#Twists his ankle in a canal

[beastoftheblackhole]

‘Godzilla Vs Mothra’, or ‘Godzilla just has the worst fucking day of his life’

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

full hc request: mc and m6 celebrating holi ?

(i am friendless this holi and i will cry over it)

-🫧 anon

The Arcana HCs: Celebrating Holi

~ most of this is based off of childhood experience celebrating in South Asia, thank you for resurrecting all the fun memories anon! ~

Julian

He loves the concept of it

A community event, full of color and celebration? Heck yeah! This extrovert is pumped and ready to spread the joy!

This extrovert is also a doctor

And this doctor is already gearing up for the aftermath - for all the people who caught cold running around in wet clothes, the injuries from hopping around on wet cobblestones and twisting ankles ...

... the overenthusiastic celebrants falling into the canals and bumping their heads, the kids who always end up licking the color powder and find out the hard way what they're allergic to ...

And of course, the mild panic he experiences for the next week seeing faded stains on his patient's skin and faces and briefly mistaking them for bruising

Seriously, why do bruises turn every color of the rainbow??

But all that aside, he's excited to celebrate with you and will even bend down so you can smear some color on his face and eyepatch

Asra

Oh, they are thriving

This is easily one of his favorite events of the year. This gets more planning and preparation time than ... most things, really

They insist on making (or at least, modifying) all of their own colors and stock up on everything from powder to paste to dyes they can mix with water and spray at passersby with a water gun

Some of them he enchants to be holographic. Others, to hover menacingly in the air and then engulf whoever walks close enough

It's one of the few times when all the kids in the neighborhood flock to them because they know that nobody will kit them out for a proper water fight like they will. It's on

His hair is going to have colors lingering in it for over a month

The magic use does get just a little bit out of control, sometimes - they've been politely asked to stay away from the town square, since the statues still occasionally puke neon rainbows

Will put a spell on you that morning so nothing can stain you

Nadia

Does she enjoy and look forward to this festival? Yes. Is she stressed beyond words? Also yes. She needs a break

The sheer logistics of organizing a national holiday aside, Holi is messy. The streets are full of people, traffic is impossible for the day, injuries are spiking from partying too hard, and the cleanup

Don't get her started on the cleanup

Vesuvia has plenty of white marble statues and fountains that end up coated in the rainbow every year (though it's gotten easier since a certain magician was banned from the town square)

Not to mention the series of legal cases afterwards when some merchant passing through sells a load of poor quality colors

That won't stop her from enjoying it with you. She'll set up the garden and spend an afternoon chasing you around with her palms covered in color, darting out to leave smudges on your cheeks

If she moves a little more slowly to ensure that she gets covered in your colors as well, then. That's for only her and the shrubs to know

Muriel

A festival so exciting and intense that crowds of people flood the streets and smear colors all over each other with abandon?

Yeah, you can count him out

The concept of celebrating color and the triumph of good over evil is delightful, but you both know that if he joins he'll suffer at best and have a full-blown panic attack at worst. Better not

He'll celebrate with you in his own way

You'll find a forest clearing, pull out all the environmentally friendly colors you've stocked up on, and goad him with rainbow fingerprints into a playful game of tag among the trees

His artistic side will make itself known, waiting for you to tire yourself out before he sits next to you and traces swirls and runes all over your arms and face with featherlight touches

Of course, this only works if you're distracted with something while he does, or else your eyes on him will make him freeze up and blush. (the shaky little smudges those cause are the best)

Portia

She adores Holi and she is Prepared

She knows all the tips and tricks to get through the day with as little misfortune as possible. Old, cheap clothes that you don't mind getting stained. Oil on your skin and hair before you go out

And of course, a mom bag stuffed to the brim, half with celebration essentials and half with mischief implements

You look tired and a little overstimulated. Here, wipe your face and hands with this damp towel and drink some water. She packed snacks - do you want a cookie or a sandwich?

You look like you could use an advantage. Here, take this dye filled water balloon and throw it at the nearest street sign - the partygoers underneath will have it in their hair for weeks

Her favorite celebration spots are right in the middle of wherever the kids are having their massive water fight. Nobody can amp up mediate one of those like she can

Will shamelessly cover your clothes in her handprints

Lucio

He loves it for the first fifteen minutes or so

A town-wide celebration that fills the streets? Heck yeah, he is all in and having the time of his life! He has permission to splash color all over random strangers? Awesome! He's going all out -

... until he starts to receive the same treatment, which means his hair is getting messy and his clothes are going to stain and there's dye all over his face and absolutely ruining his eyeliner

Yeah, he's done, and he's going to start sulking if he doesn't get a hot bath nice and soon

Mercedes and Melchior, on the other hand, are having the times of their lives. It's chaos dialed to the max and they love the chance to weave between people's legs and splash colors everywhere

Of course, they also have gorgeous long silky white fur, which gets absolutely saturated with pigments and dyes as they run wild

Bathing them afterwards is a legendary nightmare and the pastel hues linger on their backs for quite a while

[inoreuct]

punkflower | post-nightmare hurt/comfort

A cricket chirped, the noise carrying sharp in the still air. If not for his training, Miles would have startled; hell, he nearly did anyway, shaken as he was.

It was ridiculous how he could see the same nightmare that many times over and still get affected by it. It was old news by now.

Unfortunately for him, his brain still hadn’t seemed to get the memo.

He knew it by heart at this point. It always started with him in a white room, perfectly pristine, the clinical perfection slowly disintegrating into muddy darkness. Withering away until the floor had become a murky pit, glitching in and out of existence.

And every time, someone he cared about was in the room with him. His mami, Gwen, Pav, Peter B., Peni, Hobie, Noir, Hobie, his dad, Gwen, Hobie— The faces switched in and out on a steady rotation. He laughed, sometimes, at the sick humour of it if he managed to predict who it would be.

The one constant was that he could never save them.

They’d be smiling one second and screaming the next, plunging down, down, down into that horrible gaping maw in the ground, and Miles would jump after them knowing they were already too far from his reach—

And then he’d wake up in cold sweat, heart in his throat, fingers twitching with the urge to text or call whoever he’d seen that night and fighting against the desperation to make sure that they were alive.

It was ridiculous. He knew that.

But tonight he’d jerked awake with Hobie’s name a dying scream on his lips, and he couldn’t bear to be alone.

So here he was, creeping onto his boyfriend’s canal boat at ass o’clock in the middle of the night, carefully stepping over the skein of spider silk that functioned as a trip wire and unlocking the door with the key he knew was taped beneath the railing. He made his way to Hobie’s bedroom on autopilot, tugging the collar of his sweatshirt higher; his flannel pyjama pants swished around his ankles as he carefully turned the handle, pushing the door open slowly enough that it didn’t creak.

Hobie was sprawled out on his pallet, blankets twisted around his lanky frame, one arm sticking out with his knuckles brushing the floor. His chest rose and fell just enough for Miles to make out in the darkness.

Miles swallowed against the sudden ache of relief, let it drip down his throat to ease the tight knot that had settled low in his gut since before he’d grabbed his watch and opened a portal without even thinking. It helped, but barely.

He took a bracing breath and toyed with the hem of his shirt, bare feet cold against the floor. This was stupid. He’d seen that Hobie was fine, now; that in itself felt creepy stalker-ish, and he cringed a little.

He should leave. He had school the next day, and waking up was gonna be a pain in the ass after this.

His throat bobbed as he turned around, hovering in the doorway, eyes burning.

He didn’t want to go.

“Miles?”

The breath caught in his lungs as he heard the sheets shift. He dared a peek over his shoulder, one hand still on the doorframe, to see his boyfriend sitting up slowly and blinking like his brain was taking a moment to come online.

“Baby, why’re ya here? What’s wrong?” Hobie asked, breathy and slurring a little, eyes widening as he flipped the sheets aside and started to get out of bed. “Wh—”

“Nothing,’ Miles replied quickly. Too quickly, based on the suspicious look Hobie sent his way, and it made guilt spike in his chest. “It’s nothing, I’m sorry.”

Hobie studied him for a moment, before the tension bled out of him and he sagged back against the mattress. “S’not nothing if you’re here, innit,” he murmured, high cheekbones lit up soft in a sliver of moonlight from his window. “Come ‘ere.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “It’s really nothing. I should let you get back to sl—”

“Miles.” Hobie’s voice was stern, underscored with a pleading tone that made Miles feel a little bit like crying. “You can’t lie to me, love. I ain’t gonna let ya spend the night alone like this, so come here.”

The sleeves of his sweatshirt stretched taut as he pulled them into his palms, sucking down a deep breath as he nodded. Hobie’s pallet had just enough space for two, if they maneuvered right; they had it down to a routine, now, but still the way Hobie lifted his arm like he knew exactly where Miles would want to be made Miles’s throat tight.

Miles dropped to his knees, twisting so that he could press his back to Hobie’s chest, head pillowed on Hobie’s bicep. They fit together like puzzle pieces, same as they always did; the broad hand spreading low over his ribs grounded him. Made sure he didn’t drift apart.

“Was it the nightmare again?” Hobie mumbled, the words brushing Miles’s hair, and he huffed a mirthless laugh.

“Yeah. Don’t have any others.”

“Hm. Guessin’ I had the pleasure of starring tonight?”

His boyfriend’s voice was sleep-raspy, deeper than usual. It reverberated in his bones as he made a weak sound of assent.

Hobie sighed, tucking his fingertips beneath Miles’s side to get him to turn around. Miles flipped, pulling at the blankets so they wouldn’t go askew, but the punk eased them from his grip to press Miles’s palm flat to his chest. “You feel that?”

A steady thump, right beneath where Hobie was holding his hand in place. Miles flexed his fingers and dug them into the thin fabric of Hobie’s worn sleep shirt.

“I’m alright, darlin’,” Hobie breathed, letting his other arm settle over the dip of Miles’s waist. “I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s over now. Nothing bad’s gonna happen, yeah?”

If it were anyone else Miles would have snapped at them to shut up before they jinxed it, but this was Hobie. Hobie, who looked at him with something so tender that it made Miles ache, all the way deep in his bones with the blatant faith woven into the words and leaving no room for any other possibility. The too-tight coil in his sternum began to give.

“That’s it. I’m okay. We’re okay, now.”

Long, lean arms wrapped around Miles’s back, pulling him in until he was pressed to Hobie’s chest, tucked up small and safe. Up this close Hobie’s heartbeat was a thrum in his ears if he used his heightened senses, strong enough of a lull that his own heart started to sync, and all of a sudden the exhaustion hit him like a truck.

It was like a dam breaking, the way his body finally relented to the nights upon nights of barely any sleep, the constant fight-or-flight making his heart skitter. “I’m tired.”

“I know,” Hobie hushed gently, rubbing a thumb into Miles’s hairline to kiss his temple. “I know, love. Sleep.”

“I’m scared.” He hadn’t realised how true the words were until he’d said them; he was sick of closing his eyes just to replay different, crueler versions of a memory that had already happened. He bit his lip until it hurt. “I don’t— I don’t wanna see it again, Hobie, I’m so tired.”

The way Hobie looked at him after that wrenched something tight in his chest; eyes wide, mouth pinched like he was trying to temper his emotions the way Miles so often did.

His eyes flickered over Miles’s face, almost desperate if not for the determined edge to his gaze. “They stop when you’re with me, yeah?” He exhaled shakily at Miles’s slow nod, pressing his brow to Miles’s hair. “Then stay with me. Stay here with me.”

Miles smiled a little, close-lipped and slightly sad. “Where else would I go?”

“I meant in your head, baby.” Hobie swallowed, thumbs smoothing over Miles’s cheekbones, palms warm against his skin. “Stay with me. Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Easier said than done.

But easier done here than done alone. Easier with Hobie curled into him like a missing half, warm enough to stave off the bitter chill of a London night.

He looked into deep, dark eyes and tried not to shake. Took a deep breath and let it out slow. “Don’t let me leave,” Miles murmured, half-hidden where he bent to press his cheek to Hobie’s shoulder. A pleasant shiver wracked up his spine when Hobie pulled him close again, their legs tangling. Don’t leave.

“I won’t.” The words were whispered next to Miles’s ear, near enough that Miles could feel it in Hobie’s chest when he spoke. “I’m stayin’ right here, so stay with me. Alright?”

Miles skated his fingers over Hobie’s side, up his scapula to curl into his shoulder. In the dim light he could just make out a jumble of words on Hobie’s collarbone where his shirt was pulling down, but he didn’t bother to read them; the arm tightening around his waist said it all, as did the pulse fluttering metronome-steady beneath Hobie’s jaw.

He pressed his nose to it. Felt warmth and blood and life, right there against his breath, under his hands, blooming against the pulse beneath his own ribs.

Sleep beckoned him, gentle for the first time in a long time. Miles suspected it had something to do with how Hobie was stroking a palm up and down his spine, free hand pulling the blankets up until Miles was tucked in, cocooned in darkness and soft touch and warm skin.

Ridiculous, how something as simple as being held by the boy he loved could settle so much turmoil inside his head.

“Rest. I’ll be here when ya wake up,” Hobie coaxed, his voice steeped in fondness, laced molasses-sweet with something heavy, and it called to Miles gentler than anything else. “I promise.”

Miles weighed the words across his mind, Hobie’s heartbeat in his ear.

He closed his eyes and let it lull him into slumber.

fin.

[alvcrd]

What's one to do when the smell of blood is so powerful it pulls them from their duty? As jowls dribble with gore and ears perk with nostrils upon one Canis face flaring - the duo creatures from Hell's breast twist upon their quarry of death stricken. Beschutzer, the larger with a face of bone, marred in scars, blood and yellowed with time, needn't move its head to see, but its fur instead parted in places to reveal eyes upon its entirety.

Wide orbs of crimson in the matted sea of blackish purple hue - the beast upon four paws wrinkles its lips as it senses danger beyond their years of belief upon this plane.

The other beast, much leaner than that of its bear kin - starred with a haunting gaze. Tail wispy like spider webs and fur like willow tree hangs without touching the earth - almost moving with a breeze that wasn't there. It stared with its kin, the gaze of two eyes soon joined by the reveal of eight more focused upon its face alone.

Whilst paws were ankle deep in the gore of monstrous folk, long killed, long dead - they remained still when they caught the sight of vampiric power. Where the blood under them paled to that of this beast's presence... They understood their role, to not harm or fight, but that one --- That one held their attention like a moth to a flame.

Of awe, wariness, but also respect - as the duo hounds from the hellish licks of flame, lowered their heads in a bow of monster to monster. Weissager, the thinner of two large hounds, snapped his jaws around the throat of the marked human soul, devouring it within a gulp before snagging another for the road... Though his gaze remained upon that of Him, the Creature in Red.

Beschutzer took hold of three corpses in one singular bite, snorting through the gaping hole of his nasal canal to then part ways. Wading bear-thick paws through corpse pile and blood to rejoin with the shadow and return home. Weissager, sharp upon his tail - though his respectful bow of the head once more repeated before he slithered away like a passing breeze too.

Unprompted || Always welcome!!

Whatever had caused this, it had been a blood bath. Sanguine hues swept back and forth over the ocean of gore illuminated by nothing but the moonlight. Almost a century since he had laid them on a feast of such magnitude. Without shame, he would get on all fours and drink until he's had his fill.

That is until movement stirred him from his thoughts. What marvelous hounds; his own familiar Baskerville seemed to pale im comparison. Six hundred years on this planet, and there was still so much to discover. Still many more creatures even more bizzare than the likes of himself.

Alucard makes no notion to move. He's not afraid of such creatures, and they don't seem aggressive anyway. Hunting for sport was only fun if it was his OWN KIND. Likewise the hounds seem just as curious about him as he does.

And like that they turn to leave, but not without the cacophony of rumbling laughter from the vampire himself. " Leaving already? And with such a mess in your wake. It was you who caused all of this, no? "

[charnelhouse]

Bloom

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia x Will Miller x F!Reader x Benny Miller  Wordcount: 2k Warnings: Smut. Sex Pollen. Gang Bang. M/M. F/M/M. No Benny/Will though. Dub-Con bc pollen. Summary: The five of you get hit with a sex pollen and take care of each other. A/N: Someone requested reader x the tf guys and this is one of the only ways I see it happening. i barely looked over this so major apologies

It starts feral - it starts like a violent impulse. The five of you know all about that - all about losing control and just letting the other take over. The flat side of your coin that shudders and vibrates like a predator - that sticks its jaws out and bites before sniffing.

You get the worst of it - the gas exploding in your face - shooting up the synapses of your nose. It’s in your mouth - all over your chin. Your eyes burn. It’s pink - it’s the color of hothouse blooms - the ones that dripped from window boxes in Louisiana. That’s what you think about before it actually starts to hurt - your brain zeroes in on the begonias and the petunias and the ivy that you admired on Canal street.

It hits the others because you’re screaming and they’re already in the room - already surrounding you like a barrier of muscle and flesh and concern.

What's wrong? What is it? What's that smell?

They make it to the safehouse before it actually begins to work - before it begins to spread through your veins and make your cunt clench around air as you whimper like a dog in heat.

**

Your body is taut with agony when Will carries you through the door. He’s gasping from the effort - from holding you up - from you darting your tongue along his throat. His face is coated in a thin film of sweat - his cheeks lush and red as his lower lip trembles. When he peers down at you - his pupils expand - gorging themselves on all that blue.

You grasp his face to yank him down to your mouth. The first kiss feels so fucking good that it hurts, that it makes your belly tighten up and your tits ache. He practically trips over himself - the both of you falling over until you’re shoving at his shirt and his pants.

I need skin. I need you. I need you. I need you.

There's no mystery about what this is. It’s a literal urban legend among soldiers, but you believe it now. You believe it enough because it feels like your bones are going to jut out of your flesh - it feels like you might explode.

You are so sensitive that every touch startles you. Benny is ripping down your tank - Santi is next to you - his voice rough and desperate as he guides you through it. You think you’re in the kitchen because Will yanks your ass to the edge of a hard table before he cages your hips with his huge hands and thrusts into your soft, wet cunt. You spasm around him - coming immediately - and then it keeps going - climax rolling into the next as he pounds into you.

“Jesus baby,” he hisses. But there are no more words - just low, rough sounds because your brain is somewhere between your legs and your heart is bouncing in your throat.

When Will rubs your clit - you jerk with it - spurting liquid that glosses his whole lower stomach - the divots in his abdomen. You'd be humiliated if you didn't want it so badly - if your life didn't depend on your pleasure. It's not like he minds - his smile sweet and smug as it forms: good girl. there you go.

Pope’s fingers are twisting in the mess - catching your slick as he shoves it into his mouth. Frankie leans over - his hand firm around Pope’s dick - his lips dragging slow and gorgeous across his shoulder.

You bite down on your lower lip - your belly cramping up with another pulse of nausea. Will’s hips are stuttering into your pelvis - your ankle over his shoulder. You feel the weight of his spend when he finally cums - the way it moves sluggishly through your fluttering walls.

“Are you okay?” he manages to murmur.

You shake your head - reaching for someone - anyone. “I need more.”

**

It’s all really fucking unbearable. You go blind with it. There’s a thick cock inside you at all times and then deep voices sweet-talking you until you bend and go soft as your nails scramble against someone’s muscular shoulders or back or ass.

“Fuck.” Santi pushes forward just an inch - enough that the head of his dick nearly pops inside you. “You’re so damn tight.”

He slides forward a little more before pulling back out.

“Jesus Pope,” Will growls. “Just do it. - she’s in pain.”

You like that about Will. The way he protects you. You’re a big girl - you can save yourself - you have saved yourself a number of times. But there’s something wonderful about the way Will keeps to you - a shadow against your back - his fingers pinching your waist to let you know he’s there.

Pope slams forward - hard enough that it lurches you up the table. The wood creaks with the force of it. You’re going to have splinters in your skin.

“Just so soft,” Pope whispers into your ear. You whimper beneath him - he’s pressed so close to you that his body grinds perfectly against your clit. He’s got his nails digging into your wrists - pinning them above your head. “Our stubborn little brat finally letting us ruin her.”

His hips snap into you - a brutal thrust with each word: Our. Pretty. Fucking. Baby.

Christ.

You can’t see beyond the hump of Santi’s sweaty, golden shoulder. His dark stubble rasping against your cheek as he turns his face to kiss you all tenderly like he isn’t just fucking the absolute shit out of you.

Like this isn’t simply a solution.

An answer.

Medicine after being wounded.

There are so many noises - the deep grunt from Frankie as Benny shoves himself back against him. Will’s fingers circling and gathering all the wet dripping between Santi and your bodies. You lose track at some point.

Pope fills you up and it spreads warmth through your pussy and when Will lifts you off the table - it slides heavy and slow down your thighs. He doesn’t wipe you - doesn’t stop it - he just grips your ass and holds you up against the wall.

“Baby girl,” he mutters - as he licks the sweat from your throat. “I’ve fucking wanted this.” He sinks inside - his cock punching up into something deep. It makes an embarrassing noise - a slick squelch as Will rams through Santi’s cum to get to the heart of you. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, keeping your lips to his jaw.

Your skin hurts - burns - your stomach twists into something sharply painful. Frankie is suddenly there - next to you - his brown eyes blown black due to the size of his pupils. He stares down at the place where your cunt is swallowing Will and then he’s touching you right there - his index and middle finger circling and rubbing your swollen clit. He lifts the hood of your sex to hit closer - spreading your essence through your folds - his fingers dipping around Will’s plunging length.

It snaps pleasure through your belly - makes the pain ease into something bearable. He leans over to kiss you - grabbing your face as he licks into your mouth. His thumb leaving a smear of your cum across your cheek - sticky and damp. You shudder - your climax bursting lightning-quick between your legs - your cunt convulsing around the thick of Will’s cock.

“Shit,” he groans. “Fuck that made you soak me, pretty.”

***

Benny takes it slow - his lips are swollen from Frankie’s cock and when he moves them against yours - you taste salt and musk and that mint gum he’s always chewing. He tangles his hand into your hair - holding it in place. His stubble drags across your shoulder - your bare tit. He moves lazily - tenderly - and it’s not enough - it’s not enough at all.

You’re still a fucking mess - still the worst of the group and how the fuck was that even fair? When Benny slips out of you - you nearly sob - the heels of your hands shoved against your eyes as you bite down on your tongue.

“What is it, baby?” Santi mumbles as he drags himself across the floor - his lips on your skin - his nose in your hair - the need for touch is out of control.

“Hurts,” you gasp. “Jesus - I thought - I thought it would ease up.”

Frankie returns to you - sliding between your parted knees before he buries himself to the hilt. There’s a pinch of pain - an aching stretch despite the fact that you’re near-liquid - your cunt raw and gaping. He’s got his hands framing your face - his lips on your chin. “Hey,” he soothes. “Hey - look at me.”

You crack an eye open and he’s above you - present - his face still very fucking Frankie with how adoringly he’s watching you. He rolls his hips a little faster - his cock knocking something hot in your core. He’s heavy and slick with sweat and your nails catch in his unruly beard - your thumb sweeping over his cheekbone to paint him as he did you.

It’s so much. All of it. The threads now holding you all together. You’d been close and now - well now - it’s something else. Frankie’s cock still wet with Benny’s spit as he drives it up inside you. Will’s mouth tasting like Santi’s. Santi crawling next to Frankie - his cheek shoved against his so he can join him in watching you fall apart.

The weird love at the base of it - the way Santi had muttered how badly they had wanted to fuck you - make you cum - make you theirs. The intimacy of both Fish and Pope pinning you down and forcing you to gush around Fish’s cock.

No one can ever know about this.

But you can keep it - you can hold it safe and secure. All of you have done worse things.

After all - this felt loving. Even if it was a fucking drug - it felt like they were saving you in a different way. It felt like it had just torn down the barriers of propriety and let you have a reason. You think of all of them - the nights spent pressed between them in the dark. The time you’d been shot through your shoulder and they had taken turns pushing their fingers into the damage to keep you from bleeding out.

Frankie flips you over - yanking your hips back so you are on your knees. Your nails are digging into the floor - your palms scraped up but who can care who can are - it all feels like bliss - like each stroke of their cocks or their fingers or tongues is drenching you in cool, clear water.

“Frankie,” you pant - tears spilling down your cheeks and you don’t know why. It’s all too overwhelming. Someone else has his hand between your legs - the pads of the fingers calloused and hard and you know it’s Will without even looking. You could smell Will out if you wanted: woodsy and basil and cordite. There’s bullet skin on all of you - sharp, metallic paint from years of warfare. You could be miles from it - from a fight - and the air between you would still burn with the waft of a smoking gun.

"Yeah, honey," Frankie grunts as his hips slap against your ass. "Let me help you. You look so fucking gorgeous like this."

Benny’s suddenly in front of your face - his thighs spread - his hands on your cheek. You let him put his cock in your mouth - let him drag the heavyweight of it over your tongue. The punch of salt from pre-come - from sweat and still brushed with the faint tang of you. There's all of Benny's good-natured enthusiasm - his playfulness - his open handsome face as he regards you like you're the only thing on Earth. His fingers knot in your hair as he husks - fuck I wanted this - wanted this so badly - you feel so fucking good

Another hour passes or maybe a day - a week. You don’t know. At some point - you see yourself in the mirror - your splayed out on a bed - tattooed with bite marks and bruises and when you open your legs there’s white - there’s their cum seeping out from your puffy cunt. It shocks you because you’re full of them.

You like it.

“We got you,” Will murmurs as he slips behind you - as he slides his hands across your sore stomach. His chin over your shoulder - his breath warm and sweet. “We’ve got you.”

**

It all inevitably begins to calm - the poison slowly leaving the five of you with each hour that passes. You’re stretched - you’re raw and chafed and throbbing. You can’t even walk properly.

Someone manages to get water down your throat. Pope holds you up in the shower - his face pressed against your own as he pins you to the tile wall. He doesn’t fuck you though. He just washes your hair - strokes his fingers between your legs - tugs a small, mellow orgasm from your pussy before cleaning you out with his tongue.

Frankie brings you food. Benny brushes your hair. Will is just Will as he cradles you in his lap and croons soothing mouth sounds against your ear.

It’s fucking weird. Like a strange domestic sort of family dynamic where they’ve all essentially fucked each other except Benny and Will because of the obvious. You’ve never rescinded control - never allowed it because you had to prove yourself in so many ways - even when the boys had already accepted you.

“Give in, baby,” you hear them. “Give in. You’re ours.”

Open up.

Be yourself.

The possessive beat in their words - under their tongues and in their fingers when they grip you - hold you - fuck you.

And really - that’s just fine.

Terms & Conditions

[chasing-classics]

Our Little Secret Sessions- Nate Jacobs x Reader (2)

Pairing(s): Nate Jacobs x Reader

  Warning(s): SMUT, language, toxic relationships, older reader, NON-CON

  Summary: After landing a job as the high school’s new counselor you settle into your new home, unaware of what danger lurks just outside your front door. In Part Two, you meet another one of your students, only to be interrupted by the boy next door.

Part 1

 A couple of weeks had passed since your encounter with Nate, but the fear of what the teenage was capable of remained fresh in your mind. You could never forget the dominant, controlling look in his eyes when he had threatened you in your office. Since then, you had been unable to sleep properly and you found yourself constantly looking over your shoulder. On the bright side, you had not encountered him face-to-face since that day, but his presence could always be felt never too far away. He was like some sort of predator, a beast lurking in a dense jungle. Eyes sharp and ready to go in for the kill at any moment.

 ‘’Um miss?’’ a voice broke you out of your thoughts.

 You quickly snapped your head up, sitting straight up in your office chair as a young girl stood in the doorway. She was average height for her age, dark hair, glamorous makeup, and full lips. You had seen her walking down the hall a few times, an air of confidence always surrounding her. She reminded you of the girls you hated when you were in high school.

  ‘’I’m so sorry, please come in,’’ you extended your hand, gesturing to one of the empty chairs or the couch in front of your desk. She nodded, shutting the door behind her as she made herself comfortable.

 ‘’I’m sorry, I’m still getting used to everything here. I’m Miss y/l/n,’’ you held out your hand for her to shake. She looked down at it before slowly returning the gesture. Whether she just wasn’t used to people being polite to her or she just didn’t like you, you weren’t sure.

 ‘’Maddy,’’ she replied, her expression unreadable.

 ‘’Well how can I help you Maddy?’’ you offered a kind smile despite her semi-cold attitude.

 Her eyes flickered, searching for the right words to express her thoughts. Your brow furrowed as she visibly struggled.

 ‘’This is a safe place Maddy, whatever you tell me stays between us,’’ you encouraged.

 She bit down on her lip, hands twisting and fumbling in her lap as her leg bounced. Finally, she met your concerned gaze with a sigh.

 ‘’Do you think sexuality is a spectrum?’’ she blurted out.

  The question took you back, it taking everything in your for your mouth to stay shut.

  ‘’Well, in my opinion it certainly can be. There doesn’t necessarily have to be a one-size-fits-all or black and white approach to it. But I really think it depends on you and your preferences-‘’

 ‘’N-no. Not me,’’ she cut you off, still seemingly nervous. You arched a brow, trying to decipher what she was talking about.

 ‘’Is everything ok, Maddy?’’

  ‘’Look there’s this. . .guy who I’m seeing. And I found-‘’

 Knocking on your door made the two of you jump. A lump formed in your throat when the handle twisted and the door opened, revealing none other than Nate fucking Jacobs.

 You quickly cast a glance at Maddy who, for some reason or another, looked almost as petrified as you felt.

 ‘’Oh sorry Miss y/l/n, I didn’t know you were busy,’’ Nate practically hissed out the last word as his gaze fell upon Maddy.

  ‘’Mister Jacobs, I’m with Maddy right now. If you’d like we can schedule a meeting-‘’

 ‘’No! No, it’s ok, miss. I’ll be late for class anyway,’’ Maddy scrambled to collect her bag and rush out the door.

 ‘’I can write you a hallpass,’’ your words jumbled, practically pleading with the girl to stay so that you were not left alone with this sociopath. The smirk on Nate’s face made your blood run cold.

 Maddy murmured a quick ‘’bye’’ before the door shut closed behind Nate’s lanky figure. He scoffed, steadily turning his attention back to you as you shakily stood.

 ‘’You can’t just show up like that. I have a job to do and anyone could-‘’

 ‘’Take your pants off,’’ he abruptly interrupted you.

 A pitiful squeak, similar to that of a puny mouse cornered in a snake pit, escaped your lips as the air left your lungs.

 ‘’What?’’ you felt your heart began to beat faster as Nate took a step towards you after locking your door, sealing your fate.

 ‘’I said, take your pants off. And bend over your desk,’’ his deep voice shook you to your core.

 ‘’Nate, please,’’ you whispered, trying to sum up as much courage and dominance as you could as you stood straight and met his terrifying gaze.

 He didn’t respond as his hands descended on you. One locked itself onto the back of your neck and played with your hair as the other began to roughly grope your breasts through your flimsy shirt. His mouth pressed rough, hearted kissed onto the column of your neck as his breath fanned hot flames onto your soft skin. You felt paralyzed as his grip tightened, you having to bite your lips from crying out.

 You jumped when his large hand made its’ way underneath your shirt and the material of your bra. He easily captured a nipple between his index and middle finger and began to pinch and squeeze and tug on the sensitive bud, expertly rolling it however way he sought fit.

  ‘’L-leave,’’ you whispered. Half of you was praying and the other was making a rather pathetic attempt to reestablish authority over him.

 ‘’If I walk out that door, everyone will know how you slept with a student,’’ he threatened, biting at the soft juncture between your neck and shoulder, making you hiss in pain.

 ‘’I didn’t know!’’ you whimpered, cursing the way your body reacted to both his touch and his voice.

 Your nipples were overstimulated at this point, any rubbing against your bra or touch from Nate’s fingers had you mewling like a helpless kitten. Your knees locked together as you felt the heat expand downward from your arousal.

  ‘’The sooner you give in, the sooner I leave. The less chance you have of someone catching us,’’ he groaned, grinding his thickness into your lower abdomen so you felt what was awaiting you.

  You let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly as you nervously fumbled with your jeans. Nate all but growled when he saw the delicate lace material that hid your womanhood. His breathing labored and his cock twitched. Since he had last had you he had messed around with Maddy a few times, trying to placate his urges, trying to forget about his attractive new neighbor and school counselor. But something about you, the way you were allured him to you. He found himself craving you, imagining your cries and moans as he thrusted wildly into Maddy. He found himself becoming rougher at the thought of having you once again, all to himself. His little taboo. Today, he found he couldn’t wait any longer and found himself at your office door, ready to continue your secret little sessions.

 By the time your jeans had pooled around your ankles and your underwear shortly followed, your boots providing you with a little more height than usual, Nate grew tired of waiting. He shoved your paperwork, cleverly unhooking your phone in case anyone called, and shoved you down by your neck so that your body was painfully bent over the unforgiving surface.

 Your cheek pressed against the wood of the desk, your eyes searching for anything to focus on as you tried to block out the jingling of his belt and the sound of his zipper being pulled down. You felt the heat of his cock at your entrance as Nate folded himself onto you, his breath hitting your cheek and neck as his toned abs gently grazed your spine and ass.

 ‘’Be quiet,’’ he warned, one massive hand wrapping around your face to cover your mouth. You winced as he spit down onto your spread pussy, using his thumb as makeshift lubricate. He hummed in approval at the feel of your arousal and you didn’t need to face him to know he had a chesire cat grin on his pale face. You could feel him retreat his hips before he lunged forward and sheathed his massive dick into your tight canal. You screamed against his hand, although it was practically just muffled mewls given his tight grip as he began rotating his hips, stretching your tightness to welcome whatever he was about to give you.

 ‘’Shhhh, good girl, look at you taking it like a champ,’’ he mocked as he reluctantly pulled out, only to violently snap forward, your body lunging with his brutal movements.

 Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you were ashamed to admit they were in pleasure. The feeling of complete fulness outweighed the pain, but you made a pitiful attempt to reach behind you and shove him back. You yelped as his other hand locked your wrists and pinned them to the small of your back, your body helpless and completely on display as Nate continued his brutal pace. He felt every quiver, every squeeze that your sweet pussy gave him. He nearly came within the first few minutes of being inside of you, but he managed to hold off. The way you squealed under him, your smaller body rocking in tune with his thrusts, and the way your tight pink pussy latched onto him to the point he dragged your body back as he pulled out was nothing that he had ever had before. He pressed more of his weight into you, trying to keep his own grunts and moans quiet as he gripped your face and wrists.

 ‘’So good,’’ he kept repeating in your neck as he hammered into you. The wet noises and sound of his hips violently meeting your backside filled you with fear that someone would come in and catch you. Your squealing and cries slowly transformed into needy moans and whimpers, you faintly acknowledged your juices beginning to drip down your inner thighs and you felt your insides begin to coil.

 ‘’N-Nate,’’ you breathlessly cried against his palm, attempting to suck in as much air through your nose as you could. He bite down on your shoulder, tongue lapping at the faint angry marks, groaning as his pace did not let out. He was impossibly thick and girthy, filling you and hitting your cervix with every ram of his hips. Your hands twitched and knees buckled as his cock began throbbing along your velvet walls. You couldn’t help but squeeze him as your own climax began to form, causing him to hiss against your shoulder.

  ‘’Gonna fill you up, oh fuck,’’ you faintly deciphered him growling out as you were forced to take his thrusts.

 Your clit throbbed almost painfully, knuckles turning lighter as your fists clenched against your back. He abruptly released your wrists, opting to clutch the curve of your hip as he forced your body back to meet his awaiting thrusts, making you cry out every time he angrily entered you. As you cried out with each thrust, he groaned, feeling your release incredibly close. He angled his hips slightly higher and dove in, grinning as he heard your moans, your pussy locking onto his dick as your orgasm coated him. He slowed his pace just to watch the way he glistened from your juices, enjoying the sinful squelching noises you both produced as he shoved himself repeatedly into you, before regaining his violent momentum.

 His grip on you tightened impossibly as you lay limp underneath him, lost in the waves of your release. All you felt was your body being forced back and forth as Nate impaled you onto his angry member. You swore you saw actual stars bouncing around your vision before you were forced back down into reality as he removed his hand from your mouth (finally) and gripped your throat. Through his animalistic movements he angled your face back to meet his in a bruising, possessive kiss as he ensured every inch of him was buried to the hilt inside of you as he shuddered. You groaned as the warmth of his cum filled your abused pussy. He moved against you one last time before slowly pulling you out and stuffing himself back into his jeans and zipping it back up. You winced when you felt a finger trace your lower lips and shove some of his load back into your sore pussy.

 ‘’Get dressed,’’ his voice conveyed his relaxation and his gaze was surprising soft as he helped you stand up.

 You didn’t speak as you redressed, your face still flushed with a postcoital glow. He tucked some of your hair out of your face as his eyes searched yours, his thoughts unreadable. But just as his expression lingered on borderline affection, that cruel teenage-boy smirk reappeared as his hand thumbed the base of your neck in a warning grip.

 ‘’I’m going to need that hall pass.’’

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

Summary: What about the people who don’t really care much for supes?

*written before meeting Jensen’s live action Soldier Boy.

Characters: Soldier Boy x unnamed female character/female reader (1st person)

Warnings: explicit

Words: 1300

ANs: thank you @stusbunker @brrose-apothecary​ for the pre-read and sanity check.

Back in October 2020, I read an article with Kripke where he said he was basing live action Soldier Boy off John Wayne:

“... one of these guys that’s been around for decades of Vought history. And he was Homelander before Homelander, so he’s from a different era, but he’s got the ego and the ambition — it just comes across in a different way because he’s from a different time.”

Kripke also said that he was a jingoist and a womanizer. I might explore those aspects with these characters at some point as well.

berm

/bərm/

a flat strip of land, raised bank, or terrace bordering a river or canal.

● a path or grass strip beside a road.

● an artificial ridge or embankment, e.g., as a defense against tanks.

Thirty minutes ago, I was sitting on a berm behind the bar where I work five nights a week, smoking a cigarette and trying to calm down. I find that I’m angry a lot these days — global pandemic, Facebook, animal cruelty, Homelander; not to mention some people just can’t wear a fucking mask or wait their turn, but I digress.

Not even a quarter of an hour after bumming a cigarette off me, the only man I’ve met in months who knows how to say please or thank you had me tucked into the alley with my back against the wall. It took him a fraction of that time to get my pants down my legs and twisted around one of my ankles.

Now he’s on his knees with mine hooked firmly over his thick, broad shoulders while his splendidly bearded face and labor-worn hands work wonders between my legs.

“Fuck,” I whisper, pushing my fingers through the thick mass of soft, dark hair on top of his head.

Thus far, he’s proven to be incredibly proficient, so I’m counting the seconds until he makes me come.

“Language,” he scolds, hugging my thighs tighter so he can pull the seam of my cunt open further. He exposes my puffy clit before delivering a sharp suck.

I gasp and buck my hips against his face. He chuckles through a moan and swipes his tongue through my slick.

“Now, now, babydoll,” he soothes just as he crowds tighter into me and doubles his efforts.

He talks like he’s from a bygone era. The timbre of his voice reminds me of history class video footage from WWII. Except, I don’t recall Walter Cronkite making me feel anything like this.

He makes me wanna say his name, cry about it, and beg. “Please, John.”

“Oh, I like that.” He enunciates every word, painstakingly. “Begging.” A puff of air wafts over my exposed clit and I clench before he intently presses and flutters the flat breadth of his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves.

“I don’t-” I heave for air as he slips and twists a finger up inside me then brushes his lips across my clit, back and forth, gentle like a summer breeze — until I finally pop.

I have no words that aren’t nonsense or filth, so I let loose a strangled groan as I throb tightly around his thick middle finger.

“Knew I could get more out of you than foul language.”

He eyes me with a reprimand, so smug and proper that it makes me want to scratch his eyes out.

John stands and settles my feet to the concrete before dipping in to kiss me. I can taste myself on his lips and smell myself in his beard, but there’s something else underneath that makes me shiver.

He quietly coos against my lips, “Cold?” before slowly and deliberately pressing the length of his hot, hard body up against mine. I’m trapped between walls of muscle and brick, respectively.

I draw a deep breath in search of his scent. “Could warm me up.”

“Hmm,” he rumbles in my ear and pulls the shell between his lips.

I let my head drop forward and bury my nose in his chest, inhale and exhale. It’s just as I thought, something so familiar but so far gone. John smells like copper, gasoline, and leather. I’d know that scent anywhere.

I can almost taste the ancient grit, wafting from the box in my grandparents’ shed. The damp chill that accompanies decades of conflict brushes my bare skin. My lungs stutter from the cloying scent of my grandfather’s Army fatigues.

“Saw you flip your lid on that mook in there. You wanna take it out on me a little?”

He rears back enough for me to get a look at his pretty face in the moonlight and his hips pin me in place. His eyes shine, jade ringing onyx, framed by thick, dark lashes. Light-colored freckles scatter his nose and cheeks like amber dust and disappear beneath the neat brush of russet-grey whiskers covering his sharp jaw.

John doesn’t look like he’s a hundred years old, but he is.

“Haven’t I already done that a little?” I mutter. I can’t drag my eyes from his bottom lip, heavy and glistening, begging to be sucked.

John hums and nods. “Maybe we take this somewhere we can do more than a little.”

I flick my eyes up to fully meet his gaze, and I realize that I didn’t notice it before when I was so wound up with frustration from the day, willing to take release from anyone to offer it.

Lying in wait beneath the allure of charm and grace is savage.

John’s brow furrows and his lips twist as he tilts his head back and shifts his weight. He slides a knee between my thighs and clucks his tongue.

“What’s that look about, angel? Not having second thoughts, are you?” His tongue dances behind his perfect, white teeth as the cool, blue light from the night sky glints off his incisors. In this light and angle, they look sharper than before.

“Should I?”

John- and let’s be clear, I doubt this guy’s name is John, but- he gives me a look that straddles a line between pity and amusement then he backs up and crouches at my feet.

“You’re going to have to decide that yourself.” His voice rises the way heat always does, smoky and overwhelming.

He gently tugs my cargo pants and underwear back over my boot, and I drop my head back against the wall, fisting my hands at my sides.

The world is a weird place. The part of it I live in is riddled with hostility and injustice, ruled by manufactured heroes, glitz, and glamor. Most days it feels like a bad dream I’ll never wake up from.

No matter how far I run or where I try to hide from these grotesque realities, I shouldn’t be surprised that they keep finding me.

“There.” John works his way back up, sliding my thong in place, muttering about the “flimsy undergarment”, then swiftly fastening my pants and smoothing his meaty hands over my ribcage to adjust my tank top. “Just like new.”

He casually braces one forearm above my head, just enough to the side to demonstrate I’ve got an open window to run or even waltz my way out of that alley.

“Thanks.” I stand straight and as tall as my 5’5” frame will allow and shake my mess of hair out of my face.

“Can I walk you back inside, doll?” he asks without even a fingertip of touch, but I feel his gaze and his voice, scorching and clutching my skin.

“Almost closin’ time,” I mutter, pushing away from the wall and turning to stride away from him. Before I reach the mouth of the alley, he chuckles from behind me.

“That’s not an answer.”

Then he’s blocking the exit with his bulk and heat, smirking down at me like he knows a spoiler for the latest Vought film, but I’ll bet the secrets John has aren’t tasty morsels of entertainment.

“You want me to believe I’m in charge here?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“All’s fair in love and war,” he answers.

We stare for three beats before he licks his bottom lip between his teeth in feigned concentration.

“How about,” he pauses, sidling in closer to set about rearranging my mess of hair. “You go back inside, get your things, tell your friends you’ll see them later.” John rests his hands on my shoulders and examines his work with a satisfied grin then recalibrates his gaze to snag mine. “And I’ll be out here when you’re done.”

I have no way else to answer other than to nod in agreement.

John thumbs my chin before turning on his heel. As I watch him swagger toward a shiny new Cadillac Blackwing, his choice of name finally clicks.

More Soldier Boy

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[heliads]

Heartbeats (Part One)

 Based on this request: “Jesper x reader where she was in the first army and grew up with mal and Alina, but then when stuff goes down in the fold she ends up in ketterdam (maybe she’s grisha too) and teams up with the crows but her and Jesper end up falling for each other?”

masterlist / part two

As you look around you, taking in the sight of swirling darkness as far as the sky stretches, the screeches of volcra, and the cries of the wounded, you can’t help but wonder one thing: how did you get here? Even a year or so ago, you were still listed among the soldiers of the First Army, a tracker just like your friend Mal. Before that, you were simply another hapless orphan at Keramzin. How did you go from that to this?

Then again, it’s precisely because of your sunny little bubble at Keramzin that you’re out here trying to shoot literal volcra with a gun- namely, because of your friendships with Alina Starkov and Malyen Oretsev. You’d met Alina and Mal at the orphanage, arriving around a year or so after they’d arrived. A lesser child would have felt stilted that you’d never quite be as close to them because they’d known each other first, but you didn’t mind. What you had was good, as good as it could get when you felt so utterly lonely in the world.

Life at Keramzin has been preserved in your mind as something in between the gilding glow of nostalgia and the darkening regret of someone who wishes for nothing more than to go back to those treasured days of youth when nothing ever quite mattered. What had it been like, running the wooden paneled floors of the orphanage, tearing through the high grass of the meadow as you ran from bullies and Ana Kuya for the thousandth time since your arrival there? Certainly, it had to be better than life as a First Army soldier, or life now that you’ve made an enemy of the Black General.

You had an option to leave the orphanage if you had wanted to, you know that. Grisha searchers had arrived at Keramzin on their yearly journeys, with living amplifiers present to see which of the ungrateful little urchins might have a spark of the Small Science residing in their veins. Mal had gone first- he was always the bravest. He had shown no signs, and neither had Alina when she followed him, although you noticed the way she gripped a shattered piece of pottery in her hands so the pain would distract her body from giving off any signs of anything.

You know you weren’t supposed to witness the gesture, that Alina herself had no idea whether she was a Grisha at all, but it’s not as if you didn’t do the same. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that you’d slathered a little paraffin on your wrists after you’d read the hack in an old book, and that you specifically made sure to be tested by the oldest and most wizened Grisha there, hoping that her failing eyesight would look past anything lurking in your heart and head. Even then, you might have known that there was something not quite right with you, something that could end with you being taken far away to Os Alta.

However, you didn’t want that, not at all. You’d felt accepted with Mal and Alina, and life with them at the orphanage was as close to home as you’d felt since the war had torn apart your previous life. You had no idea what could possibly be worthwhile in the Ravkan capital city, and so you made sure that no one would see you as anything other than an otkazat’sya, someone to be overlooked and disregarded.

You didn’t have an obvious gift, or you might have had you not done everything in your reach to disguise your stranger abilities. There were just times when you swear you could hear someone’s heart beating loudly in their chests, even from across the room, or when you seemed to sense someone approaching because you could hear the thunder of their blood through their veins. Mal said that you weren’t going crazy, that he could hear the heartbeats too, but you’re not sure whether or not that truly let you off the hook. He’d always been a little too good at finding animals, tracking down beasts and people alike, to fully reassure you of your normalcy.

Your fears were confirmed when you were older and your newly twisted ankle had suddenly healed itself before your eyes. You had been groaning over your latest injury, placing your fingers across the bones as if you could do anything to save it, when it suddenly mended itself. Just like that, with naught but a flash of heat and pricking to show that anything happened. You had glanced around furtively, making sure nobody had seen, but you knew. That was enough, that you knew. You had a secret to keep now, one you’d have to keep for the rest of your life.

You’d heard what the books and stories said of the Grisha. Witches, people said of them, demons and witches and monsters. They were called every name and curse and then some. You didn’t know where your life would lead you, but you were certain that you would not find it as one of the Second Army’s little red-clad soldiers. So, you accepted a place as a tracker in the First Army when your time came to be conscripted, and you did your best to pretend that it never existed.

However, it’s kind of hard to ignore now, when every sense in your body is suddenly flung into high alert. It’s as if there’s a voice in your head, calling out to you- if you wanted, I could save you. If you used your power now, you could save your life and the lives of your friends. You can hear it now, can’t you? The beat of a volcra heart before it swoops, as if there’s a human organ trapped within the masses of shadows and claws. That’s partially why your gunshots are so accurate, isn’t it? You’re sensing the beasts. You’re using your gift.

A shout of praise comes from the ship behind you as you nail one particularly good shot. “Nice one, tracker!” You stifle a groan as you turn around to find yourself face to face with a familiar Ketterdam crook: the sharpshooter from earlier, Jesper Fahey. You stare at him incredulously. “We’re busy trying not to die, aren’t we? Why bother with a compliment at a time like this?” He just grins, unflappable as always even in the middle of a battle against fearsome shadow monsters. “Talent respects talent, love. I thought you were good.”

You roll your eyes and purposefully take a shot behind him, although you can’t help but feel a little disappointed when Jesper doesn’t flinch despite the bullet rattling through the space only a few feet away from him. Then again, if you thought you’d startle the cheekily grinning boy in front of you with a mere bullet, you’d doubt you really met him at all. Judging from your first experience with him, at least, it’ll take more than a gunshot to really make an impression.

You had first crossed paths with the Barrel canal rats a week or so ago, when you were searching for Alina after she had run away from Os Alta. You and Mal had been the trackers assigned to finding her mystical stag in the first place, so you were aware of the fact that she was on the loose and were determined to find her before the Black General did. You still shudder to think of that night, when you’d first seen the stag- Mal had led you and two friends through the Fjerdan wilderness, but on the night you’d finally found the beast, you yourselves had been discovered by Fjerdan patrols.

Now your two friends are dead, and Mal is still grimacing from bullet wounds sustained during the fight. He doesn’t ask how you’re still alive, and you made sure he didn’t notice the fact that you accidentally used your Grisha powers during the Fjerdan attack. You hadn’t meant to do it, not at all, but in the middle of the blood-streaked snow you had felt something deep within your chest. You couldn’t explain it, not with words at least, but it was there nonetheless. You were watching your friends die around you, and, desperate for some way to save yourself, flung out a hand towards shapes moving in the shadows of the trees.

You had felt something, like your hand was closing around a string, and tugged sharply. At the exact same time, one of the Fjerdans came sprawling out of the trees, a mess of arms and legs as the blond man struggled to regain control over his heart. Seconds later, he was dead, with no bullet wounds in sight. You had pretended that you had shot the patrol, just to keep Mal off of your back, but you’re still shaken by the fact that your power had sprung to you so easily. It’s a terrible gift, to take away life so brutally, and you can’t deny that you’re a little afraid of it yourself.

Regardless, you and Mal had found the stag, made the journey to Os Alta to inform General Kirigan, and been notified that Alina was kidnapped by Kerch thieves. Mal had pulled you aside almost immediately, saying something about how he swore he could find her but he didn’t want to alert the rest of the Second Army men. You heard the slight change in his tone when he spoke of the Grisha, and you held your tongue just in case, once again silencing the little voice in your head that almost wanted him to know, just so Mal would address you with the same reverence and fear.

However, you didn’t want to go with Mal. Not yet, at least. He could go track down Alina with the grace of a thousand trackers, be able to tell footsteps from fallen boughs and rabbits from rocks, but you could hear heartbeats rattling out from the trees. You knew you could find Alina if you truly wanted to, but you didn’t want Mal there to question why you weren’t looking at the ground but staring out at the horizon as if you could hear something he couldn’t. Mal could always hear things, that’s how he was. If you were listening to a song that wasn’t playing his tune as well, he would have questions that you’re not sure you could answer.

So, you split up, and traversed the land around Tsibeya and Ryevost in search of your missing friend. You ended up finding her first, if only by an hour or so. You’d lived by Alina’s side for so long and so many years that her heartbeat was practically ingrained into your skull, and when you caught a brief snippet of it on the roads near Ryevost, you knew you had found your Sun Summoner.

You weren’t sure whether you truly believed the rumors that Alina had been kidnapped by the Kerch or not, but when you stumbled upon the scene and saw Alina surrounded by a trio of people dressed in dark clothes with weapons drawn, you knew something had to be up. You had moved quickly, with the efficiency of a soldier with your First Army training, and pressed the barrel of your gun against one of the boys’ heads within the second.

You weren’t sure why you picked the boy you did, why the boy with the dark hair and the ever-present smirk, but you can’t help but smile wryly at the memory. You’d addressed him coldly. “Step away from her. Now.” The boy had clicked his tongue, speaking without fear despite the fact that there was a gun pressed against his skull. “You know, you really shouldn’t do that. Having the gun so close to me just means that I can do this.”

You had to give credit to Jesper- he moved fast. He was quick, likely from life on the streets of the Barrel, and a lesser soldier would have fallen prey to his attack within the second. However, you weren’t a lesser soldier, and you had the advantage of hearing his heartbeat uptake the moment he started moving. So, when Jesper Fahey whips around to grab your gun and force you to the ground, you’re expecting it. That’s why you take advantage of his momentum to slam into his side, knocking him to the ground and sending his twin revolvers skittering across the soil.

You’re not quite sure what you were expecting from Jesper at that moment- a look of fear or resignation? Maybe you weren’t expecting a reaction at all. However, when he looked up at you for a second longer and then started laughing, you were almost as startled as if he’d continued his attack. “Fantastic move. Who are you?” You stared at him, almost forgetting his two companions, whose hands have now directed weapons to you instead of towards Alina. You casually nod your head towards the woods, and Alina, understanding, begins to slip away while her captors’ backs are turned.

“None of your business. Why are you laughing?” Jesper, as you have later learned, just sits up casually, as if he couldn’t care less about the barrel of a gun being pointed his way. “Because I think it’s excellent that you anticipated my attack that way. I’m going to have to remember that one and use it later.” He’s standing up now, practically brushing your gun aside. You’re not particularly moved by this- you don’t care if he attacks you, just that Alina can get away in time. What matters more to a band of crooks- the Sun Saint, or some other girl?

So, noting that you’re now one against three and you don’t really care for using your Grisha abilities right now, you tuck your gun away into the standard issue holster on your First Army tracker drabs and grin back at him. The smile feels almost as hard to fake as when you’ve been standing in your regiments for hours when higher-ranking officials come to visit and see how all the little toy soldiers are doing.

“Well, I’m glad to be an influential figure. I’ll be off, then.” It’s now that the trio whip around and notice that Alina is gone. The other boy, the one with the dark leather gloves, curses softly. You start to slip away as well, but the sharpshooter isn’t willing to let you go so easily. “Wait a second, my dearest influence. If we lose both you and your friend, it won’t be so good for us.” You flash him an irritated look. “You don’t need me, and I couldn’t care less what’s good for you.”

The girl nods to the sharpshooter. “She’s right, Jesper. I’m not killing more people than I have to.” You gesture towards the girl. “Exactly, dearest Jesper. I’m just going to go. I would say that it’s been a delight talking with you, except that it hasn’t.” You’re kind of hoping for a negative reaction, but Jesper just smirks back at you. “Enchanting, of course. I hope to see you again.” You roll your eyes and start walking away, although you can hear Jesper talking to his friends as you leave. They’re chiding him for flirting with you, as this is evidently something he does often. You let out a huff of breath, bothered, then do your best to find Alina. Hopefully, you can find her and get out of here, and most importantly, never see this all-too-cocky boy known as Jesper ever again.

However, that didn’t exactly happen. No, you’re still stuck on a sand skiff in the middle of the Shadow Fold, being attacked by Grisha Heartrenders, volcra, and the Black General alike, and if that wasn’t enough, Jesper is here too. He’s fighting by your side now, as if trying his hardest to annoy you by being as close as possible, and won’t let up the opportunity to exchange a witty retort or irritating grin whenever he can. Honestly, you’re hoping to win this fight soon, because if you have to spend another moment with Jesper Fahey, you might as well shoot him too.

grishaverse tag list: i heartrender you @underc0vercryptid​, @darlinggbrekker​, @cameronsails​, @aleksanderwh0r3​, @story-scribbler​

[littlefreya]

The Captain and the Maiden

Summary: Plain and simple, the Captain is your first.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x Reader

Word count: 2.7K

Warnings: Deflowering, sexual intercourse, unprotected sex, cunnilingus. 

A/N: By request from Anon! Thank you @agniavateira for being my beta and muse :3

Title: The Captain and the Maiden

There you are, decorated in white lace, your heart pumping with agitation while the captain stands in front of you, his broad, hairy chest pumping air slowly. He tilts his head like a big, ragged dog. 

“You’re a wha....”

“Virgin.” you answer, rolling your eyes nervously and a little bit vexed. You shouldn’t have said anything, you can already see the rushed exchange of thoughts behind his soulful blue eyes. 

The bulky man is certainly planning his escape, too afraid to take away your “chastity”.

But the right corner of his lips eventually twists into what begins to look like a small smirk, his eyes hungrily observing your body while he flicks his tongue. 

“How in the hell does someone like you remain a virgin for so long?”

You shrug, your mind quickly running through a list of failed conquests and the numerous times your heart got broken. “Didn’t find the right guy? Didn’t have time between college and maintaining a job to pay out my student loans? You pick.”

You sigh, ready to feel disappointment when your devoted soldier moves toward you and within seconds the air becomes shallow. His eyes glint darkly and you glimpse at his nether region, noticing the outlines of his engorged organ as it begs to for you.

“This makes me Mr. Right Guy?” he inquires with his pure Texan accent that melts your insides. Taking another step forward, he stands so close that the cups of your bra brush against his hard, naked torso with every breath you take. He leans his head down, forehead bumping against yours while he breathes in your scent.

“It makes you…”

The rest of your sentence is swallowed by his mouth as he pulls you up and conquers you with a succulent kiss. You’re not given a chance to resist, to fight back. The captain overpowers you, his tongue setting fire through your mouth and lungs, dancing with yours in a fight for dominance in which he wins with ease. 

Large hands seize your waist, lifting you with ease and placing you on the queen-sized bed. He crawls on top of you with menace. Sy is all muscle and fury, smothering you with his weight. His flesh is hot against yours and you’re almost embarrassed by your aching instinct to cling to this burly beast. His hands grope your body with zeal, and the only thing that runs through your mind is the same pathetic little prayer that you chant with wanton.

“I ain’t no tender man, babygirl.” he warns you as he breaks from your lips, his rough beard burning your skin as he trails down your jawline and then your throat. “But what I am is a southern gentleman and I promise I’ll treat ya right.” 

As if possessed, your spine curls and lifts from the mattress to the lingering kisses Syverson trails down your naked skin. He licks at your sternum, his coarse hands skillfully unclasping your bra and discards it before his tongue snakes around your peaked nipple and teases the soft flesh. You want to tell him you don’t need any preparation, that you’ve been waiting for this moment for way too long and you just want him to fuck you already.

But no words manage to form on your lips as Sy’s fingers thread through your nipples and he continues to explore the uncharted path of your body attentively.

“Has anyone done this to you before?” he murmurs against your lower belly between a chant of wet kisses, rubbing his bearded chin at your sensitive flesh and sneaking his fingers beneath the bend of your expensive lace underwear.

“Onc...once. when I was in college,” you stammer, hissing through your teeth. Your body shakes as he kisses your belly with a hum and slips your panties over your sheer thigh-high stockings.

“I appreciate this, by the way.” he exclaims, referring to the sexy lingerie you bothered to wrap yourself in for tonight: a Victoria’s Secret best white lace, almost ceremonial. It lasted less than 5 minutes before both your bra and underwear ended up on the floor next to Sy’s worn black shirt.  

Heat spreads through your body, spilling from your cheeks to your neck and gathering at your loins as Syverson spreads your legs with as much gentleness a brute like him can muster. You watch as he hooks your legs above his shoulders with intent, your thighs still covered in sheer white silk, countering the tanned muscles of his shoulders. 

You suck in your lower lip as you watch his head lowering between your apex. The fact that your thighs jitter around his neck is not lost to you. Flushed and ashamed of how intense your yearnings are, you throw your head back and shut your eyes while his hot breath welcomes your womanhood.

“Oh god!” 

His wet tongue snakes between your folds, smearing you with languid tease, enough to run through the length of your folds and make you whine like a whore. Your fingers twist around the bedsheet, your toes curling in the air as your ankles hover over his back.

“Christ, babygirl, I haven’t even started yet.” he taunts you and dips his tongue into your sweetness again, traveling between your folds carefully, tracing the shape of your labia and dampening it with his saliva. His thick beard adds roughness to the mixture, scratching your inner thighs as he moves his face between your open legs, learning the mysteries of your body.

Skillful lips press gentle loving kisses to the freshness of your mound, circling the entire region patiently, your whimpering pleas encouraging him to dwell around your juices and collect every rich drop. You’re swollen and throbbing, moaning with frustration at Syverson’s torturous measures. 

You can’t see his face, yet you’re convinced he is smiling smugly just as you know the sky above is blue.  

His fingers hold your lips open and you gasp as he licks your seal carefully, attempting to dip his tongue in the small gap as much as possible before he laps his tongue over the hidden pearl of your mound. He twirls around your clit with a low hum of delight that vibrates against you, making you shudder with a hiss. You are teetering on the edge, throwing your head back and forth on the pillow as he suckles, lavishing you inside the cavern of his mouth. The pleasure is so much that you are edged on begging him to stop yet the only thing coming from your mouth are deep, loud cries. 

Syverson has every intent on turning you into a mewling puddle, restraining your inner thighs while you squirm and continues to suck your clit skillfully until your body arches and explodes into rapture in his mouth.

“Fuck!!!” you pant, landing your back on the mattress heavily. “I get it now.”

Sy chuckles dryly, wiping your juices off his beard “Get what?”

“Captain… “ you adjust your breath “Captain Cunnilingus, I finally get why they call you that.”

His laughter thunders through his chest as he moves to lie on top of you once again, his hands reaching down to unzip his cargos and he pushes them down his legs to join the messy pile on the floor.

The last thing that surprises you is that Syverson likes to go commando.

“I think I got you wet enough, babygirl.” he growls, kissing and nipping your neck, his hands squeezing your buttocks, and his erection pressing hard against your soft belly. You shiver just from the size of it, your cunt throbs once again with both fear and excitement.

His knuckles sooth your temple, his eyes meeting yours with an ocean of compassion that only you are able to witness. 

“Ready?” he queries, searching for approval in your gaze.

You nod right away. You’ve been ready since the moment “big Sy” defended your honor at the bar against that jerk who squeezed your ass. No one ever fought for you, not till that day. You were just a small town girl with a sad list of terrible life choices and failed dates yet there he was. Handsome, big, and way beyond average, willing to risk a fight for you. 

You were tempted to just lose your virginity to him in the pub’s toilet. But he settled for your number instead.  

Holding you carefully in his strong bulging arms, Syverson flips you over so he is seated with you straddling his lap. You feel sinful, your wetness drenched upon the meat of his groin, you can’t help but stare at his velvet pistol which rests proudly against the side of your thigh. 

While inexperienced, you have seen your share online, and it would be an understatement to say Syverson is large.

“Easy darlin.’” he teases you with slight humor in his baritone and reaches to grab his thick erection in one hand while the other takes hold of your hip to assist you on top of him. Your fingernails mark crescents on his shoulder with just the tip of his flesh pressing at your gates. As desperate as you are, you feel a needle in your heart and your skin prickles as he begins to lower you onto his cock.

“F-u-c-k!” you hiss as you feel him splitting through you inch by inch. He pushes through your virginal canal, unwrapping your silken walls with his incredible girth. The pressure inside your own body overwhelms you, the sting of his entry making you dig your nails onto the hard muscles of his shoulder blades. A deep growl matches your sobs as he lingers, easing into a slit which is impossibly taut. 

But you’re are unwilling to be that girl anymore, the sweet small town virgin too afraid to ever make a move, pathetically waiting for “the one”. Whether it is Sy or not, you force yourself down his shaft, gasping along with him as the two of you fall into daze, amazed by the tight friction your bodies produce. His entire cock fills you, and you nearly break apart feeling him deep in the pit of your gut.

A low grunt emits from his lips. His hand soothes down your spine as you still, adjusting to the new sensation of being whole. You haven’t even noticed that your eyes went shut until Sy’s fingers stroke your cheek and wipe the wetness that formed in the corners of your eyes. 

Blinking your gaze at him, you find a calm sea, reaching into the depth of your heart.

“Good girl,” he utters, stroking your hair back and leaning to kiss your forehead. As patient as Syverson is, you can feel his thick cock as it twitches inside you. You are too hot, too tight, and your lush walls are closing around him. The  throbbing is unbearable for the both of you, increasing the more you prolong. 

Your breath comes in fumes and loud yips as you begin to ride the large man. You pull yourself up along the length of his solid erection, his ridges stroking down your stretching walls before you fall back on his cock, fulfilling the sudden emptiness that’s devoid of your pull.   

As dominant as he is, Syverson allows you to control the rhythm to a point. His control is a thin thread, threatening to snap. His large hands tattoo bruises onto your flesh as he grips you tightly and his teeth nip your breasts as you throw your head back with every plunge made into your body. You had your fears; that it will hurt too much, that you won’t climax with him inside you, having never experienced anything like this before. Yet every thought washes away from your mind as you rise and fall onto him and pleasure ripples through your organs as you grind into one another.

Seeing your movements become more fluid, Sy begins to buck his hips into you, pushing back into your cunt, reaching that spot so deep inside it makes you yelp like a crazed animal. He makes your entire body electrified, the bone of his pelvis grinding at your clit and his hands reach to squeeze your ass, parting your cheeks to make you even more stretched for him.

You are almost unable to rationalize how and when the captain took over, pushing you down on his meaty shaft. You realize that you enjoy this, having him take over, grunting against your throat while forcing you down his cock. It’s as if he turned into a beast whose only purpose was to seek and fill your womb. 

“Harder!” you hear a yell and before you even realize it was you who gave the command, you are whirled back onto the mattress with Sy on top, thrusting into you with the dedication of an ardent soldier. He kisses you sloppily, holding his elbows at the side of your head so not to crush you with his weight while he thrusts into you with lewd grunts.  

Tides of ecstasy begin to hit your core, washing closer and closer to the shores of your pleasure. You reach your hands to grab his ass, nails biting into his muscles, forcing him so deep it hurts. That pain is all you need to sink into your own waves of pure orgasm. You come as you never did before, wrapping tightly around him, achieving a sense of becoming whole in every inch of your soul.

Sy growls into your ear, and an onslaught of curses greets your flushed ears as he jackhammers your convulsing cunt so vigorously the bones of your hips feel as if they’re going to fall apart. Unable to fight your body’s protests, his own orgasm takes him within a split second, his seed sprouting into your womb while he pants hoarsely on top of you. 

Sweaty and breathless, he teases your lips into a loving kiss while remaining sheathed inside you. A gentle hum tickles down your throat, the heat of his elixir soothes you while his weight presses you down. Even though he is making it harder for you to breathe, you are anxious of his departure from your body. You lay your head against his peck, your hands clutching his back gently.

“Oh babygirl,” he cradles the back of your head, pressing a tender kiss to your hair. “Did I hurt you?”

You smile against his chest, feeling a bit more wicked than you ever did before. 

“Not in a bad way.”

___________________________________________________

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[jesuisgourde]

For anon, here’s a compilation of the darker stuff from Peter’s journals (Books Of Albion/the online scans/From Albion To Shangri-La). Obviously this stuff is darker and is more of his talking about addiction or mental health/emotional distress etc. So just be aware of that when reading this, I suppose. These all span from about 2002-2013.

Books Of Albion

Still death haunts the life out of many a young'un. I'm strung up useless now in the inner circle of my own conspiracy. Heroin & crack bind my ankles & scrub my back & my mattress my magic carpet whisking me into Arcady, that warm enchanted soft forbidden hiss I'll be punished for all eternity all for 1/2 and an hour of exceptional Liberty, laying alongside the arcadian wench that never forsook me not for all the impatience in hell nor all the dreary darker deeds that the well-meaning wideboy wasted love sweetest rarest hours with Abandon? It rails me, steadies

I thought that you had a clue cant you see what they're doing to me? and they're getting away with it coz you're standing back & taking that shit believe it's true... if it happened to you what do'ya think you'd do? you and I done it all understanding when you're standing against the wall but I wouldn't do that to you... now guess what I'm going to do when I catch up with you put into action what I've been feeling youre so... any idea no dont come near I've no idea what a person can take all these thoughts & I get nasty too yes I will my boy search & destroy

My nominally in disorder / in a fashion commonly nowt in this pressing matter not sort of unignorable pressure - abusive selfish conversations with the blank dirt that glues the corners of my backwards minds intogether outside the high walls levering the face off with the sticky oil of gluey tears. They dry and rip the sense out of the skin's mask. In past lives I was blank... actually deadly sleepy and convinced by my corrupt reasoning that I was wide awake and ready to break into a running jump. As it turns out I fell off a small step and ruined my jumper.

The words they put into my mouth...honestly the cut, paste & twist of the gutter journalist: will they not desist this shit and give the papple a miss. My vanity all in a twist. Ha! No stylist or publicist to protect poor Bilo in the shark infested waters of hell's canal. Oh mercy and the stench of grime and ruddy guts as assassins jackall and jostle in nasty packs about the cartoon character they have presented the numbed readers with... hit & run, dumb down and down and down, until I get picked up by some saviour or other dusted down and up & away unto Arcady. this time next year this lone salty tear that falls may yet reach the sea, drowning in rivers lost under London like Victoriana. Leaking oh my love, I was not waving I was drowning. To the merry tune of a fizzing wire mesh freebase pipey, my shadow shamefaced behind me, cor blimey. god blind me lest I see myself

more or less loss & my heart laid bare the way it comes across that I do not care feeling lost and badly dressed more and more of less & less

oh so you are not here now and so I greive the salty, sopping eventide with a mess of feeling & reeling around the forest clearing in blue that tears afford me. Salt blind I stumble into the night & pile heartache upon confusions. Alas I am last to understand my minds instructions

'come on... you've got to get out of this room for at least an hour' 'why?' Debris, ash, tin lids for egg plates, towels, c.d.s wraps, snaps. Because I love you, as the soundly winds down and the night changes its name. My she is restless, endless energy, spirit, shaking her hips & shoulders to rock and roll in leather zip trousers & stripey t-shirt & one heel what a picture I am still in bed because my body craves rest and though tis like a grave resting here so idly I cannot fathom New York or the world until the knot loosens further. I dont suppose she'll wanna read through another Hancock script. 'There's gonna be a showdown' plays again.

My few weeks of numbness, rage, derangement & solitude were not part of a design but my very core's emptiest expression.

A junky they call me and I'll refuse nothing yet (excepting a piss test, aha!) Am I not a fantastic idiot All good art comes from agony not all great art comes from agony I think I only needed something to hold onto. It has never been about depravity. It's always been about melody.... but melody & I met in many depraved situations. Meeting melody is the victory of the empty spiralling nightmare. Empty in the superficial sense

Imagine somehow poison being proved not to exist in someones heart. Imagine being unlocked from this cell

What to do in this prison. Write? Why? And for who. All you need say is 'Im in nick and it's shite' Fuck the mystery, fuck the intrigue.

[Written in Peter's handwriting] Why do you think this happens so? [Written in someone else's handwriting] what do you mean? [Written in Peter's handwriting] oh I dunno, I mean the shouting and clammering that wears heavy on my heart.... [Written in someone else's handwriting] well I think some people just love drama [Written in Peter's handwriting] I do myself....but this is a personal catastrophe anyway I'm [getting steadily larger and messier] aaaaahh

It stings when I ding, stings like fuck and it's not just to ruck & knock out the chuck my days are spent swerving prangs like old bill in a jag but reality keeps on like a nag "stop it stop it stop it" before you cop it" cop it being worse things than a sting... cop it being worse, than verses that appear in the morning too minging to sing, and there's not much worse than that thing except perhaps death. cop it is death, a blood red card from God if he were a ref

Online Journals

Perhaps this is exactly how it was planned. A lilting unearthly concern for the new centuries affectionate minions. But then how long until the next gruesome example of my own soul. In those bleak few hours tottering on the precipice I age 30 years. I'm now over 2 million years old. closer to 3 million actually

I'll never desensitize, god knows I've tried there's no meaning or comfort & I'm stuck in this role

the my lifes got no real meaning or control write some crappy catchy song you know try & get out of this hole couldnt we write some crappy snappy dont want to stay where you say I belong

Sirens doom loops fucked up kids playing fucked up guitars lives on your tongue ticket room girl lick it dean loves it mean cant get enough I'm not enough gets me though & down it goes. The blasé The bored The empty-headed The impudent The frigid The introspective The imperious The capricious The naughty The ailing The feline - a blend of childishness, nonchalance & malice.

Oh what's the point anyway? I suppose [illegible] tunnel, gets you down this reflected disgust.

in the corner of my mind I'm unfazed by addiction & lead a pure & discipled affair

I dont know any use than it makes me feel sensitive to things but I know I am blank a lot of the time.

what's that awful silent carnage pummelling at my nerve... the whole of yesterday's horror, webbed and plummeting in my little head. shudders & leaves me writhing, still this silent energy, fucked up hallucenhagenic riot I had as a kid, completely out of control, but masked. Have nae had that taste in my mouth for so long. It'll drop me dead one of these lonely nights.

we had bonded bitterly in skanky Kings Cross crack houses some two years earlier. Both of us eager to dissolve & destroy ourselves, at all costs, however meagre. we had been unsuccessful perhaps, now alive with inspiration & innocence

"Poor Natalia...' Frannle said, with what may pass this night for genuine sorrow. 'she never wanted to die, not like us, then... ‘

Is it bad to feel good? It's not good to feel bad when the walls are closing in feel like you've bee had

a tightrope, baby 9 miles high I dont know how to stop & it's a long way & down

Did I mean nothing to you what did/do I mean to you what do you want me to be? what do you want from me?

I never know what to do in these stark desperate hours when, after suffering no resistance to the reckless surge of my pollution... but what I am certain of is... (whatever they say) I am certain that I am still here somewhere in the stinking sinking quick & the dead sand 'bang me up I'm sold says the poet

theres a man who came to stay the boy he replaced disappeared without a trace gave my songs & my soul away noon would say what they needed to say, so he had his way..... if you sail into the sun beware the eyes of green and if the whole world says that you are the one I defy you to refuse them my son

You must forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself and time she stoops to conquer the lot

what good can it do the impatient hanging wretch, soul shallow-fed to full by clippings but greedy belly so empty its eating itself up, spiteful body lumped together bits under a rattling brain, metallic fever and lazy emotions stalking in the heat sprawling on the wooden seat, revelling in everyone's discomfort, sore-backed and sour, there may be some trouble this hour, like each and every hour before it This is no house of correction, this is the hostile house of justified injustice, the house of boredom, the cottage of crippled lives: those caught, stitched up, unlucky, violent, criminally insane, thiefs, hard men, faces. All Londons pockets emptied out and searched and banged up. I'm lost in these hours, never given no release date but I'm sure it must be... it has to be...

And nothing's so pure as I first though and all I was taught compared to your love amounts to nought yet Oh why must am I so easily caught in the trap that you laid for me, so openly, was I the all I could see I was sold I was bought

Image, top middle: a piece of a paper bag labelled "Disposal Bag" which has been edited with black felt tip to read "Disposal Bilo". Image, centre middle: a torn photo of Peter in a house. Only his shoulder and hand are visible Image, bottom middle: a photo from a shoot of The Libertines in their red military jackets. From left to right, John, Carl, Gary, and Peter, but Peter has torn himself out to leave a white profile.

Image, top left: a close up photo of Peter onstage, wearing a severely beat up straw hat. [Written below the photo of Peter.] Look what you done to the boy

Some mysterious devil plays us of against each other at opposite ends of hell. It is so hard to make amends.

mother I look for you in the faces of other women where are you oh European mother berets & my teeth I'm lost mum listen to the words: from a dark lonely, paranoid schizophrenic young man.....

may be, & who will save me? Hard to say... who will betray me

Oh Dolly all summer long I've been crafting sketching shades of sorrow in the saddest songs in the heart of the dirty pretty city and driving kranky fucked up punk ditties that are born as hits dead on arrival just like their punk rock revival

thoughts encircling like smugglers by a gap - for waves to spend forever and all of the mostly past running up to each other

My fingertips filthy, blistered burnt and sliced... a tatty crossfire of plasters hold the end of my right index finger together. I slit it open by accident when I was pulling the razor blade out the razor to slice my chest up with t'other night. Ended up doin' one of the geetars over a monitor on the last night of Brixton, kicking Carl's amp over, showing 5,000 people my chest, blood fury, legging it through Brixton... was caught up with by my tour 'shadow' minder (Jeff) decided, topless & freezing in the street, to head back in. Cut myself a bit more and then rejoined the boys half-way through the Good Ol' Days.

Days running into themselves, nights attacking the rigid structure of conventional subversives. Do we make ourselves sick in the soul, lungeing into long spited long long sequences of repeated oblivion.

safety pins - they that hold my life together - bend and contorted rusty sticks that dont glint coz there's no sunlight to glint 'em

I can't continue the sorrow & pain as I blankly stare at the morning sky the webs of & bubbles awash on the pane as the rains spits at the window and my tears flood the tracks of my gaze and I stumble blindly through the days and soar obliterate my ghostly nights with £200 worth of brown & white

I wanted to go home so badly yesterday. Tears in the night in the evening afternoon The other westerners out here encouraged and comforted me. I had a fucking breakdown. But there is no way out. I'm signed in for a week & the monks are adamant.

Lonely lonely lonely scared alone want to go too tired too.

I shiver in bed, trying to be honest. “I'm not so bad” What is real feeling? Apart from feeling fragility. Hiding places everywhere stashes. In the pillow in the left-flap of the bathroom

The demonic face that scratches at the underside of the skin & swishes & tears & blackens my entire void, my entire soul

What is this dull ache in my heart, these soft tears in my eyes? How can I feel so bad now, after everything? when will peace come? Does it ever? I have just been told the ward I am on - ala hot chocolate delivery - is for 'bipolars' 'manic depressives' and 'depressives' not the drug and alcohol section at Priory lodge. What does this mean? They tried to section me. Zopiclone... 7.5 mg of to help the non sleepy Bilo. 20 minutes and I'll be away I'd wager.

Sonny do not go through that door the light aint through that door Self unmade man

Apparently I am still in need of medical attention being 'sick' and 'delusional' also I have had bouts of crack psychosis and double visions to say nothing of the heebeejeebee's. I'd like to 'thankyou' say to all my fans 'for putting me where I am today' (ie in a hospital bed) in the thralls of a crisis

Friday *Musnt look a wreck *musnt look a wreck *musnt look a wreck

every single gig I play I neither do or die but reason no matter how without       hard I try I'm rotting inside with loss paranoia & pride rode in on a Trojan horse trampled over my dreams but that par for the course

cracking day up elongated nauseous rushing the gutsy calamitous drew. the gear fears nothing & nothing & gear together are fearless, nay, peerless in their assault upon my heart. I wanna cut myself up & pitilessly pitilessly he rammed it home & oh so pitiously

I think something stinks you left me here to rot in the land that time forgot to tell right from now on (wrong) they trudge on falling over aint drowning it aint funny honey I can't find the town ― it's gone stealin real fur So I'm 'a gone gone man man I wake up every day to the same old horrorshow

Taking the piss so blatant sly & sad in extremis

Wear bloody eyeliner to cover painted tears, all my wildest dreams become my deepest fears

What's the opposite of opposite? Identical. Involuntary spasms about my morning: my brain running the show (so badly) sitting feet up like the stereotypical private detective - stencils and silhouettes. Curvaceous widows and quick, loveless lives that spin out of control as the echo of sirens get lost in back alleys. Later that same day... a guitar sounds like an electronic fuzzy trumpet [illegible, page torn] Harmonies... listening they'll all be soon, spending monies. Does it harm me only? All this.... the sensation like the rubber thud of a fridge door, often corrupted. This is very similar to how my consciousness is controlled. Sleep a sometimes awkward and cold alternative to wasting away. I want to 'show 'em' anything because 'they' dont even exist, not any more. Well... to split hairs there are survivors from that era but they are all buried alive, gasping and choking in shitty non-marked graves. So am I (are to [illegible] and sincere bouts of caring for poor me)

Late raking the leaves, restless & dull at heart am I at intervals

oh but must there be another song where I can find it again? I dont want to lose my soul from my pocket.

I woke this morning with a black heart

waiting longsome songless lonesome sad solemn thoughts unknown like so many lemmings destined to follow one another off of cliff edges and high walls disintegrating in programmed graphic pixel explosives light participating in the, now formalized in scrawl occasion of apparent calamity. I do my bit you know that [illegible] And you do more than your fair share (if a romp in the hay with ice man indeed be fair)

to be here I feel a bit hemd in in A bit crowded for what reason?

From Albion To Shangri-La

Why would anyone go to all that trouble though, I ask now calm and with legible scribe and clearish thought? The truth is I can convince myself that others are to blame for my tears and yet when the kids are fucked off, these things I can't just brush off... Tonight's show at Olympia left me broken and empty and deeply paranoid about not only the people around the band but (sinisterly) the band itself. How can this be? After such unity, and aye bonhomie, I am once more crushed and defeated and utterly alone.

……………. Remember Hilary in the Rising Damp episode in which the aforementioned thespian is auditioning and subsequently rehearsing the other tenants' self-penned play? At one point, a line by Alan (Richard Beckinsale): 'Life's a sham, a lousy hollow sham'. I may have the characters muddled but that's the like analysis and somehow befitting my current gloomy mood.

and the guts squirm and gargle with innumerable gasses and gosh the inconvenience of morning has blackmailed me and now I must pretend my skin is not ripped and raw and really not right

I'm a lonely man in a dream Splattered with drops of Nightmares………..

Fine: what atrocities this good morrow? What is indeed to be done at last... A slug of fresh water A romantic thought – this tiny room – shadows of passing cars, a sleeping girl's hand… Delirious and demented. When the heebees met the jeebees it was hoo-rah……… Never the twain should meet again Look what they done to the boy Did the unthinkable Sunk the unsinkable.

You made a powder keg out of your head and a sand trap of your bed. Your pockets are packed with rockets of smack and that is all there is to be said.

Crash into my arms, see rings of pink flesh, infected pools of torn skin and orange tracks, shouting the snaking routes of so many holy veins by the elbows join, bulbous lumps of hardened tissue decorate the inside of the arms along with thin scabs of black and claret. At once both swollen and saggy – a rare and disgusting combination. The mermaid on the right forearm is guillotined at the tail by long winding tracks marks matched only by the tube map on the left. I will say though that my nails are very clean today.

Found to be a little close to home When you're left with gaping holes When the sound of rattling bones Stops anyone from dreaming at night.

I remember the infamous Pink Tower lampissing incident. Tried to kill myself as a birthday treat for 'Nstein by using a lash of piss as an electricity conductor but only succeeded in short-circuiting the whole house.

Cope please cope, someone has to cope

What the devil is getting to you… Some pitiful, invisible blockage is preventing you from padding up the stairs, having a shower and rehearsing your trousers?

This is how they felt after the last ever episode of Colombo was screened. Actually the repeated watching of the Colombo boxed set almost pathological has it become… The almost mechanical way that I now sit through the same shows again and again. It bears similarities to the way in which I pursue this life of sincere drug addiction. The ecstatic sensations that once came from piping and smoking are severely depleted as are the pleasures that came from the enjoyment of the original series of Colombo and yet there is no evident let up in the watching and the narcotics.

My heart is damp but drying My life's a mess but I'm trying

I mouth the shape of smoke-rings thick and cokey. Blood blots all over the fluffy white towelling of the bath robe. My chest heaves and hacks up slumps of snotty black lung soil. My nostrils leak dangly strands of liquid, speckled with tiny crumbs of chemical candy – remains of the many lines hoover'd up the ol' hooter this night pass'd.  My left hand creaks in agony, craters carved into the skin with flesh-melting mounds of pain. A web of stringy lines of blood patterns the back of my hand. They sprout out from the wrist…

Rousing buzz of nervous ballooning noise reverberates around the ears and spirals, not nice, about the eyes.

Truly I can push no more, or I'll be lying on the floor breathless, death, yes Nothing more… Is this to be the final score? Seeking strength now The night at length now Deeply entrenched allow The understanding of this deplorable routine… Now strike, luxurious and loud Rousing the crowd Making the rowdy suddenly rousingly proud United, delighted Under melody's glorious shroud

Is it not impossibly wrong that I scratch and scrape at my own half-healed wounds and woefully wonky layers of blistered 'openings' – the only word that volunteers its honest services; a reliable account of its history, its work ethic to date is essential. Closure must follow if the story concludes with a medical success and a middle-of-the-road values, moral-majority, vote. On this occasion I say hurrah for the very dead centre of my middle core, long may health and prosperity reign upon my fuck'd up forearms. By gum I appear to be a bent-back'd, scabby, snivelling leper this night, yelling curses and bullying at sweet ballerinas. By Christ I need a hand out of this paradise and fast.

And now I roll on through the tunnels, under Paris to Gare Saint Lazare. 'Tis unpleasant the feeling of something hanging over your head, a debt, a guilty admission yet to be made… I feel like a guilty man. Naturally, momentum is given to the energies at work there by natural reserves of paranoia and introspective disquiet.

Masochistic, sick Apocalyptic, fix n lick Fix n' lick, lick lick

Sticky strips off in rips from bloated crust-coated limbs So these were meant as hymns to the spirits that seep about Moody and broody Wits sharp as knives All about may they be if influential in our lives For God's sake my mind has turned itself on and mangled all the rails…

 A boy named Sue is falling apart

I must be coming to resemble a stuck record I only observe and implode with frantic obsession the splintering and staunch silence.

When your shadow blanks you You know you've put your foot in it

Anxiety & destruction Gulfs in the gut Belly wet with teary streams

I can't be trusted, or shouldn't be trusted with the tenderest, tenderest loyalties and affections.

Out of sight, out of mind out of my mind. Swindling swine.

First, second, third hits missed and then looked closely at my lump-laden forearm. All the while I had been thinking on the disappearance of all the old boozers from Whitechapel High Street and actually from the whole world. From the High St of the whole of Albion, such consideration distracted me considerably from the delicate job in hand... then wham! A fat old wiggly worm in a region that has always bemused and bamboozled me in many a set to... with me making to jag the junk and my left arm leaving me cursing the limb entirely. Whallop! A flood of purple black frothy jetting ferment. Not entirely organic sounding but then this particular barrelful is now getting on for its past by banging date. Once the junk and combined coke speedball is mixed with the blood of the first shot it's a race against the clock to get the remaining concoction in the blood-stream. By the time the connection is made, the syringe is entirely maroon and one is invariably well into the great cussing period of intense frustration.

The melancholic servitude of a world without light and life… all is stone, heat is gone, rehabilitation of hope through good English algebra... 'we're all doomed'.

There has been some fantasy talk that is now shaping up for a crack at reality. It concerns taking the cure and kicking this suicide mission for a bit. Finally escape from this escape. This road has too few exits and the hard shoulder is hard.

I ain't got the strength to stand up to me - cos I'm guilty - Basking in the glow Of a wanted man's gaze I'm no spring chicken but I'm game I don't wanna feel like...

...Really Sometimes I feel like killing myself I ain't gonna lie Stick a knife into my heart Because it's better to die Than feel this way Mother fucker gone & killed his soul dignity

See the ratcatcher A mind bent on rats has he Blind with shattered glass is he He leans drunken into me Whispers filth and diseases Death & agony He empties his sack on me And rolls on into infamy

I ain't got the long capability To say what is wrong with me.

Take a nervous peek out of the window, blurred with bubbles of rain. Raindrops. Falling on Yorkshire. My body's a little contaminated, given the relentless battering it's been getting – chemical warfare in effect, some strange, slow, indirect suicide. Might take up another hobby. Sex and ? and Rock and Roll.  Fill in the missing word.

'Tis a straight jacket – as oppressive as one. Nothing vague about horror. Blurred visions of the future. Need to destroy; the thing bites into my bones, digs in. Possibilities endlessly impossible Sweat soaking my clothes, my face awash Toothache in the heart – imagine the pain of that.

Day off after the Manchester Academy show last night. It's a little hazy but I'm pretty sure it was a fucking shambles in a Leeds-esque sense of the word. Pre-gig tension spilled over into tears – Stuart B was there and the pair of us were in a state, talking about what shit fathers we've been, getting angry and para…

Another break in the Sequel to the Prequel tour… and another plush hotel/spa resort to relax in. Given the level of emotional distress these past few nights, it's extremely timelyn'all Bejabbers I'm at sixes and sevens… even Katia's arrival (heart-warming and spirit lifting) concerns me. Thinking of her with ten mostly sex-crazed geezers on a tour bus. It is all my warped perception no doubt.  Her presence will subdue my restless spirit and assist the majority of the lads in their attempts to create a positive atmosphere on this tour. Dark and twisted dementia not being in vogue this early autumn (dementedness?) BouBou bringing her natural and bountiful blessings of peace and aller son petit bonhomme de chemin. So then onwards, and indeed, upwards. Curses upon myself for even imagining the worst I always open up to Katia… offer her my mostly unlikely, but always heartfelt, theories about the on-going saga of on-stage upset. She says I might be bi-polar. I argue that I only suffer such extreme devastation on stage, not in everyday life like genuine manic sufferers. 'Really?' She says. 'Once you told me you couldn't leave the apartment to post a letter.' The debate continues.

When I heard they were evicting me From my own fantasy An executive explained to me How it follows demographically And then the executive said That I should try and be dead By next July Of course we'll miss you But we can exploit and Reissue And sell footage of you snuffing it To Sky

A man walks headlong into traffic – tired of the fight You can only get up so many times, can only throw so many punches – dont have anything left dont believe anymore dont believe in yourself anymore Bejabbers

the monkey's clamped on my back with a finger in my ear, tweaking a nipple and ramming me ingloriously I'm blind with the pain, sinking like a penny down a drain stink like shame thoughts like a too-high-for-the-tunnel-train Blinding pain blind all but the same babbling low : stunned A gecko cackles & beeps rythmically I scratch myself bloody, glutton tubby 3 kinds of lonliness: morning, evening & afternoon It's the same every day. I go on the walk & run & ...& I walk. Flip flopping in the sun.

5.55am Complete, utter, inutterable, stagnant misery set in concrete certainty by cowardice and lament. He sobbed strangely, failing to cry, so fucking grim the sight of his shadow on the ashgrey spillage of shite that was once the floor. That was once his life. Full throated sting of sourness and spite lined his neckinside. Rottoness in the oesophigas and on top of this plop and piss flying upwards defying gravity weilding crying calamity in the shitty bathroom. His body was going on strike and even the ubercapitalists on the board of shareholders didn't dare protest. Like an international company finally exposed to the world as profiting from abhorent working conditions. Lonely Villein squinted into the mirror smudged with blood and bits of poo – “On behalf of the man that used to inhabit this body I apologise.” he typed, reaching up to the sink wherein upon which the typewriter perched in precarious wobbly state. “Sorry, body” He continued, typing and reading aloud as he did so. AAAAAAAAAAgh he said In a strange monotone, not at all dramatic, as the heavy old typewriter fell onto his shin shins With immediate and immense pain he fell unconscious.

the whole riddle of human destiny heightened to the pitch of a personal torture     a personal hell inward emptiness & despair

[jiubilant]

21 for a daedric artifact of your choosing, OR an important piece of enchanted jewelry one of your OCs has......🔍👀

21. silence insp: [x]

In Solitude, at summer’s end, Viarmo sits down with a friend.

They often dine together at this hour, in the headmaster’s hearthroom, in front of the wide window that looks out to sun and sea. They eat sparingly today. The table between them is well-stocked with sweet and bitter: honeyed oats, hot tea, apples poached in sunlight and cinnamon. Eggs on sour rye. Salt in the shaker. Sugar in the bowl.

A fitting spread, Viarmo thinks, for their last breakfast.

“I’d better be at the docks by—noon, let’s say,” says the Archmage, his smile comfortable and calm. He spears a slice of apple with his fork. “Or the Queen will send someone to drag me, I expect.”

Viarmo does not smile.

“Four months,” he says, half in wonder, half in pain. He slowly shakes his head. “It took you four months to be named an enemy of the state.”

“Anything worth doing,” says the Archmage, “is worth doing quickly. Pass the salt?”

“If you pass the sugar.”

The scrape of the sugar bowl across the table. The gentle tap of the salt-shaker.

The banishment, Viarmo thinks, won’t stick. They both know it; the Queen is fond of them, and sympathetic, and her get-thee-gone is meant more to protect her court wizard than to punish him. But the Emperor’s proscription is a different matter. Not that old Mede is likely to send assassins to a man for tying up trade in far Haafingar, not with the number of knives ringing his own throat right at home, but Viarmo worries. He spoons a lump of sugar in his tea. He stares at the man across the table, watches him chew, imagines him cold and still in some Colovy cell—

“Vjar?” The Archmage, warm and alive in Viarmo’s hearthroom, raises his eyebrows. Leans across the table. Taps the rim of Viarmo’s cup—clink-clink—with his fork. “Vjar. Are you going to drink this, or caulk the ceiling with it?”

Viarmo blinks down at his tea. His sludge. He’s spooned in half the sugar.

“Dramatist,” says the Archmage, not unkindly. “Here, let me—let me show you something.”

He works off one of his plainer rings with difficulty, leaning back in his chair, then casts it carelessly across the table. It rolls butter-smooth and straight past cups and cutlery, bright as a coin, then—inexplicably, to Viarmo’s eye—curves from its natural path, wobbling like a wagon-wheel back to the Archmage’s waiting hand.

Viarmo, dragging his thoughts from the dungeon in Colovia, tries to look more interested than ill. “Is it weighted?”

“No.”

“Spelled?”

The Archmage smiles. “Yes. But that’s not why it comes back.”

“Something in the way you rolled it, then,” says Viarmo, resigning himself wearily to his part in the play. He musters a smile. “Let me try.”

The Archmage drops the ring into his hand.

It’s warm, Viarmo thinks, blinking in surprise. Not warm like gold that’s sat awhile against skin, but warm as a living thing itself—with a pulse, almost, a thready thrick-tick-tick in his palm. Abruptly fascinated, he turns it over in his hand. “What’s the spell?”

“With that on,” says the Archmage, “you could slam your fingers in your viol-case and feel nothing at all. Maybe a pinch.”

Viarmo raises an eyebrow.

“Heard you swearing earlier,” says the Archmage. He smiles a little nervously, then glances out the window at the sun. “Go on. We’ve got—five minutes or so.”

Five minutes, Viarmo thinks. The sunlight shines cold on his face. Five minutes.

He rolls the ring.

The ring rolls off the table.

“I’ll get it,” says the Archmage at once, which is ridiculous—but he’s out of his chair, easing himself stiffly to the floor, before Viarmo can protest. He left his cane, Viarmo thinks, in the bedroom. He should fetch it for him. Five minutes.

“The trick of it,” the Archmage is saying, blithe and calm as ever, “is that there’s no trick at all.” He’s crawled under the table, the old spider, talking all the while. “It’s—it’s a long-standing superstition among mages, actually, the ring-rolling. If you wear an enchanted piece awhile, like a, well, like a ring, it’s supposed to take to you. You in particular. Not to personify. It’s something to do with—harmonic resonance, or magicka signatures, I don’t know. But when you roll your ring away, it rolls back”—he bumps his head on the table, rattling the cups, then reappears by Viarmo’s knee—“if it wants to.” A thin twitch of a smile. “Because it wants to.”

Viarmo considers this.

Then he reaches, with a fond, faint smile, to thumb the Archmage’s hair behind his ear.

“Do you rehearse your little allegories, Ravi,” he asks, his fingers brushing the other man’s cheek, “or do you spin them off-the-cuff—”

He stills, realizing what he’s looking at. The Archmage, kneeling by his chair. Looking anxious. Holding a ring.

“Argonian custom,” he says.

Viarmo hears his own voice, thin and small, as if echoing from a great height. “Yes.”

“This way no one knows any better,” says the Archmage. “Keeps your, ah, your reputation intact. Institutional credibility. Popularity with wealthy dowagers. You know. But maybe someday we can do it properly,” he says, speaking faster now, “a, a real handfasting, with—banns and bells and all. With hatkicks. If you like.” The ring twists and trembles in his hand. “Or maybe you’ll throw this in the, the—in the canal in a month or two, I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t know, it’s mine, it might not even fit—”

“Yes,” says Viarmo.

“—but, you know, I thought,” the Archmage continues, his voice hoarse, “I thought—you make me think, that’s the trouble.” He smiles then, helplessly, like a harpist struggling with several strings. “I thought, well, why shouldn’t we do all the things that stupid young men do—”

“Yes,” says Viarmo.

They stare at each other. A bird flits past the window.

The Archmage, his face careful and still, clears his throat. “Yes?”

Viarmo smiles.

“Well. Not all the things,” he says, “that stupid young men do.” He folds the Archmage’s hands, very gently, between his own. “It’s been fifty years since I could do a hatkick.”

A short silence.

“What if I held the hat,” says the Archmage, straight-faced, “very close to the floor, say, ankle-height—”

“Five minutes,” Viarmo reminds him. He opens their hands and looks down at the ring, blinking back a glad and grievous ache. “Let’s see if it fits.”

It does.

[elder scrolls writing prompts]

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

West Memphis Three

On May 5, 1993, three eight-year-old boys (Steve Branch, Michael Moore and Christopher Byers) were reported missing in West Memphis, Arkansas. The first report to the police was made by Byers' adoptive father, John Mark Byers, around 7:00 pm. The boys were allegedly last seen together by three neighbors, who in affidavits told of seeing them playing together around 6:30 pm the evening they disappeared and seeing Terry Hobbs, Steve Branch's stepfather, calling them to come home. Initial police searches made that night were limited. Friends and neighbors also conducted a search that night, which included a cursory visit to the location where the bodies were later found.

A more thorough police search for the children began around 8:00 am on May 6, led by the Crittenden County Search and Rescue personnel. Searchers canvassed all of West Memphis but focused primarily on Robin Hood Hills, where the boys were reported last seen. Despite a shoulder-to-shoulder search of Robin Hood Hills by a human chain, searchers found no sign of the missing boys.

Around 1:45 pm, juvenile Parole Officer Steve Jones spotted a boy's black shoe floating in a muddy creek that led to a major drainage canal in Robin Hood Hills. A subsequent search of the ditch revealed the bodies of three boys. They had been stripped naked and were hogtied with their own shoelaces, their right ankles tied to their right wrists behind their backs, the same with their left arms and legs. Their clothing was found in the creek, some of it twisted around sticks that had been thrust into the muddy ditch bed. The clothing was mostly turned inside-out; two pairs of the boys' underwear were never recovered. Christopher Byers had lacerations to various parts of his body and mutilation of his scrotum and penis.

The autopsies by forensic pathologist Frank J. Peretti indicated that Byers died of "multiple injuries", while Moore and Branch died of "multiple injuries with drowning".

Police initially suspected the boys had been raped; however, later expert testimony disputed this finding. Trace amounts of sperm DNA were found on a pair of pants recovered from the scene. Prosecution experts claim Byers' wounds were the results of a knife attack and that he had been purposely castrated by the murderer; defence experts claim the injuries were most likely the result of post-mortem animal predation. Police believed the boys were assaulted and killed at the location where they were found; critics argued that the assault, at least, was unlikely to have occurred at the creek.

Jessie Misskelley, Jr. was 17 years old, Jason Baldwin was 16 years old, and Damien Echols, 18 years old, were later arrested for performing a satanic ritual on the boys. However, In 2007, DNA collected from the crime scene was tested. None was found to match DNA from Echols, Baldwin, or Misskelley. Also, following their convictions, Echols, Misskelley, and Baldwin submitted imprints of their teeth. These were compared to the alleged bite marks on Stevie Branch's forehead that had not been mentioned in the original autopsy or trial. No matches were found.

 After weeks of negotiations, on August 19, 2011, Echols, Baldwin and Misskelley were released from prison as part of a plea deal, making the hearings ordered by the Arkansas Supreme Court unnecessary.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 19 (Mafia AU)

Summary:  Rus is having a chance for a few regrets. Bad mistakes? Yeah, he's made a few.

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Cherryberry, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings, Attempted Sexual Assault

Warning:  Heads up, let me add a warning here for attempted sexual assault and violence.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

~*~~

Read Chapter 19 on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Rus came to with his head throbbing, feeling as if his skull had been stuffed full of cotton wool. The blanket under his mouth was soaked with his own drool, sticking clammy and cold to his face. With a grunt of effort, Rus tried to move and found he couldn’t. That quickly woke him up the rest of the way, that and the jangle of chains as struggled to get upright. Craning his neck, he looked up and down the length of his body to see the cuffs circling his wrists and ankles, each with its own chain fastened to a bedpost. He was still mostly dressed, he saw. His sweater was gone, but the button-up and trousers he’d been wearing were still in place, if horribly wrinkled. A small consolation that Rus clung to desperately, uncertain if he’d even know if anything had been done to him.

He had a vague, foggy memory of being carried, being moved, and burning hands moving over him but little else. No, that was wrong, he could remember more and didn’t want to, remembered Lilith and blood and fear, and might not know where exactly he was, but he knew who brought him here.

“no,” Rus whispered to himself, struggling harder, the restraints jangling with an almost cheery chime against the bedframe. “no, no, no.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep that up, little flower."

A terrifyingly familiar voice, one that carried with it its own memories of hurt and fear.

“don’t touch me!” Rus blurted hysterically, struggling harder despite the tearing pain in his wrists. “you stay away from me!”

All his struggles meant nothing, the cuffs allowed only enough give for him to lay on the bed, and he let out a weak sob as a hot hand settled on the small of his back, pinning him firmly back to the mattress.

“Darling, we haven’t even begun.” The bed shifted as Blaze sat down next to him and his hand slid up Rus’s spine in a mockery of soothing. “How well do you understand me?"

Rus could taste salt-sweetness, tears running back into his sockets and gathering nauseously at the back of his throat. That hand moved to the top of his skull, knuckles rapping against it painfully. “Answer me.”

“well enough,” Rus said dully. This was his own fault, he’d been warned, and even if Edge found him this time, who was to say what might happen between now and then.

“Better. This will go much easier on you if you’re obedient, precious.” That burning touch moved down to Rus’s face and he tried to jerk away instinctively, the chains holding him back. “Now, now, pet, calm yourself. If I only wanted to fuck you, I could have done it already, couldn’t I.” Those burning fingers skimmed lower, fondling his jaw. “Tempting, I’ll admit, such a pretty mouth. But why use force when you’ll be giving yourself to me willing?”

That confident assertion set off a spark, scorching a path of fury through Rus’s dull acceptance.

“Fuck you!” Rus spat. He twisted around to look at Blaze, truly seeing him for the first time. A fire Monster, he’d known that much, his flames the deep purple of an old ugly bruise and whatever passed for his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned, exposing more purple flames and leading a path down to his undone belt. A warning of things to come and Rus couldn’t help trying to struggle again, twisting fruitlessly against the restraints.

“Manners,” Blaze chided. “You’re so certain? You haven’t even heard the bargain yet.”

“I don’t care what it is!”

“No?” Blaze leaned in closer, flames crackling close to Rus’s audial canal. “What if I agreed to let up on Edge and Red? I’ve been toying with them for some time, you’re simply a shiny new game piece. I’d let them be, no more long nights worrying about when the next strike comes. They’d keep their silly little club and all their sluts would be safe.” He leaned in, his breath pouring over Rus like the heat of an opened oven. “I’ve heard you’re quite fond of those whores, hmm? Did my little kitty tell me true?”

Rus said nothing, squeezing his sockets tightly shut as he tried to keep the memories from pouring in. He couldn’t, could only think of Lilith, her pretty, confused face filling his mind’s eye as she fell to lie bleeding in the street, only to be replaced by Mona in the same way, hurt and dying. Sweet Mona who’d been kind to him from the start, tried so hard to help him, who was studying to be a nurse to help other people, their people.

But it was what Blaze said next that sent the rising uncertainty and fear in Rus’s soul boiling, a heat to match the Flame Monster’s own as he said, “Oh, there’s also your brother. Adorable little thing, isn’t he? To be honest, he’s a little more to my tastes.”

Rus jerked around as much as he could, craning his neck to glare that smug face. “you stay the fuck away from my brother!”

“Well, now, I can’t do that unless I get to stay the fuck with you. What do you say?” Two blistering hot fingers curled under his chin, hooking into his jaw and flames licked and curled painfully around his face. “Tik tok, precious, limited time only. You spread your legs so easily for Edge, what’s one more?”

He didn’t bother saying that he and Edge had never had sex, not really. There was no point; even if this Monster, this monster, believed him, it would only be more fuel for the fire of his hatred. He’d probably be fucking delighted to hear it, one more thing he could take from them, one more cruelty to inflict. There was only one bargain available, this one, right here and now. Rus wasn’t so foolish as to believe Blaze was telling the truth, but if it only kept him away from Blue, bought them a little time, what other option did he have?

Tears burned, nearly as hot as that touch, trickling down his face and hissing to stinging steam as they fell against Blaze’s hand. He couldn’t even turn away, Blaze forcing him to look up into that hated face as he whispered out, “deal.”

“What was that, precious?” Blaze smirked. “Speak up.”

“i said deal!” Rus snarled.

“Perfect.” He let go of Rus and stood, unzipping his fly. Rus closed his sockets before seeing what it revealed, forced himself not to flinch away. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction. “Now let’s see how good you suck cock to start.”

“don’t ever recall you bein’ much of a rapist. guess you learn somethin’ new every day.”

That unexpected voice seemed to come from nowhere at first, slowly solidifying by the door. Blaze whirled around, his flames crackling in loud astonishment and Rus craned his head to see, a feeble blossom of hope sprouted in his soul.

Red stood leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his trouser pockets and a smoldering cigar clenched in his jagged teeth. His eye lights were their own flames, deep red coals that matched his cold grin. “what’s the matter? don’t ya know how to greet an old friend?”

“How did you—” The question was bitten off so hard Rus could practically hear the click of nonexistent teeth over Blaze fumbling with his fly, fastening his trousers again with haste.

“eh, wasn’t too hard.” Red pushed off the wall and wandered closer, dusting off the front of his suit jacket with an absent flick of ringed fingers. “kid is wired up like a gyftmas tree, got little ornaments tucked all over in his clothes. figured you’d find a way to snag him eventually, so best to be prepared.” Rus’s sneakers were lying abandoned near the foot of the bed and Red nudged them with the toe of his shiny, expensive loafer. “you’re gettin’ soft, hothead, shoulda stripped him bare where you first took ‘im.”

Blaze crossed his arms over his chest, flames rising in a flickering dance the only sign of his agitation. “You’re assuming I didn’t want you to find me.”

“true,” Red allowed.

“I admit, I was expecting your brother. It’s so rare for you to come out and play these days.”

“well, now you’ve got me on the monopoly board, so let’s get this over with.” From that angle, Rus could hardly see Red, only from the chest down. Two gold buttons from his vest were visible and the broad chain strung across it, jewelry instead of restrains. Always that ridiculous extravagance, he thought with bitter, near hysterical amusement, even now. “you know, always had a little regret at leaving you behind that day, but, eh. can’t ask someone to choose them over their brother, can you.”

Blaze made a sound like hissing steam. “you left me to die!”

“sure did,” Red agreed, with such bald unapologetic blandness that Rus cringed into the blanket beneath him. “but that’s an ‘us’ problem.”

“You abandoned me!” Now Blaze was huffing like a bellows, his flames darkening nearly to black, lashing and crackling around him. “We came up from the gutters together and you left me behind like I was nothing, like I was ash to be scraped from your shoes!”

“you always were a fucking drama queen.” Red only puffed on his cigar, utterly calm, as if he were arguing with someone in the market over the last head of cabbage, and Rus could only listen with distant, dizzy surreality. Even his tears were drying, leaving behind itchy trails on his face. “turnin’ shit into a dust feud, like there ain’t enough people out there that want us dead? yeah, we did, dragged ourselves out, spitfire, and you shoulda already known by then that my bro always comes first.”

Blaze said nothing, but he took a step back when Red came closer. One of his hands shifted to hover over Rus and he could feel the banked heat even from the distance, a warning to them both.

Not that Red seemed to care. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Rus, his words were careful, slow, as if repeating important directions to one who was easily lost. “been letting you blow off steam for a while now. lost some merchandise here and there, you’d stick your fat fingers into one of our pies and we’d lose a payday. that was fine.” A step closer and Rus could see his face now, Red’s grin wolfishly wide. “‘preciate ya leavin’ the school and the daycare alone. was a bitch settin’ those up without getting’ our names tangled up in ‘em.”

“Harming children is for Humans.” Bitterly spat, someone who’d met Humans on their terms too many times already.

“ain’t that the truth,” Red agreed lazily, His voice changed then, that easiness ceasing as it vanished into bitter, bitten cold, “gotta say though, i ain’t too keen on you threatenin’ my bro or his little pet.”

“They aren’t children. You’re here for him, then.” His hand dropped, settling in the small of Rus’s back and he couldn’t bite back a whimper at the sudden, aching heat licking at his bones. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you always were too concerned about those sluts of yours.”

“always were a sweet talker, fire crotch.” Red straightened briskly, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “time to get down to business. brought you somethin’ ya might want, thought you might consider makin’ a little swap.”

“How generous,” Blaze purred. The tension in him hadn’t eased, his flames still licking high, but he shifted like he’d found his footing. “You have nothing that I want, lover, not anymore.”

“no?” Red licked his teeth, his wet teeth gleaming in the lamplight. “not even a fresh supply of golden flower tea?”

Blaze went suddenly still, all that oozing smarm stilling into whispered astonishment. “You do not.”

“sure do.” Red pulled a hand from his pocket and dangled a small packet between two fingers. “fresh enough you can prolly smell it from there and plenty more where that came from.” He nodded in Rus’s direction, “only, he’s the direct line to it. you kill him, that’s it. supply begins and ends with the flower shop. you can have your fun with him if ya want but—” He shrugged, his broad shoulders rolling under his suit coat. “i ain’t about to tell ya how to do business, but if you want in, i don’t mind sharin’.” He licked his teeth again, his smile widening as it curled around a single word. “lover.”

Blaze rocked from foot to foot restlessly and even beneath the sunglasses, the shift of his gaze from the packet to Red’s grinning face was unmistakable. “The fuck you would!”

“the fuck i ain’t!” Red countered, “see, that’s the beauty of it. you know the value, dontcha. these rubes ain’t got a clue, not even my bro gets it, but you and me? sweetspark, you and i know the value of a buck, don’t we. an’ we definitely know the value of this.”

“You’re lying.” But the words were without heat, almost uncertain. Wanting to believe.

“you think i’d come here without proof.” Red opened the packet and poured a little into his palm. He blew across it, scattering dried petals into the air subtle scent of golden flowers filled the air. Rus could taste it, his mouth automatically watering at the familiar flavor. Golden flower tea was a palliative when he’d been growing up, Blue brewed it whenever Rus wasn’t feeling well, whether the sickness was one of the body or the soul. There was always a cup for them both on days their pop had been particularly cruel or drunk, soothing away the lingering hurts. To taste it now, here, was abhorrent.

Blaze spread his hands and the floating petals still hanging in the air disappeared in tiny flares in his palms, that familiar smell going burnt and bitter. “You left me.”

“yep, i did,” Red agreed, unapologetic. "shoulda known if the choice was between you and my bro, there ain't no choice. get that you’re pissed, have every right to be, but don't go blamin’ me for being exactly who ya always knew i was. now, if ya wanna let the flower shop go, then we’ve got a deal.”

“Do you swear it to me?” Blaze said. He didn’t look at Rus, neither of them did; he was nothing, only a pawn in their game. They were the major players, two kings on either side of a chess board, deciding who to sacrifice and who to spare.

“’course i do,” Red snorted, “you got my word, sweetspark. i promise ya.”

The two of them stood for a long, terrible moment in a heated tableau. Rus kept as still as possible, terrified of tipping the decision in the wrong direction. Then came the sound of a drawer sliding open, a painful, hot hand grabbing his wrist as a key slid into the lock. Blaze repeated it on each limb and Rus scrambled to sit up, nearly falling in his haste to get to Red.

“get your shoes on, flower shop,” Red told him, “wouldn’t wanna hurt your little tootsies before i take ya back to my bro.” Rus did as he was told, all but shoving his foot into his shoe as Red turned back to Blaze. “good to be doing business again with ya. we’ll work out the details, but first. shake on it like pals, yeah?”

He held out a hand and Blaze took it, but the sudden sound that came from Blaze made Rus jerk, looking up from his shoes to see Red using that grip to yank Blaze closer, down to his level. His sunglasses slipped down, exposing the hollows that passed for a fire Monster’s eyes gone wide, disbelieving. “You—”

The whisper died in a fall of dust scattering to the floor. Red only watched it fall in a dark, glittering cloud and the soul speared through with the sharpened bone still in his hand was the last to dissolve. No king, only another pawn taken from the board.

Red shook his head, tutting softly, and tossed the little packet of golden flowers onto the dustpile, the remaining petals scattering. “better luck next time, pal. least you went out with dollar signs dancin’ in your head.” He frowned at his dusty hand and pulled out a linen handkerchief that matched his shirt, wiping it off as he turned back to Rus. “normally woulda let one of my boys do it, but i guess i owed him that much, to take care a’ it personal-like.”

Rus couldn’t move, crouched there on the floor with one shoe on as he stared at Red with words clotting in his throat. “you…you…”

The wide slash of his grin only went wider. “go on, spit it out.”

“you killed him.” The last word broke on a sob.

"sure did," Red agreed. He looked at his cigar, his expression twisting in impatient disgust at the dust coating it. He tossed it aside and pulled out another, biting off the end and lighting it with a match struck on the bedpost. "hate to break a promise, too. been putting it off too long. kept hopin’ he’d get over it and sign back on, but he took it a lil’ too far.” Red shrugged. “eh, dogs are better anyway. loyal.”

He wandered past Rus towards the door, his voice floating back where Rus was still sitting with his shoe in his lap. “thanks for the help. knew he’d get his mitts on you eventually and lead the way to where he was holed up. didn’t figure on it goin’ that way, but it didn’t work out too bad, all things considered.” He turned back, one finger curling in a ‘come here’ gesture. “hurry up, kid, time to go.”

With one shoe still untied, Rus stumbled after him as Red led the way out of the room. They were in a large house of some sort, open and spacious where the Fell brothers’ home was all narrow hallways and mazes. No one tried to stop them as they made their way downstairs, every room echoing and empty, and Rus clung to the bannister to keep from falling. His mind still felt fuzzy and wrong, disbelieving, catching onto what Red had said minutes too late.

“you used me as bait?” A sob heaved out of Rus, helpless and wretched, followed by more, as if they’d been bottled up in his chest and now that the first escaped, they were bursting out like bubbles an opened bottle of soda.

"’course i fuckin’ did. you were a pain in the ass to boot, always takin’ off like ya did. made it harder to track whether you were just bein’ a shit or not.” Red paused on the landing impatiently as Rus tripped his way down. “knock it off with the waterworks, yer givin' me a headache."

Rus tried, hiccoughing painfully as he said, "he shot lilith."

"and she almost got you a fire dick up the ass for her troubles,” Red said. The raw crudeness made Rus wince, choking back his tears. “anyway, save the cryin’ for somethin’ important, she's fine. for now. all bandaged up and ready for a heap 'o regret for sellin’ you out."

"don't,” Rus blurted. “please. don't hurt her."

Red swung around to look at him and Rus couldn’t keep from flinching, stumbling back a step from that piercingly sharp gaze. "you defendin' her?"

"she didn't know how bad it was. she tried to stop him."

“regrettin’ after you fuck up don't mean you get off." Red started down the stairs again, but he sounded almost pensive as he said, "’course, she did get shot, that ain’t no summer picnic. i'll think about it."

Hardly soothing, but Rus nodded, relaxing a little as he wiped at his face with his sleeve, mumbling out, “thank you.

Red chuckled, low and rich with perverse humor. "heh, already thinkin' you won, kid? i ain’t as easy as my bro, said i’ll think about it.”

Outside was a long black car, expensive and indistinguishable. A Dog got out of the driver’s side and held open the door for them, Rus scrambling in after Red and sat on the seat opposite. The door wasn’t even closed when Red began rummaging through a little fridge, pulling out a clear crystal bottle of dark brown liquid. “here, have a drink. think you might need it.”

The entire bottle was probably more accurate, but it was better than nothing. Rus took the glass wordlessly, swallowing it all down in one gulp. He couldn’t hold back a grimace; the sharp burn of expensive whisky tried to wash away the taste of burnt golden flowers clinging inside his mouth, but it still lingered in his nasal cavity and he wondered dully if he’d ever be able to smell them again without remembering this moment.

Across from him, Red slumped back against the leather seat, sockets closed, his own glass dangling loosely from his broad fingers. His browbones were drawn together, a line of weariness between them and Rus suddenly wondered how long they’d been looking for him. There were no clocks in the backseat and the sun coming in through the tinted windows revealed nothing. Blue was probably hysterical and Rus couldn’t blame him, his own stupidity got him into trouble again, and Edge—

He didn’t want to think about Edge, not right now.

His mind refused to be blank, kept flittering about and Rus latched on to one of the questions lingering inside his skull, pointless and perfect for this moment. He held his own glass in both hands, the cool crystal slowly warming between them. “why was blaze so interested in golden flower tea?”

“that’s need to know, kid.” Red didn’t open his sockets as he took a sip from his glass.

“yeah, well, i need to know,” Rus said stubbornly. “you used me as bait, so tell me. why was he willing to let everything go over some stupid flowers?”

Those closed sockets slit open, the barest gleam of crimson gazing out at him. “heh. you think i owe you somethin’, flower shop?” Rus said nothing, afraid of agreeing, and Red’s sharp grin widened. “learnin’ how to be careful of those debts, huh. good for you.” He shifted in his seat, loosening his tie as he sighed. “but you got a point. okay, flower shop, here's the deal. see, most monsters and humans get a little relaxed with it, s’all. probably a strong cup of chamomile’d have the same affect.”

“unless ya have lv. golden flower tea is pretty damn useful for monsters with lv.” That sharp smile twisted unpleasantly. “sweet thing like you don’t know what it’s like carryin’ around a lump of charcoal in your chest. feel it burnin’ ya from the inside out…”

For once, Red looked away from Rus first, stared pensively into the dark depths of his glass. “that tea helps, a fucking lot. only once we came to the surface it was hard to find. don’t grow easy around here, not without help.” Red tossed back the rest of his glass and poured another, whiskey slopping out around the lip, spattering the little bar. When he offered the bottle to Rus, he accepted it, pouring more into his own glass. “ain’t had any in ages. not ’til you turned up, flower shop, you and your brother.” He chuckled roughly and shook his head. “mother angel’s mercy, fuckin’ florists of all things.”

“i didn’t know,” Rus admitted, and now that he did, he wasn’t sure if he regretted asking.

Red shrugged. “that ain’t no surprise, you ain’t got any lv and your bro don’t have enough to make any difference.”

That idle statement made Rus jerk, spilling whiskey down the front of his shirt. “my brother has lv?” His voice seemed too small, confined in that backseat.

Red paused and a brief, bothered expression flitted across his face before it smoothed again. “like i said, not enough to make any difference.” He finished off the last of his glass, the silence filled with only the hum of the engine and the tires against the road. “anyway, that’s enough explanations for you. ya did me a favor helpin’ me get a lead on that old flame burnin’ up my ass. think i might owe ya a little extra for a rough time. so tell me, whaddya want?”

Outside the tinted windows, the real world blurred past them. The really real world, where the worst thing that ever happened was a rude barista might mess up your order or a Human might call an insult from the other side of the road, and Rus never hesitated. “i want to go home. i don’t belong in all this.”

“eh, that’s already on the table.” Red crushed out the stub of his current cigar and lit another, the burning smell from the match nearly making Rus heave. “what else you got?”

“that you leave my brother alone!”

Red exhaled a cloud of foul smoke and shook his head, “that’s ‘tween me and him. care for a third try before ya strike out?”

His empty glass thudded to the carpeted floor as Rus buried his face in his hands, trying to catch his breath. He should let it go, drop the pretense of ever balancing the sheet between them. He’d be back home soon, back to the shop and the normalcy, nothing but bouquets and daydreams, oh, the daydreams. There was one thing yet that he wanted with self-destructive desperation, and the words came out barely muffled by his bony fingers, clear and stark. “i want one night, with him. with your brother. no strings attached.”

“you think i can get you that, huh? well, honey, you hit the jackpot.” Through his fingers, he could see Red’s eye lights glittering, the deep, burning crimson of a devil or maybe a djinn from the stories Blue read to him as a child. Looking at them sent a shiver down Rus’s spine like a sin even as Red spoke, his voice rough and amused as he offered a single word.

“done.”

tbc

[lady-wallace]

Twigs and Twine Chap 1. (JJBA) Febuwhump Day 7

Didn’t want to double post yesterday, so this is going up a day late, but this is for @febuwhump​ Day 7: “Used as an experiment”

Bucciarati doesn't like it when an enemy he thinks is dead comes back to haunt him, especially when that enemy takes a special interest in him because he came back from the dead.

Warning: this story includes medical and surgical torture/experimentation as well as what might qualify as body horror so be aware. This is Cioccolata, so it's going to be a bit gnarly.

~~~~~~~

Bucciarati came to slowly, confusion coming to the forefront of his thoughts before anything else. Where exactly was he and why did he feel like he'd been drugged?

Maybe because he had been? He blinked his eyes several times, trying to clear them enough to take in his surroundings. It was dimly let, wherever he was, and there was an overall chemical smell assaulting his nostrils. Bruno's head ached slightly and he moved to reach up to rub at the bridge of his nose, before he realized that his hands weren't going anywhere and he was obviously tied down to whatever he happened to be sitting on.

This was decidedly not good.

He didn't know how he had ended up in this situation, but he did know where it had started. Rumors of bodies showing up in the canal, cut apart, organs missing, nothing good. The city was terrified. Bruno had gone out to interview a possible witness and…well, that was the last thing he remembered. Now he was stuck with the horrible thought that he might very well have stumbled across the man he was looking for.

"St-Sticky…Fingers," he slurred, trying to get a heavy tongue to summon his Stand.

But Sticky didn't appear. Bruno could feel him trying, flickering over top of him, but ultimately, he must be too discombobulated by whatever he had been drugged with to summon his Stand at the moment.

He was startled into full consciousness as the sound of a door opening and footsteps tramping across the floor, coming closer, echoed in the room. Bruno flinched as a bright light was turned on above his head, nearly blinding him after the darkness.

"Finally awake?"

Bruno tipped his head to one side, squinting up as a shadow fell across him so he could see the figure looming there. He first took stock of the fact he was strapped to some stainless-steel medical chair, wrists and ankles firmly locked down, with additional straps around his chest and thighs. He'd also been stripped to the waist, he realized, completing his vulnerable position.

That was nothing compared to the realization of who stood over him, however.

Flashes from a heated battle blinked behind Bruno's eyes as he took in this apparent apparition. He almost couldn't believe it, but it would be impossible to mistake this man.

A grin spread the face open with a cruel twist. "Surprised? I bet you thought I was dead."

"I did," Bruno replied. "Giorno said he killed you."

Cioccolata chuckled gleefully. "I'm sure he thought he did. He should have finished the job. Regardless, I have been scavenging for spare parts since then to replace the damaged ones."

Bruno breathed out slowly. That would explain the bodies showing up with precision butchering. Fugo had suggested someone in the medical field behind it but none of them had suspected…

"But I could say the same for you, Bucciarati," Cioccolata said slowly, leaning in. "I recall you being reported dead as well. At least, Secco seemed convinced you were, some walking dead thing. And yet, here you are running around town with a heart beating in your chest. I'll admit, I am very curious about how that happened."

"I'm not entirely sure myself," Bruno replied, not entirely untruthful. He knew it had to do with Gold Experience Requiem, and that was all. Aside from that, not even Giorno knew how he had managed to bring Bruno back from the dead—or, the walking dead, he supposed. He'd even gone to the hospital at Fugo's insistence and reluctantly allowed them to run too many tests, but there was no denying the fact that he was alive, save for a few scars.

"Curious, are you?" Cioccolata asked, a little too eagerly.

Bruno pressed his lips into a thin line. "I choose rather not to look a gift horse in the mouth."

Cioccolata chuckled. "Well, I'm curious. Unfortunately, Secco didn't make it, so I need a new pet to occupy my time, and you'll do just fine." He reached out to mockingly pet Bucciarati's head and the mafioso jerked away with a disgusted curl of his lip. He couldn't really move though, and Cioccolata's hand continued downward, tracing over the scar on his shoulder before moving toward the large knot of scar tissue in the center of his chest where King Crimson's fist had punched a hole right through him.

"These scars tell of grievous injuries. Life threatening. I wouldn't expect someone to survive them."

"I didn't," Bruno gritted out.

Cioccolata leaned in close. "Then how are you here?"

Bruno turned away, clenching his jaw.

Cioccolata chuckled again, pulling away finally, and turning around to fiddle with a nearby cart. "This is definitely a mystery that I'm planning to strip away the covers of. Let's run a few basic tests, shall we? See where we're at. And then we can move onto more interesting lines of query."

Bruno pressed his mouth tight, forcing down the unease roiling in his stomach. He had no idea how he was going to get out of here, but the near future for him did not look very good. Not at all.

He liked the outlook even less when he saw Cioccolata pulling over a camera set on a tripod. The red light flicking on noted that it was recording. He turned to grin at Bruno. "I hope you don't protest to my recording this for posterity."

~~~~~~~

Continue Reading on Ao3 or FF.net

~~~~~~~

[randomingoftherandomness]

The old guard😵 OT3 with this sentence: How can you not see how much you mean to me? For us? (love you Gab💞)

(love you too Anon! please don’t hate me for this)

--

Rainfall drums on the roof and Booker takes a deep drag of his cigarette. Holding the smoke deep in his lungs, he savours the pressure that blooms from inside him. The nights here, at this elevation, are cold and sleeping alone means he greedily cultivates all the warmth he can get.

Booker exhales. The smoke mingles with his breath as they coil up to the rafters.

He kicks his feet up on the balcony railing, toes flexing and curling as they catch the water. Booker watches, transfixed by the shadows the droplets make as the travel down his feet, ankles, heel. Some breaking formation to make a river lines under his calf.

All is quiet in the house behind him. So much different than how it was just an hour ago when there had been nothing but the raised voices of Joe, Nicky, and himself all trying to speak over each other, twisting their words into all the soft underbellies and the buried hurts they'd thought were better hidden than that.

It was a mistake to come back. One hundred years could have never been enough for his... Exes. There's a rather sour taste in his mouth that flares at that thought. Exes. As if they were ever his as much as he was theirs. He would have lived for them; he loved them that much. Not that it matters now.

Evidently, one hundred years was enough for them to decide that whilst they forgave his betrayal, they have not moved past his love not being good for them.

Booker hates being right some times.

The floorboard creaks behind him and he doesn't have to look to know it is Joe lingering at the doorway. He toys with the idea of throwing the chair he is sitting in at Joe's face but thinks twice about it. The chair is about the only thing he likes about being here.

"If you're here to tell me to leave, don't bother. I'll be gone when the rain lets up." Booker pulls his feet off the balcony railing, shaking them dry. He takes another deep inhale and another long exhale.

Joe's footfalls are heavy as he walks closer to him. "Where will you go?"

"Does it matter? I'll be far away from you and you won't have to see me for however fucking long it is you guys want this time."

"That's not..." Joe trails off with a sigh. He moves into line of sight, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. “We’re doing this all wrong.”

“Are we?” Booker stubs his cigarette out with controlled viciousness. “I was under the assumption that my exes asked me up to their super secret hideaway in the highlands to try and patch things up with me only for it to be a clusterfuck. And now I have to leave because there’s really not much reason for me to stay.”

Joe stays quiet in the rain. Booker exhales, rubbing his face heavily with his hand. “This was a bad idea from the get go-”

"How can you not see how much you mean to me? For us?"

He looks up to see Joe looking right at him. Something about being under that gaze dredges up memories of half-faded evenings in Amsterdam by the canal, kissing and tripping over their shoelaces as they walk arm in arm; just him, Joe and Nicky. Him and Joe and Nicky. It was always him, Joe and Nicky.

“I don’t,” Booker says tightly. Standing to go when Joe takes him by the hand, stilling him. “It took me awhile to see it but it was you and Nicky and me. Do you get it, Joe? There is no space for me in this with you both. You’re complete as is. There was never any part for me in you and the mistake was trying to force us into a shape we cannot take. So, I cannot stay.”

There is a wetness in Joe’s eyes as it searches his face. Leaning in, he slides their mouths together and Booker responds softly. Around them, the rain begins to quieten down.

“Will you say goodbye to Nicky before you go?”

Booker smiles. “Yeah.” Taking a half-step back, he thumbs the corner of Joe’s lips. “Will we be okay?”

“You are our brother, our friend, our companion, and yes, our lover. You have and always will be more to us than words could ever say,” Joe whispers. Booker almost gives in then; almost says that they should maybe try once more. Give them another go and not be so quick to give up. But the moment passes and he kisses Joe on the cheek.

“Meet us in Zurich in three weeks. We’ve got a job that could use your expertise.” Joe’s voice calls out to him as he walks back into the house. Booker nods, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

[amydancepants-peralta]

For the most recent prompts, no. 35 with peraltiago?

I’d love to!  🌟 Here’s a little something for 35: “Your stray red item turned my whites pink.”

love, in full colour 

Today was turning out to be a pretty great Sunday for Amy, as she stretches her legs out on her boyfriend Jake’s surprisingly comfortable couch and presses play on the documentary he had so sweetly recorded for her.  Weekends off had always been a favourite of hers, but if there’s anything that the past nine months has told her, it's that weekends off when you’re dating Jake Peralta are just so much better.  

She had woken up this morning to Jake’s familiar sleepy cuddles, morning stubble scratching against her skin and sending tingles up and down her spine as his arms wrapped around her waist, convincing her in approximately 2.3 seconds that sleeping in definitely wasn’t such a bad thing (especially when it eventually leads to … other things).  It had been a long week; made all the longer by a perp that had decided to play cat and mouse with the detectives of the nine-nine, and even after they’d stumbled out of bed and toasted bagels for breakfast, Amy genuinely didn’t have any desire to have a day any more productive than TV, blankets, and (most importantly), Jake.  

It had been close to half an hour ago that he’d slipped out of the apartment for the second time, basket in hand as he’d headed back down to the laundry room to collect the washing he’d put on earlier.  Rebuffing her offers of help with a swift kiss to her lips, he’d simply reminded Amy of the program ready and waiting for her, throwing out a “Love you!” as he’d headed for the door, and honestly if Amy’s Sunday hadn’t already been looking great, that moment right there just absolutely topped it.  

(It’s been months since they’d started saying it - those three little words that had seemed so terrifying but actually were up there with her favourite phrases ever - but they still managed to spark a tiny ball of happiness inside her every single time the words came out of Jake’s mouth.  She supposes that this is what love is, really - sour candy flavoured kisses and laughter in the darkness - and she’s so thankful that she found it in Jake.)

The documentary has been playing for ten or so minutes before Amy’s index finger begins hovering over the pause button, one part still interested in the manufacturing process of the world’s oldest brass instruments, and one (slightly louder) part feeling strangely empty without her boyfriend’s warm chest to rest up against.  (Even though she knows he would spending the entire program playing on his phone, there’s something about his presence that just makes everything … better.)

Amy’s still in Consideration Mode when she hears Jake’s key slide into the lock, and it’s ridiculous how big her smile begins to get, but as she tips her face up to catch his eyes her lips falter on their ascent.  

There’s an obvious air of frustration surrounding him as he skulks past her, holding the plastic basket close to his hip as he heads towards the bed on the other side of his loft-style apartment.  It bounces slightly against the recently remade duvet as Jake dumps the contents onto the mattress, his frustrations quickly bubbling to the surface, and without hesitation Amy forgoes the remote control, standing quickly to join her boyfriend by his bed.  

“Everything okay?”

He nods, letting out a soft grunt as he half-heartedly starts folding the newly cleaned clothes, and honestly Amy is trying not to pay attention to his folding technique, but her fingers are just itching to take over.  There’s still a slight pout on his face, small enough for her to pick up on, and it takes precedent over any Kondo-like techniques that she might be dying to demonstrate.  “You sure?”

Jake gives her another nod, followed quickly by a shrug.  “I mean, there’s one little problem with the laundry that I don’t know how to fix, but … it’s no biggie.”

“A problem with your laundry?”

“Yeah.”  He sighs, balling up the t-shirt in his hand before dropping it back into the pile, using his free hand to run through his hair, which has just started to get long enough to curl.  “Turns out there was a stray item of yours that was in my laundry.  I mean, there were a few things, and that makes total sense, but there was one item in particular - a red item, actually - that I think might be the culprit.”

“The culprit?”

“So … I might not have noticed have been paying close attention when I transferred everything to the dryer, and well …”  he lifts up a pair of socks, similar to the ones he wore to bed last week except now they were a deep pink, and Amy tries her best to stifle her giggle.  “There’s like … another three pairs just like it,” he adds with a mumble.    

“But!  May I present to you, detective: the guilty party.”  Transferring the socks to his left, his right hand digs through the pile before pulling out a lacy red bra that Amy may have recently bought purely on the knowledge that it was one of Jake’s favourite colours on her.

(To be fair, he might have told her that all of the colours were his favourite colours on her, but she’s definitely seen a positive response to the colour red in the past.)

“Alleged guilty party, thank you very much,” Amy begins, grinning to take the edge off of her response.  “Plus, you didn’t seem to mind that bra so much last night, if I recall correctly.”

She reaches for the offending item, and Jake’s fingers tighten around the lace, holding her bra close to his chest, and she giggles at his reflexive response.  “Despite my flinging it across the room, I can confirm that I did - and DO - indeed love it.  Almost as much as I love the person who was wearing it.”

Her cheeks begin to turn the same colour as the socks in her boyfriend’s hand, and Amy cocks her head to the side.  “I love you too, babe.  So … what’s the problem you can’t figure out?  If it’s the pink you’re worried about, a bit of bleach will get that right out.”

“Huh?”  He lifts his hand up, glancing at the item that Amy is pointing to.  “Oh.  Nah.  I don’t care about the colour.  You and I both know that I would rock this pink.  I can already tell it’s going to highlight my ankles in the perfect way.  Really accentuate my curves, you know?  I just ..”

Even before they were something more than partners, Amy could see through Jake’s ‘make a joke to conceal how I’m really feeling about something’ technique, and today is no exception.  Taking the smallest of steps closer to him, she softens her voice ever so slightly.  “Jake?”

His shoulders slump to the floor, and his right hand releases her lingerie.  “I just … I feel so stupid.  I’m trying to be the perfectly domesticated boyfriend, a responsible adult who cleans up after himself and doesn’t leave empty pizza boxes everywhere.”  His eyes drop to the floor briefly before flicking back up to meet hers, and the sincerity in his gaze cuts Amy to the quick.  “You know, the kinda guy that doesn’t need supervising in the laundry room, or whatever.”  His hand closes tightly around the socks before dropping it back into the pile, and when he looks back up at Amy she can see the disappointment stretched across his face.  “And obviously, I completely failed.  I wasn’t going to say anything, but .. I dunno, I guess maybe I don’t want to keep things from you or something.”

In all honesty, Amy’s not entirely sure what she was expecting Jake’s answer to be, but it definitely wasn’t that.  She stands still in front of him for the longest minute as a result, mouth open slightly as her mind races to absorb his response.    

He takes her silence as a request for more information, and shuffles his sneaker covered feet against the floorboards.  “It’s just … I know that people think that you’re way too good for me.  And to be fair, they’re not entirely wrong.  I was just hoping that I could find a way to bridge the gap a little … try and make it a little less obvious that I’m punching well above my weight.  And then I couldn’t even do the damn laundry right.”

At any given moment, Amy could present to any asking stranger a million reasons why Jake Peralta was the man that had captured her heart, and the notion that the justification was coming from her very own boyfriend was making her soul ache more than a little bit.  

Anybody that thought he wasn’t good enough for her could go jump in the Gowanus Canal, for all she cared.  But the thought that Jake considered it to be true?  Nuh-uh.  Not on her watch.

She moves closer to him, close enough to smell the oddly intoxicating body wash he uses - the one that always seems to get her pulse racing, but she suspects that it’s more due to the user than the product itself.  “Jake.  You specifically ordered dinner last night from the Chinese restaurant that was exactly thirty-five minutes away from your apartment, knowing that I would be over in twenty and you wanted to give me a chance to settle before the food arrived.”

“That, and they do the best dumplings.  But yeah, you’re right - mostly the time thing.”  

“I woke up this morning on a cloud of a mattress, one that you bought purely so that I would be able actually sleep when I stayed over.”

Jake’s mouth twists to one side, and after a beat he folds his arms across his chest.  “I just wanted you to feel comfortable … with the added bonus of you staying over more often.  Although I have to admit, once you’ve realised you have a dumpster mattress, it’s actually really hard to ignore the springs that dig into your back in the middle of the night.”

Amy’s smile grows bigger, reaching out to rest her palm flat against his chest.  “And then you made us both bagels, with extra cream cheese - something that I know you don’t normally have in your fridge, which tells me you went grocery shopping just in case I stayed over.  Not to mention the documentary on brass instruments that you ‘happened to see scheduled and just recorded’, because you knew I would want to watch it eventually.”

“It actually looked pretty cool,” he mumbles, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to make it seem like a lesser deal than it actually was.  

“And don’t think I didn’t notice the freshly cleaned sheets, and the space you’d made for me in your bathroom cabinet months ago.”

“…. Are you … journaling all of this somewhere?”

Letting out a soft chuckle, Amy shakes her head.  “My point is, you are rocking the boyfriend role, babe.  Seriously.  You have been so sweet and attentive, without ever getting too much, and honestly I’ve just had the best time with you.  I hope you know just how much I appreciate it … how much I appreciate you, and how great you make me feel whenever you’re around.  Seriously, you should feel my heart sometimes, I feel like it’s going to beat right out of my chest.”

He still has a slightly wary look on his face, but as Amy wraps her arms around his shoulders, crossing her wrists behind his neck, Jake’s hands wrap around her waist in automatic response.  “I love you, Jake Peralta.  For everything you are, exactly as you come.”

A slight blush begins to wash across his cheeks, and oh, how she just wants to kiss this ridiculous notion right off of his lips.  “I love you too, Ames.  You’re just … the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”  His grip on her hips grows a little tighter, and his voice lowers.  “And I’m sorry if all of this sounded totally stupid, I just … want to make you as happy as you’ve made me.” 

“Mission accomplished, babe.  You’re everything I want, I don’t give two hoots what anybody else thinks.”  Punctuating her sentence with a soft kiss, she rests her hands on either side of his neck and raises her eyebrows suggestively.  “Now, why don’t we take care of this laundry so the bed is nice and clear, and then I can show you just how much you are the right person for me.”

“Noice.  Just checking though … that doesn’t mean ‘throw everything to the floor so that I can immediately ravage my super-hot boyfriend’, does it?”

Cocking her head to the side, Amy grins.  “You should definitely trust your instincts on that one.”

“10-4.  We’re going to fold the heck out of this laundry.”

*

It’s a several years older Jake Peralta that fishes into his sock drawer one early afternoon, desperately looking for those just thick enough socks that he hasn’t seen in months but is sure he hasn’t thrown away.  They’re tucked up right along the furtherest edge of the drawer, in a position that Amy’s engagement ring had once also called home, and he grins when his fingers wrap around the hidden treasure.

They’re a little less pink these days, having been through the wash several times since their re-colouring, but he can still make out the slight tinge when he holds them up to the light.  Pulling them on with vigour, he makes his way back out to the living room to join his wife and son - knowing that both are looking forward to the start of their midday movie session - and also just as eager for some much-needed Family Time.  

“Okay, made it,”  Jake announces, lifting up the bag of candy he’d snagged from the kitchen as he’d passed, “and I brought snacks.”  From his left, his son Mac looks up from his position snuggled into Amy’s side, and upon clocking Jake’s sudden appearance he beams (the kind of smile that just makes Jake’s heart soar, every. time.), scrambling in his clumsy toddler-esque style to climb onto Jake’s lap, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck in the very best way that his still so chonky arms will allow.  Casting the bag of snacks to the side, Jake whispers “ready to watch the movie, little man?”, reaching out to tweak Mac’s button nose (a thankful inheritance from his mother) when he nods.  

Turning his head further to the left as he wraps his arms around his son, Jake catches Amy’s eyes, noticing them sparkle as she takes it all in.  Shuffling ever so slightly, Jake moves an inch to the left so that his left arm can rest on his wife’s legs, and she curls her fingers around his with one hand as she presses play on the remote with the other.  

His crossed feet plonk onto the coffee table in front of him, and as he glances briefly at his socks before turning his attention back to the movie, Jake cannot help but think of the younger version of himself that had felt so insecure about his relationship with Amy.  She is, after all, the love of his life (a fact that perhaps he hadn’t been ready to acknowledge back then, but one that was true within weeks of them dating all the same), and he was hers.  Maybe if he’d been able to see that, he wouldn’t have taken the little things like a pair of newly coloured socks so hard.

Amy’s fingers squeeze his gently, and after glancing at her from the corner of his eye, Jake picks up on the fact that she’s just noticed his choice in attire.  It would appear that the pink tinge is just as noticeable to her and it is to him - a fact that makes his heart more than a little bit happy - and when she tugs him a little closer he closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against hers in a chaste but loving kiss.

He cannot deny the smile that is growing on his face as they both pull away, returning their attention to the screen in front of them but keeping their fingers linked all the while.  This right here, was everything that he needed - and undoubtedly, everything he deserved - and he genuinely cannot wait to raise Mac together with Amy, and show their son just how amazing the world can be when you always have love on your side.