But I don’t - that’s too much, too soon, isn’t it? Why can’t I say the right - I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I mean it, I really do, but I shouldn’t have said it until later, and - ”

“Oh, hush,” says Aziraphale gently. Crowley discreetly wipes her eyes. “You’re quite an exceptional woman yourself.”

“Well,” says Crowley, pulling away and sniffling. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” says Aziraphale, and means it.

“Well,” says Crowley again, clapping her hands and effectively shattering the moment. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” says Aziraphale, and they go to lunch.

[werezmastarbucks]

c a r e

kai parker x reader brutal fluff oneshot

Kai’s bleeding out ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

word count: 1920

warnings: language, mentions of suicide, kind of au

You opened your eyes and winced, closed them again and decided to smell the room first. It’s been a while since you got hit on the head last. In fact, the last heavy blow that might have been dangerous for you, you received here, in Mystic Falls, five years ago. Outside this wretched town, danger was virtually non-existent. All the crap always happened here. Did you really have to come back, did you, really? There went your silent rant as your feelings were coming back to you, the tips of your fingers stinging, your limbs, sore, and the smell of burning curtains in the air. The sun was on your face, burning the cut somewhere on your forehead. You lifted your hand and touched it gently, still keeping your eyes closed, and put your finger in your mouth. Blood.

You sat up carefully, and looked around.

“Anybody alive?” you called. The house seemed to be empty. A slender streak of smoke came out of the fireplace. You pictured the last thing you saw before you blacked out: Liv Parker, her great mane of blonde hair waving and messed up, with her arm outstretched, screaming some latin shit in your face. All they ever said while chanting sounded like intricate swearing, honestly. Then, you got up on your feet and started assessing the room, sure that there’s supposed to be something else.

There he is! Another Parker, the psycho one, laying on his back, his white shirt soaking in blood. In a flash, his life ran before your eyes. You thought of the way he spoke to you and that article you read about the night he killed his family, and how there’s so much more to it.

You sprinted to him – well, walked, fast. He was going pale, losing the color, becoming like the shirt he was wearing. When he didn’t talk, and didn’t roll his eyes around, he looked almost like a child, almost quiet. You tried his neck – if there was pulse, you didn’t catch it, because your hands started shaking. After all he’s done, where he’s been and everything he’s seen and was about to see, that was not the way he’d go. Stabbed in the stomach with a poker? Please.

“Can you hear me?”

You looked around and took off your own jacket, pressing the wound in, and the blood started coming even faster, like you were squeezing a lemon.

“Shit”.

You felt for the phone and didn’t find it. You tapped his jeans and pulled his iPhone out, calling for the emergency services. The lady’s voice startled you because you got distracted immediately as you were trying to close that huge hole in his abdomen.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I- I’ve got a guy here who’s very stabbed, he’s like bleeding out”.

“What’s your address?”

You spat out the Salvatore mansion address, deeply surprised you had it carved somewhere on the wall of your skull; his blood was hot, which was probably a good sign, right? His face was glistening with sweat, and your palm was warm on his cheek. You bent over Kai, putting your ear very close to his face, and it sounded like faint breathing.

“Is he awake?”

“No, he’s out, and he’s getting very pale”.

“Okay, I’ve dispatched the car, they’re going to be there in fi-ive-minutes”, the girl said reassuringly.

“Thank you, what do I…”

“How much blood is there?”

You threw the phone on the floor and put her on speaker. The boy was dying. It was funny to think that! He’s died like a bazillion times back in his prison world, by his own confession. When you asked him which way to die was the worst, he said that was relative. The first might have been the most stressful because he really thought he was going to end it all.

As a suicide survivor, you knew what it felt like, and you thought, did I look like this? If someone stumbled upon me that day, would they see what I’m seeing now, a kid whom you want to save? You got such a dire desire to save his life, regardless of how he’ll pay you, you stopped listening to the 911 girl. Damon’s gonna be so pissed, you imagined with a smirk. He was dying, you should have just left him there! Such a convenient disaster which solves the Parker problem and takes out the biggest pain in the ass of all.

Then you looked at his face again, and realized that even through his morbid sleep, as he bleeds out with his arms outstretched, he knows no one cares about him. He knows he’ll die without making a single person ever care about him.

“Are you there, miss? Are you resuscitating?”

“Uh, yeah”.

You hit him in the chest.

“Wake up!”

His head moved as you pressed on the jacket again, like he was stubborn to get up.

“You need to do the heart massage, five times, then mouth to mouth”.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing that”.

Your wrists were hurting from how much you were trying to get him to breathe.

“Come on, you’re magical moron, you gotta help yourself”.

Aren’t witches supposed to die harder? Or is it already harder than normal? How much blood is Kai Parker supposed to lose until his headstrong soul finally decides it’s not worth it?

You hit him in the chest with two fists, trying to knock through the ribs and straight to the heart.

“What is that sound?” the girl asked. You puffed and hung up on her, threw his phone away. Kai’s eyes swung open and he stared up as his mouth opened slowly in the grimace of pain.

“Hey! Yes! Can you see me?”

Kai’s eyes shifted to you, irises huge like two black moons.

“Don’t die yet”.

“Am I?” he whispered.

You pressed the jacket again, and he moaned. Your hand twitched, fingers spreading in the gesture to comfort, and laid on his shoulder.

“Not yet. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate you”.

He took a very careful breath, like a sip of hot tea, with his mouth.

“Why?”

You thought for a second. Why? Is he stupid? Is he a child? Why? Why do people hate him? When he’s spread here like a fish, sweating through his clothes with freezing blood, white like a sheet, helpless like a kitten, human more than anybody else. Does loathing apply? Where’s the set of moral rules? Does him being a first-class Kai Parker apply?

“By default”, you offered. He looked through you, almost transparent, like a veil with eyes.

“Hold on, dude, this is too embarrassing for you”.

“Agree”.

You felt his hand move next to your thigh, and let your fingers crawl to his palm. It was losing heat.

“Heal yourself”, you pulled his hand and put it on his chest. “Come on, witch. If I had anything, I would help you”.

He turned his head to the side slowly, and the apple in his throat rolled grievously.

“It doesn’t work like that”, you rather read it on his lips than heard.

“Yes, it does. Heal yourself”, you squeezed his hand. There was the sound of wheels screeching in the yard.

He turned his head back and gave you a look from under his brows. The eyes refused to go unblack, and it felt like all the color from his body was draining right through them.

“Don’t let me die, Y/N”.

People were running through the corridor, certainly getting very hyped by spectacular destruction in the house.

“Over here!”

The doctors appeared in the living room, blue jackets and gloves, and you were pulled from Kai, letting go of his hand. You couldn’t see if he blacked out again as they surrounded him, velcros scratching and voices filling the space.

“Are you hurt?” a man appeared before you. You looked at him dumbfounded as he reached for you with a piece of white wool in his fingers. The cut on our forehead stung.

“What the hell happened here?”

“Family dinner”.

______________________________________________________________

“Is he going to make it?”

“If he’s strong”, the nurse replied. The doctor left the emergency room and raced past you, his hands covered in blood like in a movie. You sat on the chair prepped against the wall, and realized you had nothing to do here. It’s not like you’re going to sit here like a girlfriend while they operate on him, or call the time of death. Caring and solidarity is all sweet and good, but let’s not get carried away. This man tried to push you down the stairs like yesterday to create a distraction. He wouldn’t think a second before gutting you if he needed to. That’s how he made it so far, actually.

You left the hospital, walking slowly towards the bus stop and looking at the cloudless blue sky. Then your phone rang, and you realized it was in your back pocket all this time, and Damon was going to be real furious. For a second there you hoped Parker doesn’t make it so that you don’t have to go through mental beating. You tried to think of one way he can still be useful to the Mystic Falls folk and therefore eligible for preserving.

______________________________________________________________

They said, you saved that fucker, you babysit him.

You tried to explain that the majority of work was probably done by the doctors who closed his bleeding wound, and the said fucker’s impeccable will to live no matter what. The guy has that precious survivor’s gene that cannot be pulled out.

But while he’s in the hospital, he’s technically unmonitored, and somebody has to be there when he wakes up. To cuff him or whatever and let Damon know so that they know where he is. With too many Parkers still alive and running around it’s dangerous to let Kai just roam. It’s like, what was the point of all that fuss in the living room? you asked. Exactly, Y/N, Caroline said. Exactly. You were stunned by their bloodthirst. It’s all understandable though – and, at the same time, no. Klaus was free and happy living in Tyler’s fucking house. Katherine was alive and sleeping like a baby somewhere in the old Fell crypt. Rebekah was having the time of her life pretending to be a college student at Whitmore. These were all un-people who commited unspeakable things and hurt all of you personally. Everybody seemed to have come to terms with the fact that they’re here to stay. What made this one different, except eating too much?

You sat in a comfortable armchair in his hospital room like a disgruntled mum, waiting for him to wake up, but the little criminal took his time.

On the day he finally woke up you lost your patience and walked to him, laying in bed. He slept, and slept like a baby, like he was in a witch coma, face peaceful and open, almost good for conversation.

“Here’s one you missed on while you were kicking it in prison”, you said, putting your airpods in his ears. You found it personally quirky that you could torture him with your music while he was out.

You turned the volume down and returned to your chair, listening to the song in your head as the dot on your screen was crawling right.

Summer has come and passed The innocent can never last Wake me up when September ends

[ponds-of-ink]

A new character approaches... And, no, it’s not Sinbad yet. We'll get to him soon, though. Anyway, back to the Spooky AU! 🕸

When the pair arrived at the Inn, they were both surprised to see a young gentleman talking with the innkeeper. “I’m telling you, sir, Sinbad is the one paying for my room,” the former insisted. “I have not stolen anything, apart from your daughter’s heart.”

“Who is this man?” Maximillian asked, hoping Danglars’ expression implied more than surprise. 

“Andrea of the Cavalcantis,” Danglars answered breathlessly, removing his hat and placing it on the hat rack. “Charmer of women, lover of fine taste, and a danger to all who cross paths with him.”

“Methinks you know him personally?”

“‘Personally’ is a far-fetched statement,” laughed the man named Andrea, turning to face his new visitors. “We’ve only known each other by quick encounters and mere reputations. Danglars here is known for guiding poor souls through this wretched hive, if not for his crimes back in Paris. What were they again? Robbing charities or some other petty business?”

Danglars remained silent. The scars of long ago became more visible on his reddened face. He sat down in a nearby chair and put a hand to his clouded brow. Maximillian, surprised but not distraught, took this as an obvious sign of affirmation. “We’re both here to see a man named Sinbad,” the soldier resumed, returning his attention to their mission. “I take it you’ve also come by a strange letter?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Andrea smiled haughtily. “And in my home language too. Very well written for a foreigner, I must admit.”

“A foreigner?”

“I could tell by some of the expressions he used. A native speaker should be able to tell when one is homebred and one isn’t. Otherwise, you could end up with a robbed house in the dead of night. ...Not that I’ve had any real experience in the matter, but you know what I mean.”

Maximillian nodded, but with some distrust. Nevertheless, he pursued with his questions. “How did you even come to know Sinbad?” he asked the noble.

“Well, that’s a long story,” Andrea replied, a quiver breaking through his casual tone. “What I can say is, in short, he heard of me when I was just becoming notorious and we chatted under the cover of night. He wanted information about connections he knew I could get to, so he paid me to find them. ‘The remnants of the past,’ he called them. My term for them was ‘lost causes’, in one way or another. Still, he paid me handsomely for my services and I was rich as well as happy.”

“May I ask who these people were?” Danglars interrupted, a scowl present on his face.

“Of course, but only a few,” Andrea responded coolly. “Caderousse was certainly on that list, since we spent some time as partners in crime. He told me everything, even about some man named Edmond Dantes. Both of you were mentioned too, albeit in varying degrees of respect.” He paused once he saw the astonished look on his younger listener’s face. “No, that scoundrel isn’t ghost,” the noble sniggered. “This was a few months before his... untimely incident. Rest assured, those three raccoons carry on his legacy beautifully.”

Before any further discussion could be made, a figure dressed in basic servant’s attire knocked on the innkeeper’s desk. All three men turned to see this newcomer, somber and foreboding. “Your host will see you now,” the stranger said, stepping aside to show a flight of stairs. “Danglars, shun your greed. Morrell, do not hesitate to ask anything. Cavalcanti, refrain from attacking your follow guests. You will get your nourishment soon.”

Maximillian stared at Andrea, then at Danglars. “Is our new friend a—?”

Danglars nodded somberly. “Be glad he prefers animals and red wine,” he said in a low voice, using Andrea’s bolting up the staircase to his advantage. “Otherwise, we’d be next.”

[unicornbitchface]

Raat ki Rani

Pairing: Henry x OFC

Summary: The plot moves ahead. 

No warnings yet.

Beta’d by the lovely @madbaddic7ed​ !

.............................................................................................

Chapter 2

That’s it. 

She was so over it. 

How was it even allowed? 

There had to be some decorum, some sanctity to the institution. Someone had to make it right, and it will have to be her. Enough was enough. 

Bursting through the carved door of the zenana mahal, her eyes searched for the culprit. Today she would make it clear what goes where, and she is not to be trifled with. 

She kept her head low in front of her father, but Damini deserved to be hit for how she talked to their father! What was so wrong about what he said? Rajputana women are to serve their janmabhoomi (motherland) and later her husband’s jaagir (feudal estate). 

And everyone knows, with that tongue no Kunwar would take that disgrace. 

The only use for her is to make sure Father keeps his gold. How is that so bad? 

Worse than wearing men’s clothes to Meena Bazaar? 

Kite flying with locals like an imbecile? 

Running around like a bloody camel in the palace?

Pranks on the Generals, priests and the guests without a care for her stature?

Surely not.

There she was, giggling with the kids, up to no good as always!

“Damu!” Revati roared. 

The mischief in those almond eyes could not be hidden, not that Damini would ever try to. Their eyes met, and she walked to her elder sister with a poise that would put peacocks to shame. 

“Khamba Ghani bai sa! How can I help you?” 

Smack.

Head to the side, Damini’s insides fumed at the atrocious insult. Fire consumed her when she looked back at her sister. But before she could say anything, Revati had her hands on her ear as she dragged her to the chambers.

“Bai sa! It hurts, ow, stop!”

Revati was silent until they reached her room and spun Damini around making her fall near the bed.

“What is wrong with you, Damu? Why are you so hell-bent on soiling your father's name and reputation all the time? Are you not his ward? Do you not love him? If not any of that, please tell me you at least hold remorse!”

“Remorse for what, Bai sa? Of course, I love him but he clearly doesn’t love me” A lone tear escaped the lioness, her heart squeezing in waste, for a relationship that won’t exist beyond a mention in history books. 

“What was so wrong about what he said? You get to save the maan of our ancestors! You get to maintain your old life while helping Father! You should consider this an honour and-”

Damini stood up and walked to her sister, “I spit on such honour. If it’s so glorious, why don’t you warm his bed? I am sure you don’t miss your husband anyway!”

Revati stood there, speechless. She had no words for the indecency her sister had unfolded without hesitation. 

“Do you know what you are saying? I cannot. I am bound to my husband. I have taken vows, and I shall not bring shame to his name. Never.”

Smirking and raising an eyebrow, Damini shot another crude arrow towards Revati, “Cannot? Shall not? So you mean to say you would if you could?” 

The silence and red cheeks gave her what she needed to know. 

“You haven’t seen him. You are lucky to have a specimen like that in your bed. He has blue eyes, Damu and looks like a foreign God, here to ravish and ravage. He is a Lord you know? That means he is almost in our ranks. He must have lands, and his pockets must be overflowing with gold!” Hands to her chest, Revati’s breaths were close to being shallow and her eyes were dazed/had a faraway look to them.

Damini never understood this weird fawning that women did over certain men. She has seen women literally drool over their choli and panting like parched animals. 

Weird. 

“Brown hair, those curls! When he looks at you, oh those ice cold eyes! Time freezes and you feel a strange fire consume you, pooling in your gut, giving you these ideas that would put apsaras to shame. I haven’t seen him smile yet, but it will be brighter than the sunrise on the highest hills of our kingdom! I’m sure of it! And those muscles Damu! His angrezi trousers barely fit him and oh how the mighty muscles might rip it to shreds. Hmm, and you have to see his shoulders ! Broader than my husband’s best swords, imagine-”

Damini cleared her throat loudly, and said, “Look, I have no interest in that buffoon even if he had 3 eyes, 4 limbs and walked on bloody water! Just leave me alone, and you can continue with your weird fantasy in private, thank you!”

As Damini was leaving,  Revati grabbed her. 

“You will have to bend over for the bright future of Junagarh, little sister. Save the fire and use it in his bed because Father is not going to let this go. You know his penchant for gold Damu. We need that to keep the God at our doorstep satisfied. Think of yourself as a sacrifice! Don’t we sacrifice goats in Dussera? This is not much different. Appease him Damu, and he will shower blessings on our kingdom. You know we need it! 

 Do it by your own will, or you shall be delivered, hands and legs bound. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you know what is the better option, hm?”

Smart girl?

Smarter than you think sister. 

**************************************

Meanwhile, Lord Cavill was ready to rip his hair out. How has this country survived for so long? You call these jokers ministers? Oh, dear God.

After the first meeting, the Maharaja had insisted that the British envoy must meet and greet with the ministers to get a better understanding of their system. The Lord had reluctantly agreed, after all, he was sent here to keep an eye on the state and its keeper.

While a few tried to speak in English, most of the meeting was held via translation services offered by Mount General, Kulwant Singh. Honestly, Cavill would never get the measure of this odd human. He surely was not intimidated, but this man left him uncomfortable.

Cavill was busy analysing this giant’s diet and lifestyle, wondering how he became what he is. It was a result of mere boredom and not due to any frivolous intrigue. Just as Cavill hid a yawn about to escape, a voice grabbed his attention.

“Long live Cavill Saab, I, Bikram Rajawat, minister of the esteemed court, have a few proposals to put forth. May I?”

Cavill waved him to continue.

“As My Lord must be aware, our lands are arid causing water shortages. The lands beyond the capital need wells, sir. It is hard to-”

Cavill, leaned forward on the cushioned chair, eyes darting to the familiar voice of the Maharaja as he spoke.

“Rajawat! That is enough. I am sure Cavill Saab does not need to be bothered with trivial issues. He must focus on the bigger picture, am I right, sir?” Ganga asked meekly.

“And by bigger, do you mean the palace you want the money for, Mr Singh?”

Chuckling awkwardly, the Maharaja replied, “I am a representative of the subjects my lord! My standard of living reflects on their prosperity. The palace would function as an object of pride for every citizen of my raj.”

“Not your raj, The British Raj.”

Everyone stood up faster than the lightning, swords drawn, ready to get bloody.

“EXCUSE ME?”

Cavill looked around the room and took a breath. These ignorant fools have no idea what they signed up for.

He chuckled at the thought of their possible reactions to his heavy-handed revelations.

“Have you read the treaty, Maharaja Ganga Singh? Have you truly read it?”

Furious by his tone, Bikram yelled, “You are talking to a King, Lord Cavill. I suggest you watch your tone. An insult to him is an insult to the entire court!”

“Respectfully minister, he might be your king and you are allowed to feel so, but I am not talking to a King. When I stand here as an officer from the company, I talk to the WARD of Britain. Not a King, not a Maharaja.”

There was pin-drop silence as Cavill rose from his seat. It was time to show them how things are going to work from now on.

“I suggest you take your seats, honourable ministers and you too Mr Singh. I must clarify that I do not intend to hurl any sort of an insult at anybody. I am merely stating the facts.” Looking at Kulwant, he could only hope for a fair translation. The language was another thing he had to master if he was going to stay here.

His face contorted in distaste as he thought of learning this primitive language, an utter waste of his time.

He pushed those thoughts aside and continued once the ministers had sat back down.

“The British are paying for all of this to be maintained as it were. We are supportive of your lifestyle and would like to see you flourish. However, this is not a charity. The use of our resources need to be monitored, and we are here to provide advice and guidance you all will only benefit further from.” 

The Maharaja nodded and agreed with the envoy. However, he still felt discomfort at his earlier tone. He somehow needed this buffoon under his control, and his only ticket seemed to be Damini. 

That wretched fool. He had a lot of work to do. 

Ganga looked at the Lord and wondered if stoking lust would fetch him anything. There was certainly no harm in trying. 

“Ahem, I would like to extend an invitation to you, good sir. I would like to hold a feast in your honour in the evening. It would be an honour to have you present! This way you get to meet my family and my successor Maan Singh as well.”

A native party? Really? Lord Cavill groaned internally at the thought of fake pleasantries yet responded, “I don’t engage in a lot of social commitments Mr Singh, but I suppose I cannot say no to a feast organised in my honour. I shall be there.”

“So, now that we know what our roles are, I would like to see your proposal for the wells Bikram Singh. I think it will benefit the people and help our taxes in return. There are a few other proposals I would like to work on, so I am requesting you to be prepared with your plans. Include expenditure, time, labour and other needs in detail. Take notes from your Maharaja, as his notes were flawless for the palace plan.”

The court missed his cheekiness and was genuinely impressed by the king’s efforts.

Ganga Singh puffed his chest in pride and got lost in the praise.

Interesting. The king was not hard to read, and Cavill knew what had to be done now.

Ha! A piece of cake.

Previous chapter

.......................................................................................

Hindi terms:

Khamba Ghani: Rajasthani salutation and a way to say hello. 

Apsara: celestial nymphs 

Angrezi: English, used commonly to describe any kind of foreign objects, beliefs etc, but mostly rooted in British connotation. 

Maharaja: King 

Dussera: A festival celebrated in India, to honor the various forms of Hindu goddesses. It goes on for 10 days, each day for a particular goddess, and on the 8th day, Goddess Kali is worshiped. Some followers believe in sacrificing animals as a tribute to please her. 

Tags:

@madbaddic7ed @henrythickcavill @toomanyfandomsshreya @inana999 @maximumninjavoid @mistress-of-ward

[honestsycrets]

Wretched Little Angels: Aethelwulf’s Choice

❛ pairing | ragnarssons x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | ivar takes over the reins, and everyone else is just along for the ride. 

❛  warnings | dark!fic, graphic non-con and violence, ivar being a dick, ivar planning, hostage situation, heavy angst. do not read if any of those will trigger you

They already knew what the possibility was.

“It’s possible that she may not even be alive,” Alfred spoke from the table.

It was a cold night, and his scarf was fixed around his neck, staring between his brother and his father. Aethelwulf paced from one side of the room to the other before coming to the table where they sat with full plates that neither had eaten.

“What if she is?” Aethelred returns. “She is a woman. They could be hurting her.”

By hurting her, all the men in the room knew what he meant.

“It is likely,” Alfred answers.

The question seems to really be what price they were willing to pay. For Aethelwulf, this was one in a line of disrespectful actions. It was the top of his list, no doubt, but it was not something he could so easily let go. Aethelwulf sets his hands on the chair, squaring his shoulders back.

“I’ll call him.”

“At what cost?”

The cost, he knows better than his sons. Aethelwulf runs his hands through his short black hair. His fist beats down on the table, effectively silencing his youngest son with his shrill that caused Alfred to scoot back in his seat.

“I want my daughter back.”

You should have stabbed Ubbe with that knife.

But you didn’t.

Hvitserk left you feeling burning raw and now, Ivar-- Ivar was something else entirely. His arm is thrown over your shoulder, dragging his nails over your empty stomach up toward your breasts. Your chest heaves under his fingertips. Your father is heavy on your mind. He is the sort of man to think he knows best and go through with it. Unless it was the words of grandfather, that was. He could always… do best.

Now that Aethelwulf was the one to deal with, well, there was no telling what he would do. You were sure of one thing. It would be reckless. When you glance over to Ivar, you know that this boy-- is more than he can handle.

“What are you going to do to them?”

“To your father?” he slides a lock of your hair from your ear. “That depends on him.”

“Please don’t kill them.”

This man, the Boneless, runs a chill down your back. You don’t know why. You only know that when he looks at you, he sees something little more then the daughter of a police chief. Ivar seizes your nape with his large hand.

“Oh? Well, I don’t really want you, so I don’t even need you,” Ivar whispers corroded words. A jangle of his belt reflects that he is loosening his pants. You don’t have to guess by now what he is about to do. “So let’s get down to business.”

It was fine. You’ve been put through worse. Ubbe was worse. Ivar less so. The grip on your neck tightens into bruised the size of the pads of his fingers. When you take him into his mouth, Ivar settles into petting your hair— almost like a good dog.

“Where is she?”

A warm voice asks, bursting with hot energy and frayed at the edges with his concern. You seize up under his hand, tightening your fist around his floppy cock. Ivar bucks his hips, and his cock responds in turn, swelling under your fingers.

“Nothing to worry about,” Ivar insists in a mouthy groan. “I am taking good care of her.”

You, as well as your father, know how much of a lie that is.

“If you lay a hand on my“--

“My brothers have done more than that,” Ivar answers, reaching down to stroke your hair. So close, but so far away, Ivar almost muses. “But if you want her back, you know what to do.”

With a click, Ivar drops the phone, cock throbbing and pulsing in your hand. A threat of moisture spurts from his tip and you take it with heavy-lidded eyes pressed together tightly that you refuse to let yourself cry. Whatever it was, you think, it wasn’t going to end well.

“You are going to hurt him, aren’t you?” Your voice teams with tension and fear.

“Well, he makes a shitty puppet.” Ivar laughs, tugging you up by a fistful of your hair. The burn of the cool air causes you to release his cock, which bobs excitedly when you whimper face to face with him. “But maybe you can level with me. Sit on my dick.”

You’re tired of it. The constant wear and tear of Ragnar’s sons tearing into your body. You let your knees fall apart under his prodding hand. Ivar’s lip twitches, somewhere between appreciation and annoyance that you could not follow a simple order.

“It’s not that hard to listen,” Ivar reprimands. He brings your hips down to him, slipping his hand underneath to guide his way into the hole that his brothers had all had. Pleasure thrums through him when he actually does slip in, and he shifts his hands around to grasp your shoulders to force you down onto him.

“You’re all used up,” Ivar says. “You don’t even have it in you to fight me.”

A succession of quick and shallow lines are pricked by one slow, deep one that Ivar made sure to know you felt. You know he tells the truth. Being used by the Ragnarssons almost becomes routine. If you ran, like with Ubbe, they would only make it worse.

“I suppose I’ll have to settle with this to send to your soft brother,” Ivar grasps a fist full of your hair again, dragging you against his chest. Ivar’s teeth catch your neck, rocked by a stuttering thrust of his hips. It’s no more than a hike in his breathing that marks that Ivar is cumming, deep when he drags you down against his hips.

His warm breath against your neck marks the release of his hot breath from your neck. He throws you off of his dick onto the leather seat of the truck. You catch the siding of the truck to stop you from knocking your head. But maybe it would be preferable if you didn’t have to be with these fuckers and knocked yourself out.

“You should sleep.” It’s almost with care that he says it. Though, from the events before, you question how a man like him could ever care about anything. “It might be a better option than being awake.”

The car door slams behind him. You jolt up minutes later when the coast is clear darting to the car door. The handle is locked when you try to open it. But of course, it could not be that easy. Sitting there, you find a certain green-eyed boy. “You’re like one’a them pastries,” Hvitserk says. “Always fuckin’ cream-filled.”

It would have been less painful to be with Ivar.

Your eyes relax from their wide, clear surprise at his presence. With another chance gone, you settle back down, pulling the small throw over your cold body and settling into a flat pillow that had seen better days. “Why are you here?”

Hvitserk holds up his gun, twisting it at you. “Sure as hell ain’t here for the pussy.”

You sit up, eyes rimmed by exhaustion, tugging your feet to your chest. It’s hard to sleep when someone like Hvitserk is there, teasing you outright for something that he knew you had no way of getting out of. Before long, the tears are spilling down your cheeks and you hate that-- that moment of desperation and overflowing emotion that leaves you a physical damsel in distress. Hvitserk stops, slipping the gun back on his belt and turning over the front of the truck to you.

“Why are you--”

“Why do you think?!” you lurch over, punching the head of his chair. You wish that you had hit him, but as quick as the mouseish thing was, Hvitserk moved to the side. “I hate you! I hate you and your stupid brothers!”

Hvitserk leans over the middle of the truck seats, letting a punch land on his jaw. He massages the area after the fact, not at all unfamiliar with the feeling of you spitting on him. It’s probably something he did deserve if he were to be honest, and he doesn’t hold it against you. If he were a woman…

“I’m not that bad,” Hvitserk says-- sounding if he’s trying to convince himself of that bit of knowledge. Your eyes well up with tears all over again when you come back to that pillow, squeezing it for emphasis.

“You’re the worst one!”

“Worst? Fuck man,” Hvitserk begins. “I’ve been nice! I didn’ do any of the shit my brother did, remember?”

“You were the first one. Time after time!” you state. An accusation, a sobbing accusation of that first time he caught you, mocked you with helping your father. Yeah, he remembers that. Hvitserk doesn’t know why he feels a flash of pity-- but when he feels it, he feels soft. He crawls over the seat.

“Hey,”

You scoot to the most impossible edge of that seat.

“Okay, except the wax.” He recounts wanting breakfast. That was a damn good breakfast after all that he did. You bring your blanket high to avoid looking at him. He debates reaching out, to peel the blanket down like he stubbornly would.

Except, this time, something holds him back.

“Thank you for your service!” says the barista. She hands him a steaming hot coffee which he takes, thwapping a packet of sugar against the cup. His phone begins to trill, and Bjorn shifts to his leather black belt.

Chief Aethelwulf, his work phone says.

“Hey chief,” Bjorn grins, pushing open the door for an older woman. She bobs in as he continues down the way to his car. Aethelwulf’s voice booms, shrilling about some fucker, ie. Ivar, with his daughter. “You found her? With the Ragnarssons?”

“A video? Never would’ve thought…”

He sets his cup down on the roof of his car and pops open the door. Ivar, what would he ever do with his baby brother, who regularly got himself into this sort of trouble. He would probably have a much easier time in negotiations. But no, of course not, things could not go so easily.

“Of course I’ll go with you.”

@tephi101​ @alicedopey​​ @supernaturalvikingwhore​ @tootie-fruity​ @titty-teetee​ @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla​ @ethereallysimple​ @deathbyarabbit​ @deathbyarabbit​ @readsalot73​ @natalie-rdr​ @lol-haha-joke​​ @lisinfleur​​ @hissouthernprincess​ @marvelousse​ @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol​ @vikingsmania​ @wish-i-was-a-mermaid​ @lif3snotouttogetyou​ @gruffle1​ @cris101071​ @gold-dragon-slayer​ @babypink224221​ @wonderwoman292​ @naaladareia​ @beyond-the-ashes​ @generic-fangirl​ @chinduda​ @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope​ @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117​ @unassumingviking​ @ladyofsoa, @inforapound​ @winchesterwife27​ @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys​  @bluearchersstuff​ @affectionrabbitt​ @whatamood13​ @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou​ @unacceptabletatertots​ @ivarandersen​ @stra-vage​

[whitehotharlots]

No one is gonna “gaslight” you about the pandemic. They don’t need to

I took a break from my daylong panic attack to read through a piece that I saw dozens of people sharing on social media. If you’re in the mood to take a glimpse into the abyss of hopelessness, give it a read. 

This is one of the dumbest things I have ever read, but it’s instructive in the sense that it shows us just how absolutely liberalism is not prepared to handle the current moment. If this is the intellectual vanguard of the #Resistance (and judging by those who have shared it, it seems to be), then we should begin mentally preparing ourselves not just for Trump’s reelection but for the very real possibility that he’s just going to be president forever. 

The piece is called “Prepare for the Ultimate Gaslighting,” so right away you know where it’s coming from. “Gaslighting,” has recently surpassed “mansplaining” as the liberal buzzterm that’s become the most meaningless due to overuse. It used to refer specifically to emotional manipulation. Now it basically means “anything that a liberal doesn’t like.” Liberals read a neurotic amount of importance into petty matters of taste and interpersonal relations. They begin, at times, to understand social problems in a structural sense, but they always--always--turn their analysis back to meaningless bullshit that takes place on an individual level. The liberal would never be so gauche as to indict an entire system, no matter how at fault it may obviously be. Instead, he will place blame upon the individuals within the system, those selfish and savage brutes who betrayed the magnanimous intentions of society’s elite engineers. 

This author’s analysis is unsurprisingly very muddy. He mentions, correctly, that there is an eerie serenity to scenes of American cityscapes already being reclaimed by nature. He cannot, however, decide whether or not this is a good thing. This is because of the liberal’s fundamental ambivalence toward malignant social structures. Their ethos is founded on pretending to sympathize with society’s misbegotten, but their status and jobs and personal standing demand that they also apologize profusely for the institutions that reap so much misery upon us. This neurosis is somewhat politically viable only because it usually goes unspoken--and that’s why this piece is worth digging into, since it’s so rare to see them attempt to actually articulate this shit.

The author realizes that our society is deeply poisoned. In a twist, he says that such a sad state is not due to any of the litany of usual, intersectional reasons, but because of the pace at which our social lives are conducted. I am dead serious:

The cat is out of the bag. We, as a nation, have deeply disturbing problems. You’re right. That’s not news. They are problems we ignore every day, not because we’re terrible people or because we don’t care about fixing them, but because we don’t have time. Sorry, we have other shit to do. The plain truth is that no matter our ethnicity, religion, gender, political party (the list goes on), nor even our socioeconomic status, as Americans we share this: We are busy. We’re out and about hustling to make our own lives work. We have goals to meet and meetings to attend and mortgages to pay — all while the phone is ringing and the laptop is pinging.

The problem is, see, that we’re thinking about stuff wrong. Not that the ruling elite are openly corrupt or anything. Oh no. I mean, they must be since they’re about to gaslight us, but also they’re not, they’re basically okay:

The greatest misconception among us, which causes deep and painful social and political tension every day in this country, is that we somehow don’t care about each other. White people don’t care about the problems of black America. Men don’t care about women’s rights. Cops don’t care about the communities they serve. Humans don’t care about the environment. These couldn’t be further from the truth. We do care. We just don’t have the time to do anything about it. Maybe that’s just me. But maybe it’s you, too.

Again, he’s coming to the precipice of a worthwhile realization--that we all know society is unsustainable but we can’t do anything about it--but he has to pull back so as to avoid implicating any of the people who actually wield power. That’s the main thrust of contemporary liberalism: sure, society may be fucked, but that’s your fault, not ours.

The ending is a tour de force of empty liberal platitudes that is breathtaking in its ability to place blame upon anyone and anything aside from the people and things that are actually to blame:

From one citizen to another, I beg of you: take a deep breath, ignore the deafening noise, and think deeply about what you want to put back into your life. This is our chance to define a new version of normal, a rare and truly sacred (yes, sacred) opportunity to get rid of the bullshit and to only bring back what works for us, what makes our lives richer, what makes our kids happier, what makes us truly proud. [ … ]

We can do that on a personal scale in our homes, in how we choose to spend our family time on nights and weekends, what we watch, what we listen to, what we eat, and what we choose to spend our dollars on and where. We can do it locally in our communities, in what organizations we support, what truths we tell, and what events we attend. And we can do it nationally in our government, in which leaders we vote in and to whom we give power. If we want cleaner air, we can make it happen. If we want to protect our doctors and nurses from the next virus — and protect all Americans — we can make it happen. If we want our neighbors and friends to earn a dignified income, we can make that happen. If we want millions of kids to be able to eat if suddenly their school is closed, we can make that happen. And, yes, if we just want to live a simpler life, we can make that happen, too. But only if we resist the massive gaslighting that is about to come. It’s on its way. Look out.

Just… dear god. Dear god. 

We are not facing a crisis of conscientiousness. We are not suffering through mass existential dread because we weren’t mindful enough or didn’t make the right consumer choices or didn’t, like, live in the moment, man. We are staring down the absolute end stage of global capitalism and the complete abandonment of all the pretenses associated with liberal democracy. We are at the start of a very different and much worse stage of existence.

This is why the piece’s central conceit, gaslighting, is so fucking annoying. Because if we’ve learned nothing else from the past 12 years (and apparently we haven’t), it’s that the ruling elite do not need to bother establishing pretense any longer. No one thought the recent Corona bailout was anything other than an upward transfer of wealth and a complete abandonment of the wretched--no one even bothered to argue otherwise, because they knew they didn’t need to. At least a half dozen US senators received advance notice of the pandemic’s severity, and instead of warning people or otherwise working to help their constituents, they sold off stock and kept mum. None of them have received any formal censure, as their behavior was absolutely within the realm of what is acceptable in 2020. Andrew Cuomo, the man presently being lauded as the firm and competent opposite of Trump, used the pandemic as a pretense to push through cuts to social services and renege on bail reform that was past just weeks ago--undoing the last vestiges of progressivism both old and new. Even bleaker: an EU member state is now being ruled by dictatorial fiat under the pretense of the virus, and everyone’s just kind of rolling with it. I mean, really, what’s gonna happen? Brussels gonna step in? NATO gonna invade? Pfft… Not for such a trifling matter as the abandonment of democracy. If they missed a debt payment, on the other hand…

The point is, you’re not going to get gaslit because there’s no need for that any longer. The people who are profiting off of the collapse and destruction of society don’t even have to bother to lie about it. And the only ones doing any gaslighting are the smug liberal twerps who are too scared of upsetting their boss to allow anyone to point out this fact.

[reynesofcastamere]

People Try To Break

(A/N:All right, so it’s been...a WHILE since I last wrote fanfiction, much less published it. *cracks fingers* However Season 4 hit me with Too Many Damned Sad Feelings for these two characters and I have to get them out somehow. In collected one-shot ‘what if?’ scenario form. Thanks to remi-bw for calculating the Beast Island timeline on my previous post. WARNINGS: Violence, brainwashing, character death, Horde Prime, chronic illness and injury. Unbeta’d. )

(BAD END I)

Everything is in ashes. But Hordak will have this: the satisfaction of crushing his enemy’s skull beneath-A blast of pain, accompanied by acrid smoke and a BANG! that makes his ears ring. The makeshift club is torn from his grip, glowing eyes already seeking out the source of this intrusion- who dares, he will grind them into dust for...

Lord Hordak, Supreme Leader of the Horde, former right hand of the Emperor of the Known Universe does not even register the child who shot him, transfixed by the mass of writhing violet swarming out of the pipe. He cannot breathe, even as a form emerges from beneath all that hair and oh, he cannot see her face from this distance but he knows it with every fibre of his being- “Entrapta?” A whisper, uncertain and weak, legs moving of their own volition.

The light around him turns green after three steps, arresting his forward motion. Horde Prime is here at last. Yet he feels...terror. Please. Not now. I have to speak to her, she needs to know- “ENTRAPTA!” A hand reaches out uselessly, desperately in her direction, as if hoping against all logic and sense to close the gap between them. Too late. Darkness and Prime’s technology take him under.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(BAD END II)

Hordak had dreamed of standing before his brother with pride -all of this, I have accomplished in your name- next to the woman whose brilliance had made it possible. Instead he is damaged, dirty and on his knees while Entrapta lies unconscious among the rubble that was transported with them. He explains everything, but there is no flicker of gratitude or admiration on his Emperor’s face. Horde Prime seems...mildly amused, at best. At least until Hordak, in his growing anxiety to prove his worth, fails. The temperature in the room has not changed, and yet his insides are frozen.

Prime steps down from his throne to rifle through Hordak’s memories like a box of useless scrap. It feels...wrong in a way that it should not. He is a clone, the rightful property of the Emperor. Nothing can -or should- be hidden from His gaze. And yet there are moments flashing through his head that some part of him does not want Horde Prime to see. Because they are...special. “-There was even a time you wished I would not come for you. Is that not so?”

He protests in vain even as his Creator moves to stand over Entrapta’s prone form, lifting her up by the scruff of her neck. Stunned into silence, Hordak watches his brother examine the Etherian scientist as he once had-A backwater primitive with some shred of actual intelligence.

“Such an extraordinary mind... For a lesser species. A pity it cannot be utilized in service of my Empire.”

“What?” Surely he must have misheard. Then a smirk that can only be described as cruel quirks Prime’s lips and dread is a jagged stone in the pit of his stomach. “Poor little brother, so easily led astray. You truly thought that you served My will, that I would allow your pet to spread heresy. That you have even given yourself a name proves you have become an abomination.” His Emperor is no longer composed or pretending at benevolence, radiating sheer rage at the presumptive defect before Him. “You must be reborn.” His hand closes around  Entrapta’s throat.

Hordak’s body does not-cannot- obey his will, despite how fast his heart is racing. He pleads, begs, grovels like the worthless creature he is, all for the wretched hope of saving her. The one being in the entire universe who truly made him...complete. The sound her neck makes when it snaps is deafening in his ears, her killer dropping her lifeless body to the floor seconds later.

An anguished howl rips through the air as the monster approaches once more. Unable to lash out, blinded by hatred and tears, he does not even realize what is happening. There is pain and then...Nothingness.

Three days later, clone HK-001 still exhibits near-constant ocular discharge despite successful reconditioning. No cause is determined, and the Empire does not waste resources on defects. HK-001′s termination is carried out efficiently, while the conquest of Etheria begins in earnest. A small creature with no voice of its’ own looks up at the stars and the massive fleet that nearly blots them out, clutching an engraved crystal in its’ hands. Waiting.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(GOOD END I)

Horde Prime is dead.

Princess Entrapta of Dryl claims his body, empire, and army by right of conquest. There isn’t much left of the first by the time she finishes experimenting with it, but the treasure trove of data provided is invaluable to the field of xenobiology. And to the new Empress’s Consort. Who loves her very much and made that perfectly clear once they’d gotten past the post-fight sex in the throne room and the temporary awkwardness that followed.

She’s got fleets full of new and fascinating technology, infinite galaxies to explore, masses of clones to study; (Watching them adjust to the idea of individuality is fascinating, there’s already an entire ship’s crew who started wearing maroon after spending an afternoon with Scorpia.) Her Lab Partner is right there with her, working on projects, trading theories and ideas even while lying in bed with Imp curled up in her hair and Emily in sleep mode in the corner.

Some of her friends don’t quite...understand her choices, but they also don’t have the power or authority to stop her anymore. That they’re still her friends after a regicide means a lot, even if the bi-monthly Princess Meetings involve a lot of dirty looks being thrown in Hordak’s direction. Which he ignores. Pointedly. Without breaking anything, even! Which she definitely needs to check off on her progress list for Social Experiment 51-B. Life, in the simplest possible terms, is ‘good’. Entrapta intends to keep it that way. Besides, a being who couldn’t accept that imperfections and accidents were what allowed scientific progress and the driving principles of the universe to move forward was far better off as a test subject.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(GOOD END II)

Hordak freezes at the sight of the apparent ‘ghost’ for only a moment before rage draws him back into its’ black, razor-edged pit. The rebel archer miscalculates and winds up dangling by his neck in a choking grip. “You DARE to use that shapeshifter’s tricks?” He snarls, eyes practically emitting heat from sheer force of will alone. “What -hgk- do you-?”

“Do not LIE to me. Entrapta is dead.” They will regret this decision, for he will wring out their apologies along with their screams for mercy. But first. “And you are delaying my extermination of her murderer.” Catra will pay. For every action she had done, every lie told, every second of time she wasted while Entrapta was sent and abandoned to die on Beast Island. (It has been five Etherian seven-day units of time. No sentient being could have survived that long.) His grasp is suddenly surrendered when Double Trouble uses the existing rope-line and their imitation prehensile hair to swing down and tackle him to the ground. The attempts he makes at ripping the face off of this pretender end with his wrists bound above his head, growling in impotent fury.

“Hordak! I found the First Ones’ database at the centre of Beast Island! It’s a technological wonder-pure information buried in the midst of a sentient hazardous waste disposal site that slowly paralyzes and consumes any being exposed to it.” A pause for breath is accompanied by a tiny shudder that most people...probably wouldn’t notice. “Anyway, Bow and Adora showed up in a spaceship-I totally need to study it properly later- and I rescued them even though they were supposed to be rescuing me, there was this weird guy who ate bugs and oh! I made a new friend. She’s really great and didn’t have any problems with me sitting in her mouth.” Entrapta tilts her head at him, looking mildly confused and then hesitant. “You...really didn’t abandon me?” The question is quiet, a complete departure from her energetic explanations. She seems almost scared of what his answer might be, hair releasing his wrists now that he’s stopped struggling.

Hordak is stricken, tears welling in his eyes as he carefully sits up. He didn’t notice the changes in her appearance before, the indications that she couldn’t possibly be the form-changing mercenary. If this is another lie, and he is about to be killed for believing it, then he no longer cares. His fingers slowly, gently caress the hair along her scalp. “No. Never.” He’s never known her to be particularly fond of touching people with any part of her body aside from her hair...Yet they wind up with her arms around his shoulders and his around her waist. “I have been an utter fool.” Hordak murmurs, the upper half of his face resting against her left shoulder. “Believing you were a traitor from the start. Catra is a proven liar, and you...” The words catch in his throat for a moment. He has never done this before. Had neither wanted nor needed to until now. With her. “Entrapta. I need you.” Somehow he gathers the courage to meet her eyes and finds them as moist as his, but she also looks...pleased?

Entrapta sniffles. “I kind of gave up on you while I was imprisoned. Bow offered me some good advice, though.” She smiles, even if it’s a touch shaky. “Hey, we’re both imperfect, right? Just means we need to keep working on it.” She considers the question a success when he laughs softly and smiles at her in turn, their foreheads coming to rest against one another. Hm. His armor is missing the central crystal. She’ll have to ask about that, locate it, and tell him what the writing on it translates to. She loves him too, and he deserves to know it as an absolute proven fact. In time, they’ll rebuild what is broken (The Fright Zone is a mess, for starters.). When nothing arrives to block out the stars, no further attempts to contact Horde Prime are made. They have enough to keep them busy for a very long time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(A/N: In Bad End II Entrapta is unconscious the whole time because I am a firm believer that she is capable of murdering him in 2.5 seconds. Especially if he has the alien equivalent of a jugular or carotid artery. So originally I was going to add reactions from Bow and Glimmer in Good End II buuuuut this is already decently long and their dialogue would have boiled down to Bow quietly squeeing, Glimmer going WTF?!, Entrapta being cheerfully blunt and Hordak scowling because You’re Interrupting A Moment, Godsdamnit.  Horde Prime accidentally flew into a black hole or something, IDK. One last thing. I’ve never written a neurodivergent character (coded or otherwise), so if I have butchered Entrapta’s character and/or written something that is offensive; I deeply apologize and will look to correct this if provided with constructive criticism.)