#and whose wealth will just get passed to whoever’s next in line? there is no real harm that is reduced in that situation

[honeyandpumpkins]

i think it’s weird that displaying glee at random privileged people dying has become shorthand for how progressive you are, as if it demonstrates a level of enlightenment that is above having empathy for people who hold a level of privilege in the world and therefore are “the bad guys”

i also think it’s weird that freak accidents or instances of death are framed as “justice.” like how does a random billionaire dying lead to a more just and equitable society?

i ALSO think it’s weird that expressing any kind of horror at the circumstances of a privileged person’s death is framed as “simping for billionaires” or some shit. as if a personal emotional reaction to someone’s horrific death and the impact that death would have on loved ones precludes any level of class consciousness

[batmans-cheerleader]

atlas in his sleepin

includes: dick & bruce

wc: 1.5k | rated g | m.list | cross-posted on ao3

a/n: this is essentially 1.5k of bruce being soft over dick lol (title from movement by hozier). but yeah just fluff, nostalgia, and bruce being melancholy but loving

please reblog <33

Not letting himself think too much about it, Bruce pulled the covers back, easing under them. Dick always ran warm so it was no surprise that he’d already made a small bubble of body heat. He was on his side, curled into the pillow, and before Bruce had disturbed them, the covers had been pulled up almost over his face.

Putting them back and tucking them in around him, Bruce couldn’t resist the urge to smooth his hand through Dick’s hair, which was as soft and silky as it has always been. Dick sighed a little but didn’t wake up.

Swallowing, Bruce laid back, pulling the comforter over himself too. It was hard to not wrap an arm around Dick, tuck him into his side like he always used to, but he didn’t want to disturb him, break the fragile silence the room had fallen into.

Bruce sighed as hot water pounded at the knots in his shoulder, running down his back. Patrol had been rough, as had his day, and even before that, as had his week. He��d been busy at WayneTech for most of it, straddling the line between Brucie Wayne and actually getting stuff done.

The week had been long, and he was just looking forward to falling into bed, and then preferably, sleeping in until noon, Alfred’s breakfast be damned.

Turning off the shower, Bruce dried off, pulling on a pair of his nicer silk pajamas. Even he deserved to be comfortable, to use the exorbitant wealth he had. Who cared if all of his kids teased him about them, claiming their sweats and t-shirts were better?

Hanging his towel on the hook, Bruce opened the door that connected to his room, steam billowing out from around him. The room was dim, but years of practice at seeing in the dark allowed him to make out more details than a normal person would be able to, mainly the lump in his bed that hadn’t been there before.

Stepping closer, Bruce saw a tuft of black hair, which didn’t really narrow down the list of possibilities. Or, well, the list of children it could be. It was only when he pulled the covers back slightly, trying his best to not wake whoever had taken up residence there, that he realized it was Dick.

Bruce couldn’t remember the last time Dick had slept in his bed. While he was home, that is. Often, Bruce’d come home from trips or long missions to find some evidence of his eldest’s presence in the room, but since Dick never brought it up, Bruce didn’t either, not wanting to make Dick feel like he should stop.

Dick used to sleep with him sometimes, back when he was Robin. At first, he was hesitant, still angry and dead-set on revenge, terrified of admitting he needed comfort, but as the years passed and their relationship grew, Dick soon treated Bruce’s bed like his own, jumping in eagerly whenever he felt like it. Bruce couldn’t count the times he’d awoken to Dick vaulting into his pillows or flipping onto the foot of the bed, wild and free.

Bruce hadn’t minded, of course. Never could. Sleeping with someone else was foreign and awkward at first, but waking up with a small head on his shoulder or cold toes pressed into his leg became comforting. He soon preferred it to waking up alone, even though Dick was just in the next room over.

When Dick had stopped crawling into bed with him, it took longer than Bruce was willing to admit for him to learn how to sleep well again. The sheets were just too free, the space too large. Many a sleepless night had been spent down in the cave.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Bruce stared down at Dick, whose normally smooth brow was furrowed even in sleep. That was concerning, nearly as much as finding him in his bed was. It wasn’t like Dick thought he was on a mission or something- he had no plans to go out of town on Wayne or League business, and, as far as he knew, Dick had planned on being in Bludhaven for the weekend.

Stop, Bruce told himself. Dick obviously came here to sleep, so you should let him do that.

Whatever had happened could wait until the morning, or, at least Dick thought it could. And since Dick was here, had come to him, Bruce would follow his lead by sleeping as well.

Quietly getting ready for bed, Bruce debated whether he should just slip in beside Dick or not. He knew his bed was a source of comfort to Dick - lately, without him in it - and he didn’t want to make Dick feel like it was no longer a safe option, not when Dick was already hiding his use of it.

On the other hand, though, Dick knew he was going to be returning to his room and going to bed. And he had chosen Bruce’s room anyway.

Not letting himself think too much about it, Bruce pulled the covers back, easing under them. Dick always ran warm so it was no surprise that he’d already made a small bubble of body heat. He was on his side, curled into the pillow, and before Bruce had disturbed them, the covers had been pulled up almost over his face.

Putting them back and tucking them in around him, Bruce couldn’t resist the urge to smooth his hand through Dick’s hair, which was as soft and silky as it has always been. Dick sighed a little but didn’t wake up.

Swallowing, Bruce laid back, pulling the comforter over himself too. It was hard to not wrap an arm around Dick, press him into his side like he always used to, but he didn’t want to disturb him, break the fragile silence the room had fallen into.

Sleep came for Bruce more quickly than he had expected, the exhaustion he had felt before seeing Dick returning with a vengeance.

*

When Bruce awoke, it was to the bed moving slightly, shifting underneath his back. Blindly, he reached out, catching Dick right as he was getting up.

“Where are you going?” he asked, clearing his throat. “It’s still dark out.”

Dick froze. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh because the alternative was to start crying. “I’ve told you before, chum. Wake me whenever, wherever. I’ll always get up for you.”

“That was for when I was a kid.” In the dark, Bruce couldn’t make out the exact look in his eyes but he knew that tone of voice.

“Dick,” he said, firm but soft. “That’s for forever. The offer didn’t just time out when you turned eighteen. You know that’s not how it works.”

Silence. “I know,” Dick said eventually. “I’m just…”

“You want to talk about it?” Bruce asked, and Dick shrugged, shoulder muscles bunching up under his t-shirt.

“Not really. I’m sorry for waking you,” he said again. “I should just go.”

Pushing himself up, Bruce kept his posture loose, welcoming. Unthreatening. “You don’t have to talk about it. Nor do you have to go.” He still didn’t know what had made Dick come to him in the first place, but he didn’t want him to regret it. “Sweetheart,” he said, “it’s alright.”

Dick scrubbed a hand over his face, falling back onto the bed. “God, B you’re so bad with words.” The fondness was evident in his voice and it made Bruce feel all sorts of warm.

“You know what I mean, though,” Bruce said, giving into his earlier urge and pulling Dick closer to him. Dick moved with him easily, not resisting. “You always do.”

“Not always” Dick protested half-heartedly, and Bruce knew he was thinking about their particularly nasty fights, the ones that lasted far too long.

“Not always,” agreed Bruce. “But we make up for it, in the end. You know,” he continued, “even when we fought, I still wished you’d come sleep with me, crawl in like you did when you were a kid.”

“Really?” Dick asked. “You liked having me here with you?”

“Like,” Bruce corrected, courteously ignoring Dick’s small jerk. “Chum, I know things haven’t always been easy for us, but never have I ever not wanted you with me. Well, sometimes, it was for your safety, and-”

“I get it, B,” said Dick, cutting him off. Bruce could hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t know why I came here tonight. It wasn’t even like something terrible happened. Everything just felt off.”

“I’m glad you did,” Bruce replied honestly. “And I’m sorry your day was like that. Sometimes they just are, and nothing but sleep can make it better. Or a nice, hot bath, but I know your apartment in Bludhven doesn’t have a bathtub.”

“Creep,” Dick whispered affectionately. “Thanks, Bruce.”

“Anytime, son,” Bruce said, threat thick. “Now we should probably get some sleep. That is, if you’re staying?”

“After all of your pleading and whining how could I not?” Dick snuggled more firmly into Bruce’s side and Bruce buried his face in his hair, inhaling deep. He still smelled the same, all ozone and oranges, and Bruce felt so violently nostalgic it made it hard to breathe for a moment. “Night, B. Love you.”

“I love you too,” Bruce managed. They went quiet then, but neither slept. Bruce just breathed, breathed in the scent of his son, breathed in the feeling of heady relief that he’d gotten him to stay, and breathed in the lingering traces of the laundry detergent Alfred used, which was the same brand as all of those years ago when Dick had first started sleeping with him.

In the last decade, so much has changed, Bruce thought. But, he amended, finally feeling Dick’s breaths even out, slowing, deepening. Some things never do.

leviathans-watching’s work - please do not copy, repost, or claim as your own

[theravencawsatmidnight]

Part Two

W! Drinking, stabby stab, attempted Non C but it does not happen .

Touya,21.The drunk Future King whose only interest is whores and brothels

Natsuo.18. The Middle Sibling who is just like his father

Shoto.16.the youngest and most reserved, has no interest in marriage but would like a companion

Reader is a rebellious princess in a falling Kingdom and is sent off to live with the Todorokis in hopes of marriage to save her family. But Reader has other plans in mind.

tags/ @no-post-ghost @yoonbbyboy @pinkjellychan @squeaky-ducky​

You wasted no time ditching the family for the courtyard after dashing out of the carriage and right past Enji, you were over Natsuo and his creepy behaviour and over this whole arrangement.  With a groan you stopped next to some trees and slipped between two large oaks to conceal yourself for a minute. You sat down hugging your knees panting slightly. It was a pretty courtyard, full of flowers funny enough since only men seemed to lived in this rotten castle. 

 So what now? The King would not be happy at your actions but if he tried to hurt you it would hinder his plans for his precious sons. So you were safe for the most part. The oldest, Touya did not really seem interested in courting you anyway, to focused on his drinking and keeping his brother in line.  

 The thought of Natsuo made you gag and cough a bit, what an awful person and he's gonna be King eventually? Maybe you could cut his balls off to save whoever marries him.  Sighing you relaxed against the tree letting one leg down admiring the clouds that rolled on by, the sky seemed more blue here than at your Kingdom too you, weird. 

 “Uhm…?” said a voice, it sounded skittish.

You rolled your head to the left to see a boy about Shotos age looking at you, he had royal clothes on and had crazy green hair. You tilted your head at this boy and brought your legs down so you were criss cross. 

 “Yes?” you asked curiously

“Is Shoto around?”

“I think so , the main entrance.”

“O-oh uh, okay, i can wait here then. May i sit by you? My names Izuku of Midoriya Manor”

“Sure kid,” you scooted over a bit for him to join you.”Y/n of Alastar”

“Oh thanks !” he sat by you but seemed to be looking around

“Something on your mind?”

“Oh uh n-no, im just waiting for Shoto, his father does not a-aprove of me so we have too …” he trailed off rubbing the back of his head.

“Hm? Well your safe with me kid, i doubt that big ape approves of me too.”

“Are you to be wed?”

“Sadly.”

“Uh- uhm!,” he rubbed his hands together. “You seem really cool and can protect yourself..” he told you, pointing to the knife on your person. “Just watch out for the middle sibling okay?”

You got up patting your butt free of dirt and Shoto squeezed through the trees to see you and Izuku.  Shoto hugged Izuku and the two sighed with relief to see each other. 

“y/n. Touya wants to see you to show you around, hes at the stables, around the corner from here”

“Okay Shoto, izuku was waiting for you, i never saw him though.”

 The youngest gave you a gentle smile and a nod as thanks. 

**

Squeezing back through the trees you strolled around the courtyard admiring the flowers before meeting up with Touya. No sign of the King or his creepy son , the courtyard had a large apple tree in its center but it only had one apple on it and it looked to be rotten which was weird. It's definitely apple season. Hm.  thinking nothing of it you made your way around the large castle to see the stables and Touya petting a large black and white mare of the face in long strokes.

“Whos a pretty girl ? you you you” he cooed at the sleepy horse.

“Dont take you for a animal lover” you joked walking up to him. “Wheres idiot 1 and 2?”

“My father is giving Natsuo a talking to so im trusted to show you around” he pointed to the castle “thats the castle” he pointed to a stray window at the top “thats your room”

“A five star tour i see”  you pet the horse admiring its coat. “ lovely colors”

“Reminds me of my life from before” he told you while taking out his flask to drink.

“Hm? Whats that mean? And whos this Izuku that was sneaking around?”

Touya sat down in a empty stable drinking more before answering you. “Thats Shotos boyfriend, dont tell anyone or i will kill you myself. Im the only one who knows”

“i wouldn't do that Touya, he said Enji does not approve of him?”

“Yep” he fell into some hay drinking more. “They want to leave when they turn 18 and have a farm, im helping make it happen”

You sat down by the hay watching this man drink his life away , he had not one care in the world, unless it was Shoto related. 

*

Some time passed and you and Touya were sharing the flask now.

“So .. what did you mean by your life from before?”

“Mmmm… i was going to be a father, at least.. Thats what i was told.” he sat up pushing his hair outta his face. She was a brothel worker and i had gotten her pregnant.” 

 You listened to him taking note of the hint of sadness in his voice.

“I was excited, i wanted to be a dad.” he told you looking over at the horse.”she had black and white hair, i called her my little… berry.., i did everything right, i told her she could live with me and be a Princess and we could be happy. But i also told her i did not want her working the brothel anymore obviously,” 

  He brought his knees up laying his elbows over them looking at the ground between his legs. “She told me she would stop but something felt weird so i checked on her and she was still working it. I confronted her and she said she needed the money for the baby and i told her i have more money than i know what to do with, the months went on and she eventually stopped, her bump was small and everytime i felt it , i dont know. It felt off. One day i woke up early and looked over at her, she was asleep on her stomach and .. she was too far align to be doing that.” he looked up at you, his eyes slightly red. “ she lied to me, for my status, my wealth, my name, it was some kind of material to seem like a bump, she tried to tell me it was my fault.”

“Touya…”

He ignored you. “What she said stung more than the faked pregnancy. I had to know, for sure. So i contacted a witch and she performed some kind of spell on me and ..and..”

You moved closer, placing your hand on his arm , he took a big drink and lowered his head again. “ i cant… have children… “

You pulled this man into your arms trying your best to comfort him. He just cursed up a storm and told you how excited he was, how he was going to move away as soon as Shoto left with izuku and start an even bigger family with the woman he loved. Touya wanted his own Kingdom but in a quiet place no one knew about where he could be happy.

“Everyday… i curse Natsuo, he does not deserve to have children” he pushed himself off you to wipe his eyes. “ no one knows this about me y/n”

“Touya its safe with me”

“I have no interest in getting married anymore, i dont care.”

“Thats perfectly okay Touya”

He sniffled not looking at you. “Thank you for listening, you should get settled into your room, top floor last door on the left.”

“Youll be okay?” you asked, getting up

“Nope” he got up walking past you “but thats just how i like it” he waved not looking back as he headed into town.

*

The castle was full of expensive things: statues, paintings, rugs, swords. Anything you could think of. Big wide open rooms with ceilings higher than you had ever seen. It smelled like the kitchen was to your right and the main rooms looked to be up the rug covered stairs. You could hear Enji yelling at Natsuo when you got to the top , you snuck by peeking in every room you passed, looked like bedrooms. You heard a door slam and looked over your shoulder to see Natsuo brooding outside the door talking to himself. 

   You slipped into your room and scanned around the giant room, pretty bed, too girly honestly. A wooden vanity with glass in it and a couple windows. You checked outside them all , dammit. Nothing to really grab on to for a quick escape? You thought on it inspecting more and suddenly you were grabbed from behind and flipped over and pressed against the window, your hair blowing in the wind. 

 Natsuo was pinning you down looking very angry with you. You stuck your chin out at him reaching down for you knife.

“Yes ? your highness?” “I should … should… “ he pressed harder into your shoulders. “You . so mean, you made a fool of .. of me? In front of my father? I ?” his gaze dropped and he grabbed the knife tossing it out the window . his voice got louder and he shook you. “ they tell me i should kill you !! but!! My voices arent always!!.. Correct so …”

“Let me go !! get these gross hands off me !” you fought his grip and he threw you onto the bed pinning you from behind. “ why are you so … SO SO difficult? Im a future KING im in CHARGE not YOU” he reached back fussing with his belt and you got very still.

“Is that why your upset hm? I hurt your ego?” you asked looking back”pitty” with a quick snap of your arm a second knife shot out of your left sleeve and stabbed Natsuo in the arm. He cried out falling back and you pushed him out fo your room. “Sorry, no middle siblings allowed” you slammed the door locking it and pushing some heavy furniture in front of the door for the time being. 

 You could hear Natsuo crying in pain in the hall but you did not really care, it sounded like he was walking away and you finally… finally..alone. You sunk down to your knees” what the fuck man…”

*

[xwickedxspiritx]

I have no idea if there’s a subsect of people who both love the Captive Prince novels and the Buffy The Vampire Slayer TV show, but as a person who adores both, I couldn’t get this AU out of my head.

For those who haven’t watched BTVS, it’s a 90s show about a teenage girl who becomes the Slayer -- a young woman who’s gifted extraordinary strength and fighting abilities in order to fend off vampires and other demons.

Let’s say Captive Prince characters exist in this world, in the modern day. I imagine Laurent comes from a long line of Watchers, the (usually male) scholars who are paired with Slayers to guide them. Basically, Slayers are expected to handle the fighting, Watchers usually stand on the sidelines and offer knowledge about demons’ weaknesses or when the next apocalypse will show up.

Aleron and Laurent’s uncle are Watchers, though they’ve never been paired with a Slayer. There’s only one Slayer at a time, and her powers get passed on to the next girl every couple of years (they have short life expectancies, unfortunately.) Auguste is a Watcher-in-training, and he’s totally against the current system. He think it’s unfair for Watchers to expect Slayers to do all the fighting and take on 99 percent of the risks, while Watchers usually sit back, maybe offer some advice, and also make a lot of money while Slayers get nothing.

His opinions don’t really make him popular, even though people are predisposed to love Auguste. They think it’s brave, but other Watchers fear that they’ll actually be expected to share some of their wealth with Slayers, or to take up weapons. But Auguste trains day in and day out, knowing he can’t match up to a Slayer’s superhuman strength but wanting to make himself a partner that could be relied upon.

At 13, Laurent’s dream is that he can follow in his brother’s footsteps to some degree. He hasn’t really started training to fight, since his brother worries he’d get overzealous and try to fight actually fight demons, but he reads as much as he can of demonology lore. Auguste is super proud of him, and they plan that when Auguste gets paired with a Slayer, Laurent will come along and be the brains of the operation.

Slayers fight lots of demons, but killing vampires is their primary fight. Vampires are demons who used to be human but were turned, losing their lives and their souls. They don’t age, but they can be killed with a stake in the heart, decapitation, fire, sunlight or lots of holy water. 

The most infamous vampire of the day is Damianos. He and his brother Kastor were once sons of a prosperous noble family in Greece a few centuries back, but a beautiful blonde vampire named Jokaste turned them both. For 300 years or so, they’ve traveled as a group throughout Europe, wreaking carnage wherever they go. I imagine Jokaste would play them off each other, continuing relationships with both at the same time. Damianos doesn’t really care, but Kastor nurses a bitter jealousy.

As vampires, they’re not capable of remorse. Atrocities are commonplace. Damianos delights in finding strong warriors he can defeat and kill, or beautiful maidens he can feed from. Perhaps he’s even killed one or two Slayers.

When they’re sighted in France present-day, the de Vere family goes on high alert. But Laurent’s uncle is scheming. Maybe he’s after powerful, extremely dangerous magical artifacts that the de Vere family has been entrusted with, but which Aleron and Auguste keep away from him.

So Laurent’s uncle makes his move and kills his brother. But he sets it up to look like it’s Damianos who’s responsible -- Damianos, who’s known as one of the most dangerous demons in the world. Vampires aren’t super high on the demon totem pole, but Damianos fights with a skill no other vampire possesses.

Auguste believes the lie wholeheartedly and makes up his mind to go after Damianos. Let’s say the currently Slayer is also a Frenchwoman, maybe a younger Vannes, and they’re friends, though not officially partnered. They go after Damianos, who doesn’t even know, or care, about the de Vere family.

It goes badly. Damianos might not know what’s incensed Auguste and Vannes, but he likes a good fight in any case. He’s delighted, really, that two strong fighters sought him out instead of the other way around -- and he looks forward to killing them.

They put up a good fight, but Damianos is skilled on a level they didn’t expect. He gets a hit on Vannes that knocks her down hard, and Auguste, who’s been disarmed of a sword he was wielding, sees that she’s about to die. And suddenly, through all the grief and pain, he feels selfish. 

If Vannes dies, the world loses a Slayer who has experience and hardiness, who could still save so many lives. If she dies, her powers get passed on, but they have no idea who’ll get them next, and Auguste has learned what a terrible burden it is to be the Slayer -- to be forced to give up your life to an often thankless duty.

So when Damianos raises the sword to cut Vannes down, Auguste leaps in the way and takes the blow. He tells Vannes to run, because while he dragged her  into this fight for vengeance, Damianos isn’t the biggest fish to fry in terms of saving the world from demons.

Vannes hates herself for it, but she does run. And Auguste resists to the end, but he dies.

Auguste takes his last breath while Laurent struggles to get to him, held back by his uncle. They’ve been in a hidden vantage point. Laurent was so sure Auguste and Vannes would win, and when the tide turns, his uncle holds him back, saying no, Laurent, your brother wouldn’t want you to throw your life away, would he?

So Laurent watches, like the kind of Watcher he and Auguste were so determined to reject. He watches as Damianos looks at Auguste’s corpse without a care in the world. He watches as Damianos licks blood off his fingers and grins with satisfaction. 

Damianos leaves France shortly after, and seven long years begin for Laurent. Years where he learns that his uncle doesn’t have his best interests in mind after all. Where he suffers abuse, and realizes that his uncle could care less about a Watcher’s duty -- he’s taking the de Vere family’s dangerous artifacts and selling them to whoever can pay for them. Maybe he’s been in league with, and is scheming to take over, Wolfram & Hart, an international law firm that specializes in enabling demons’ interests. Evil, but pays well.

By the time Laurent’s twenty, he’s a full-fledged demon hunter all on his own. He knows he’ll never have the power a Slayer would have, but he’s trained himself ruthlessly just like in canon. He’s matched that with an encyclopedic knowledge of demonology and the occult that’s unmatched by any other current Watcher.

Of course, Laurent’s uncle campaigns among the Watcher’s Council to convince them that Laurent is unfit for the position, that he’s dangerously obsessed with the vampire Damianos and would only get a slayer attached to him killed. The Council agrees, and even with all of Laurent’s skill and knowledge, he’s never invited to any Watcher business.

So he goes freelance. Laurent tracks and kills demons across France, maybe venturing into other countries as well. He builds his own network with other demon hunters, and gets a reputation of being ruthless and unbeatable.

With him is Berenger, another Watcher-in-training who was friends with Auguste. Maybe he had to leave the Watchers because of his lover -- Ancel, an incubus. Obviously, the Watchers aren’t big on human/demon couples. Then the rest of the gang -- Jord, Lazar, Orlant, etc. Perhaps Aimeric tags along by Jord’s side as a plant from his uncle.

(I wish Captive Prince had more usable female characters that could also fit in with this. Let’s say Laurent has a lot of female cousins from his mother’s side who are badass demon fighters.)

But his uncle wasn’t wrong that Laurent has an obsession. A hatred and quest for vengeance that kept him going through the worst years -- his desire to kill Damianos, the soulless vampire.

But Damianos hasn’t been seen in years, pretty much since the day he killed Auguste. Unknown to Laurent, Damianos got himself in trouble soon after he left France. He kidnapped and tortured Kashel (sorry!) and then carelessly left her body to be found by her clan of powerful witches. 

Obviously, Halvik and the rest of the clan are enraged. They resolve to curse him with a punishment far worse than death, something that will make him suffer for the rest of his eternal life.

They give him back his human soul.

Without a soul, Damianos could kill, rape and otherwise destroy without any pangs of conscience. While the demon retained the human Damen’s memories and some parts of his personality, as a vampire he was slave to his basest instincts. His lust, both for fighting and sex, and his lack of empathy for what other people feel and experience.

But when his soul is returned, Damen’s better instincts come rushing back -- his sense of honor, his capacity for love, his belief in fair play and doing the right thing. He’s ripped out of the afterlife and forced to confront 300+ years of senseless violence and brutality, and to remember each person whose life he took or ruined.

At first, he’s lost. He goes to Jokaste and Kastor, but they reject him. Jokaste’s not a fan of his return to morality, and Kastor jumps at the chance to ditch Damen for good and have Jokaste to himself.

Let’s say that for a few years, Damen despairs. What does a vampire with a soul do with his life? He can’t live as a human, because he won’t age, he can’t walk in daylight without catching on fire, and he still needs blood to survive (though now he buys pigs’ blood from the butcher.) He wants to make up for what he’s done, but he has no idea how. He returns to his hometown in Greece, seeking some sort of comfort.

There, he meets Nikandros. He’s a fledgling demon hunter who only started hunting demons because his family was killed by them. Most humans have no idea demons exist, so he got thrown into that world headfirst. No superpowers, but he’s athletic and strategic.

He realizes what Damen is pretty quickly, though he knows nothing of his history. He’s ready to kill him without mercy, since no one’s ever heard of a “good vampire.” But Damen wins his trust -- maybe Nikandros gets outnumbered in a fight, and Damen swoops in to help him. Eventually, they team up, and Damen finds a new purpose -- and a means of redemption -- in fighting other demons and keeping innocent people safe.

Meanwhile, Laurent’s pissed that in seven years, there’s been no new sightings of Damianos or any word on his exploits. Damianos was never one to hide, so it’s baffling that he basically disappears. Laurent never considers that he might have been killed -- he saw for himself just how good he was.

As much as he wants to devote himself to hunting Damianos down, there’s the rest of the world to worry about. He also knows that if he confront Damianos too early, he’ll throw away his life for nothing. So he keeps training, keeps killing other demons, and tries not to think about the countless other victims Damianos surely must be racking up.

Suddenly, he gets word that a potential apocalypse might be happening soon in Greece. Vannes died about a year after Auguste (though she lived to save the world a few times in that period), and currently there’s a very new Slayer in Mexico who’s pretty untrained. Still, the Watcher’s Council wants to send her anyway, fairly unconcerned with whether she dies or not, since a new one will just take her place.

The new Slayer’s Watcher just died, and she hasn’t been assigned a new one. Laurent’s uncle volunteers him for the job, saying that since Laurent’s always wanted more of a role, this is perfect. The Council agrees, though of course they all figure Laurent and the Slayer will probably die.

Laurent knows what his uncle is up to, but he wants to go. Even if the risk to his life is greater than ever before, he knows it’s what Auguste would do. The new Slayer is just fifteen years old, and he won’t leave her alone to face the end of the world. He’ll train her to the best of his ability, then fight by her side. His team agrees to go as well, because despite the odds, they believe in Laurent.

So this sets Laurent on a collision course with Damen. I imagine that Laurent sets up camp in Athens, meets the Slayer, grows very attached, and starts training her. They don’t have much time, only three months before a potential apocalypse -- the world falling into hell, etc, etc.

Damen and Nikandros have also heard of the coming apocalypse, and naturally they’re also determined to prevent it. But when they arrive in Athens, they hear that the Slayer’s in town. And she’s not alone -- she’s got a whole team that fights beside her. For a Slayer, that’s pretty unheard of, and Damen is shocked -- he’s known (killed) a few Slayers, and they were always, always alone.

So he’s curious. He’s not stupid enough to make his presence known when the Slayer’s around, but he starts lurking a bit, tries to learn more about her and her team. Eventually, he catches them fighting a group of vampires.

He can tell the Slayer has a lot to learn. Even with superhuman strength and agility, she’s hesitant, doesn’t move confidently in a way that could really harness that power.

But he sees someone who does fight with confidence, even arrogance, who moves like quicksilver even though he has to be a normal human.

He sees Laurent, and a part of him’s already in love.

But he recognizes that scent. He sees the resemblance between the younger brother and the older, who he remembers all too well. Even though Laurent was hidden, Damianos knew he was there that night. Yet even as a vampire, he had no interest in hurting children.

Damen sees Laurent, the Slayer and the rest of the gang kill a dozen vampires like it’s nothing. He’s never seen teamwork like that, except for maybe him and Nikandros. It’s obvious that Laurent’s the leader, and Damen is possessed with the overwhelming, but futile, urge to know him, to understand what’s in the mind behind that golden hair.

But Damen knows he has no right to know anything about Laurent. Even with Kastor’s rejection of him, he still loves his brother. Killing a person’s brother is not something you forgive. Even though Damen and Damianos aren’t truly the same person, Damen still carries a deep guilt for everything Damianos did in his skin.

All the same, he can’t resist lurking a bit more, just to get a few more glimpses of Laurent in battle. He gets a bit stalkerish, finding out where Laurent’s team is camping out, getting an idea of each member and their fighting style, their personality. Of course, he’s also fighting demons with Nikandros. Let’s say that as the apocalypse gears up, more and more demons are drawn to Athens, so it’s a fight just to keep the city from burning down in the meantime.

It’s inevitable that their paths cross for real. Laurent, still a bit solitary at heart, goes on long walks by himself to think and to drink in the local history and art. One night, he’s set upon by several demons eager to rid the town of him. Damen had also been following Laurent at a distance, curious about what he did when not fighting.

Laurent’s armed, but only with a small dagger. Damen watches him fight three or four demons singlehandedly and is impressed yet again by his skill and versatility. But he realizes that it’s not enough -- Laurent’s going to at the very least get badly injured during this fight.

Even knowing it’s a bad idea, that he’s basically signing his death warrant, Damen rushes in to save him. He fights off the demons easily, having enhanced strength that Laurent can’t match with any amount of training.

Laurent, on the ground and bleeding, can’t believe his eyes. Damen, like the sweet idiot he is, offers to help him back to their camp, thereby admitting that he’s been aware of Laurent and his location this whole time.

Laurent lunges at him, overcome with rage, but he passes out from his injuries. So Damen does what he promises and takes him back to camp. Laurent’s team is surprised, horrified and even a little amused at this infamous vampire carrying Laurent in like he’s something precious, setting him down softly and then escaping before they can stop him.

When Laurent wakes up, he thinks it was a dream. But he saw it himself -- Damianos is really back, and Laurent has no idea what he’s playing at. Did he hunt Laurent here, wanting to kill him for some reason? Why didn’t he take the chance he had?

Laurent decides it’s Damianos’s typical MO -- he wants a good fight, and Laurent was too injured to be interesting enough to kill. But he recovers, and now he’s ready. Damianos is in Athens, and so is he, and their battle will come any day now.

But instead, Damen starts jumping into Laurent’s fights whenever it looks like things might take a turn for the worse. He even helps the Slayer once or twice when she’s caught alone by a pack of demons. Nikandros thinks he’s an absolute moron, and he rightly deduces that, despite all common sense, Damen has feelings for Laurent and wants to be close to him any way he can. More than that, he just wants to help Laurent, to make up in some small way for the harm he caused him.

With each friendly save from Damen, Laurent grows more and more incensed. He’s convinced Damen is playing some sort of game with him, although that was never Damianos’s style. Again and again, Damen helps him and his team. Sometimes he’ll even show up with tips about a new demon in town, or something about the swiftly approaching apocalypse.

It comes to a head one day when Damen and Laurent are both captured by a witch who wants to use them for some nefarious ritual. They’re chained in a cellar, out of each other’s reach but forced for once to stay in the same room, able to see and talk to each other.

At first, Laurent wants to ignore Damen. Being in the room with his brother’s killer, and not distracted by an imminent fight to survive, is almost too much for him. But then he takes the chance to pour all the invective he can on Damen, his tongue the only weapon he currently has.

Damen takes it all silently. And when Laurent’s spent, when his grief chokes him, Damen tells Laurent that he knows he can never make up for what he’s done. That he’s been selfish to force his presence on Laurent during those fights. He’s honest, so he tells Laurent how much he admires him. Not for his looks or even just his fighting ability, but for the way he guides and protects the Slayer, the way he looks out for his team.

Because he just can’t stop himself, because some part of him still craves for Laurent to see him in a positive light, he also tells him about the curse. That the Damianos he knew is gone, and that Damen carries his sins but is not that same demon.

Laurent still thinks it’s a trick. He’s forced to rely on Damen to get out of the witch’s cellar, but when they’re free, he challenges Damen to a fight. No holds barred, in which victory means death for the opponent.

Damen agrees, because he feels it’s what Laurent is owed, that chance to take out his rage. And a part of him that sounds too much like Damianos is eager to feel for himself Laurent’s prowess for battle.

So they fight. Laurent gives it everything he’s got, everything he took seven years to build. Like in canon, it isn’t enough. Damen doesn’t hold back, respecting Laurent’s anger and skill too much.

But when it comes time for the final blow Laurent’s expecting, looking up at Damen in hatred, it doesn’t come. The monster Damianos, the soulless vampire, has a look in his eyes that Laurent can’t fathom.

Damen tells Laurent that if he wants to take his life, he’s earned it through the suffering Damianos caused him and so many others. But Damen doesn’t want to see the world end, and he knows that Laurent needs him to stop the apocalypse. The Slayer, though improving in leaps and bounds through Laurent’s tutelage, can’t be expected to take on the end of the world by herself. And she isn’t yet the partner that Laurent needs -- that Damen can be.

Laurent’s tempted to take up his weapon again and cut Damen down from behind, but he’s also realizing that the apocalypse is coming too soon, and he, his team and the Slayer might not be enough. Damen, however, has 300 years of experience with demons, has seen apocalypses from a distance and is surprisingly intelligent behind all that muscle.

He accept Damen’s offer, as painful as it is. He’ll work with Damen (and begrudgingly, Nikandros) to stop the apocalypse with the help of the Slayer. But when it’s over, they’ll fight again, and Laurent will win. He’ll kill Damianos.

In the month left before the end of the world, they’re together constantly. Laurent doesn’t take this gracefully, using his vicious tongue against Damen at every opportunity. But Damen sees how he is with the Slayer, how he’s strict but gentle in teaching her. He falls in love with Laurent even more.

For Laurent, it grows harder and harder to deny how, at least professionally, Damen completes him, makes him a better hunter. His eye for strategy finds what Laurent misses, and his strength and skill in battle still manage to shock Laurent sometimes. Again and again, Damen saves his life, and against his judgment, Laurent saves Damen’s life too. They become the scourge of the Greek underworld.

When the apocalypse comes, they’re ready. It’s not easy, but they stop it, and they all manage to survive. Damen grins at him, and Laurent can’t stop looking at him.

When it’s over, they fight again, one on one. This time, Laurent really does win. Over the past month, he’s watched Damen like a hawk, partly for any hint of betrayal and partly because he just can’t figure him out. He’s starting to believe that Damen really did get his soul back, but if that’s true, what does that mean for Laurent? Damen’s still a vampire, still wears the face of his brother’s killer. 

But Damen’s also the one who fought by his side like no one else ever has, ever could. He talked with Laurent through the night, planning and strategizing, making up for what Laurent overlooked. Damen, a vampire, helped Laurent train the Slayer, his natural enemy.

So with the blade at Damen’s neck, Laurent stops. It’s the most difficult thing he’s ever had to do, but he lets his anger go. As much as he hates Damianos the vampire, he’s seen Damen the man beneath the monster, and he can’t kill him.

The Slayer returns to Mexico, and she asks Laurent to return as her full-time Watcher. The Council isn’t happy about it, but it’s hard to argue after his stunning success.

Laurent’s team is on board to go with him. And Damen says, well, he’s never been to the Americas. (Nikandros, ever-suffering, goes with them, too afraid to leave Damen to Laurent’s mercy. He’s the only family he has left.)

After that, it’s slow but inevitable. Damen and Laurent come together, helpless to do anything else. For the first time in Laurent’s life, and even Damen’s centuries-long existence, they both feel they’ve found a true partner they can trust. A person they love more than they thought possible.

On the night of Laurent’s twenty-first birthday, they consummate that partnership. It’s a moment of true happiness for both of them, for two people who felt unworthy of that kind of happiness, who thought they’d never find it again after all they’ve lost.

But the curse that returned Damen’s soul wasn’t full-proof. He was meant to suffer, to never find a moment’s rest under the burdens of his guilt. Finding happiness with Laurent changes that. It breaks the curse.

He staggers out of the room as Laurent sleeps peacefully. Damen tries to cling to his soul with everything he has, but the pull is too strong.

When Laurent wakes up, he’s alone. At first, he’s irritated, then he’s afraid that Damen’s run off to some fight. A day passes, and he can’t find him everywhere.

But Laurent’s network has started to whisper. The whole underworld beneath Mexico City is buzzing.

And it says, Damianos is back.

Laurent loses his lover, his partner, and is faced again with his brother’s killer. A soulless vampire who remembers the last eight years with disdain. Who’s obsessed with Laurent, which isn’t exactly new, but now sees him as the ideal target -- someone he wants to defeat in every way possible.

To make things worse, Laurent’s uncle shows up. An extraordinarily powerful artifact has been unearthed in Mexico -- Acathla, a demon turned to stone centuries ago, who if reawoken can swallow the world into hell.

Laurent’s facing his uncle on one side and Damianos on the other, who’s joined up again with Jokaste and Kastor. He knows that with Damianos returned, he finally does have a chance at true revenge -- and yet now, when he looks at Damianos, all he sees is Damen.

Laurent takes down his uncle and his whole network of smugglers before he can sell Acathla to the highest bidder. But at the last moment, Damianos sweeps in and steals Acathla right from under him, killing Orlant in the process.

Now, it’s do or die. If Laurent doesn’t fight Damianos and kill him, he could use Acathla to end the world. For months, he’s scoured every possible resource for knowledge on the curse, something that could bring Damen back. 

He thinks he’s finally found something, but it’s badly translated and Laurent doesn’t have the gift for magics that it would require. Ancel pulls out a precocious young witch, Nicaise, that he says he can do it, but Laurent says no. Magic is dangerous, especially a curse on the level of Damen’s, and he doesn’t want a young teenager taking that risk.

So he steels himself and goes to face Damianos. When Jokaste and Kastor stand in his way, Laurent manages to kill Kastor, and Jokaste makes her escape. He’s left with Damianos, who’s enraged at his brother’s death. Damianos, despite himself, also hates Laurent for the emptiness inside him, the hole left by the love Damen felt for the human.

Except that emptiness loses him the edge Damen always seemed to have. Once again, Laurent has his blade against the vampire’s neck, the neck of his enemy and his lover. 

Of course, Ancel and Nicaise didn’t listen to Laurent when he told them not to try the curse. It’s hell on Nicaise, and probably opens some doors he can’t close again, but the power passes through him -- and it works.

Laurent sees a light go back into Damen’s eyes, right as he’s bringing down his sword. He can’t believe it -- he’s too afraid of being wrong -- but Damen gasps, falls to his knees and looks at Laurent like hasn’t seen him in years. The curse hits him like a train, and he doesn’t remember Acathla or losing his soul.

For the first time in months, Damen’s arms are around Laurent. There’s a kiss to his hair, to his forehead, and then to his lips, and Laurent finally allows himself to hope.

But when he opens his eyes again, he sees what Damen can’t -- that Acathla’s eyes are also open. He’s awake and ready to suck the world into hell, unless the one who awakened him is sacrificed into that pit first.

And Laurent finally understands what his brother felt in those last moments. What every Slayer knows. That duty comes before everything, before love and before life.

So he kisses Damen one more time. He tells him, for the first time, that he loves him. And he tells him to close his eyes, knowing he will, because Damen trusts him without reservation.

In a mockery of all the times he could never do it, Laurent’s blade goes so easily through Damen’s heart, pinning him to Acathla. He looks into Damen’s shocked eyes as the vampire is thrown into hell. The portal closes with a snap.

Laurent is alone. 

(If you are a BTVS fan and you’ve seen season three, you know how this goes. Damen will return from hell by some act of god or devil, throwing Laurent into turmoil again -- after everything, what would it mean to forgive Damen for a second time? But unlike with their counterparts Angel and Buffy, I like to think true love conquers all in their case.)

[morningfears]

Same Ole Situation [Chapter One]

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18!

Summary: Venus (whose real name is still a mystery, even to those closes to her) loves a good party just as much as the next person but when she’s got an entire tour to prepare the wardrobe for, she just wants to get to work. But when the band she works for is going on tour with one of the biggest bands in rock and roll, she can’t really turn down the party invite. Especially when her best friend insists she join him. Ashton just wants to live his rockstar fantasy. What happens when it turns out to be more than any of them could’ve ever imagined? (Featuring Motley Crue!)

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Drug use (cocaine, heroin), exhibitionism, very brief mention of harassment (like, blink and you’ll miss it but still).

Disclaimer: This is fiction. It is not meant to represent anything real, even if it alludes to things that did happen to actual people in the 1980s. It’s not meant to be historically accurate or suggest anything about anyone.

Los Angeles, October 1986

“This is fucking insane.”

Venus hears a murmur of agreement from the group standing behind her as they stand in the paved driveway and stare up at the massive mansion in front of them. It is, without question, the biggest dwelling any of them have ever seen and it takes a moment for each of them to comprehend the grandeur of it all.

It takes even longer for them to comprehend that this is where the party is going to be held.

“I honestly feel like I don’t even belong in this neighborhood, let alone this fucking house,” Calum breathes, his words leaving his lips in an exhale of cigarette smoke. “What the fuck did we sign up for?”

“A tour with Mötley fucking Crüe,” Michael reminds him with a grin. “This is gonna be the best,” he cheers, his words already slurring as he gestures to the mansion in front of the group.

The others, although somewhat uneasy, cheer at Michael’s words. Calum takes the bottle of Jack from his hand, downs a gulp of whiskey, and passes the bottle to Luke. “Something feels weird,” Luke murmurs before he takes his own gulp from the bottle. “Something’s not right,” he asserts as he passes the bottle to his most recent girlfriend (Lucy? Lacey? Lisa? No one is really sure).

“That’s the drugs, mate,” Ashton reminds him as he grabs the bottle from Luke’s girl and takes a gulp. “Makes you paranoid. Come on, it’s a party,” he reminds them with a grin as he glances at the group of giggling girls, all scantily clad, stumbling up the driveway toward the open front door, “what could go wrong at a party?”

“A lot,” Luke murmurs, his eyes heavy and words slurring. “A lot can go wrong, mate.”

Ashton ignores Luke’s comment and shakes his head. He feels good. He’s on top of the world, living the live he’s always imagined, and he’s not going to let Luke’s drug-induced paranoia sour his mood. Instead, he chooses to ignore Luke’s words as he tosses his arm around his best friend’s shoulders and lets his fingers tap a rhythm only he can hear against her skin. The pair of them lead the group up the driveway, Michael and Calum cracking jokes and laughing with the girls they’d brought along while Luke and his girl (Luna, maybe?) trail behind and speak in hushed whispers.

“She gives me the fucking creeps,” Ashton hears Venus murmur as they move closer to the front door. “Ever since he and Hannah broke up, he’s been bouncing between groupies and each one is harder to deal with than the last. Like, I get it. Fuck whoever you want. But, Jesus, they don’t have to be so fucking awful.”

“She’s a cunt,” Ashton agrees with a laugh. 

“What’s her fucking name?” Venus (whose real name is, ironically, just as much a mystery to the group) asks as she returns her full attention to Ashton.

“Lauren, maybe?” Ashton shrugs as he takes the bottle of Jack from Calum’s outstretched hand.

“I thought it was Lilly,” Calum’s friend for the night offers as she brushes a lock of platinum blonde hair from her eyes. “Or maybe Lana…”

“Do you even care?” Michael asks with a laugh as he closes the distance between himself and Ashton and Venus to grab the bottle from the pair of them.

Venus pauses for a moment, pretends to think about it, before she shakes her head. “I really don’t.”

“Well,” Michael hums, pausing to take another sip from the bottle, “I care about getting inside. I’ve heard their parties are fucking insane.” He glances at the rush of people stumbling up the driveway past their small group and grins as he catches sight of mini skirts and high heels. “This is what being a rockstar is all about.”

“I thought it was about the music, asshole,” Calum teases as he drops his finished cigarette to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot. “Isn’t that what you always tell us?”

“The times, my friend,” Michael trails off as he locks eyes with a woman Venus is certain has graced the pages of Playboy at least once.

“They’re changing?” Venus finishes, an eyebrow raised in half-amusement. When Michael shoots her a grin and a wink, she rolls her eyes and turns to Ashton once more. “You sure letting these assholes loose in a Mötley Crüe party is a good idea?”

“It’s the worst fucking idea any of us has ever had,” Ashton informs her with a grin, “but it’s going to be a great night.”

The others in their group echo Ashton’s sentiment and release a happy cheer as they pick up the pace toward the front door. As the boys murmur about the girls they already see milling about the driveway and near the front door, Calum and Michael’s girls close in on Venus. “There are tons of bands here,” Calum’s girl informs Venus with a grin as she obnoxiously pops the bright pink gum in her mouth. “Gonna find a hot rockstar for yourself?” she asks with a faux innocent tilt of her head.

Venus wants to roll her eyes at this. Calum’s girl has been making eyes at Ashton for the better part of the night and when she’d learned that the two of them weren’t together, it only made her more eager to go for it. Venus has half a mind to remind her that she’s with Calum, not Ashton, but she doesn’t want to seem like a jealous bitch. So, instead she shrugs. “I’m not a groupie,” Venus informs her. “Not interested in fucking rockstars who never even learned my name.”

“We’ve been friends for four years and I still don’t know your real name,” Calum reminds her as Luke and his girl catch up to their group.

“Guess that means I’m never gonna fuck you, Cal,” she counters with a grin before she sends a half-hearted smirk to his date for the evening. “Don’t get too fucked up tonight, yeah? You guys are recording tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, mom,” Calum teases with a roll of his eyes. “We’ll all get super hammered and record through our hangovers tomorrow,” he promises her before he presses a kiss to her cheek and steps around her to enter the fray.

Michael raises his hand in a mock salute and grins at her. “I’ll make sure to pass out somewhere convenient for you guys to get me home,” he promises before he mimics Calum’s kiss on the cheek and drags the girl he’d brought but wouldn’t be leaving with further into the crowd.

Luke and his girl wander past Ashton and Venus without a word, neither of them looking wholly like they know that they’re even at a party, and Venus shakes her head. “Fucking creepy bitch,” she huffs before she turns to glance at Ashton. “Have fun, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Same goes to you,” he points out before he leans in and presses a kiss of his own to the corner of her mouth. “See you in the morning, V,” he calls before he allows himself to be swept up into the madness that is the party they’re attending.

Venus watches the boys disappear in various directions before she shakes her head and glances around for the kitchen. She’s assuming they’ll have good booze, if the show of wealth is anything to judge them on, and isn’t disappointed to find the counter littered with bottle after bottle of booze and various party favors lying around. She rolls her eyes at the insanity of it all as she fills her glass.

Four years ago, even a fraction of the alcohol in her bloodstream would’ve been enough to knock her on her ass. A glimpse of a joint or a baggie of cocaine would’ve been enough to send her running for the hills, desperate to be anywhere else in case something bad happened, but after four years of working with the boys, she doesn’t even blink as she catches sight of someone doing a line off a stripper’s breast. The lethal amounts of drugs sitting out in the open, the sight of a band member getting a blowjob in the middle of the living room, the shattered glass littering the floor where someone dropped it but couldn’t be fucked cleaning it up; Venus barely notices it anymore.

What she does notice, however, is the tall man with black hair eying her from across the room the moment she steps into the living room.

She’s gotten used to ignoring rockstars’ advances. She’s trying to make a name for herself as a designer and has been on tour with the boys for a better part of the four years she’s known them. She’s made everything from stage clothes to casual wear for them and doesn’t want anyone to even consider the idea that fucking some asshole who can’t even tune his own guitar is what has kept her in the game for so long. So, she doesn’t let anyone who even looks like they play an instrument get too close.

Ashton included.

The first night they met, Ashton was sure that he was going to end up with Venus in his bed. The band was getting bigger, girls were throwing themselves at their feet and the party was just getting started, but Venus didn’t give a shit about what band he was in. She didn’t care that he could twirl his drumsticks and he’d nearly asked what was wrong with her when she turned down his offer to buy her a drink but now, four years and a solid friendship later, he’s glad that she’s still in his life.

Their relationship was strictly professional in the beginning, they only saw each other when she needed to make alterations or fit them for new designs. However, long nights preparing for tour turned into them bringing her along to make alterations as needed on the road. Venus became a permanent part of their tour family and an even more permanent part of Ashton’s life. The pair of them live together, along with Calum, and she’s certain she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s also glad that he didn’t walked away the night that she told him to go fuck himself.

She’s assuming that the tall man approaching her is going to be much the same in terms of persistency, only this time, she hopes that he does take the hint and walk away when she tells him to fuck himself.

“Haven’t I seen you around somewhere?” he asks, a charming smile on his lips as he leans in close enough for her to hear him speak.

“I doubt it,” she hums before she takes a sip of her drink. “I travel a lot.”

“Yeah?” he asks as he unabashedly checks her out. “Me, too.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes lingering on her breasts, before he meets her eyes once more. “I’m Tommy.”

“I’m not interested,” she returns as she turns her head to glance out at the group of people milling about the open space.

Tommy is momentarily taken aback before he grins and laughs. “Damn, you’re mean. I like it,” he informs her before he gulps down the remainder of his drink and gestures to her glass. “I’m gonna get another drink. You want one?”

“No,” she breathes before she thinks better of herself and adds, “thanks, though.” He’s not quite getting the hint but his heart seems to be in the right place, she thinks, as she watches him nod.

“I’ll catch you around, then,” he nods. “And maybe I’ll catch your name before the night’s over.”

She doesn’t reply. Instead, she offers a half-shrug meant to be vague enough to keep him from trying even harder and he seems to accept it as he grins at her once more before disappearing in the crowd. She rolls her eyes, not nearly intoxicated enough to deal with this, before she follows his lead and gulps down the rest of her drink. 

She decides to avoid the kitchen for the time being, hoping that she can avoid Tommy, and decides to take a seat on the leather sofa near the wall of windows. She doesn’t much feel like partying, not when she doesn’t know half the people wandering around the room and she’s fresh off a cross-country flight with way too much work to do the next morning. She thinks that maybe she should find Ashton, tell him that she just wants to go back to their place and get some sleep, but before she can move, a hand enters her field of vision.

She can see a rolled bill between the man’s fingers and she frowns as she turns her head to meet his gaze. He’s leaned back against the couch, an arm slung over the back as he raises an eyebrow at her. He looks similar to Tommy, long black hair teased to hell and back with a cocky smirk on his lips, and she wants to roll her eyes as she asks, “What do you expect me to do with this?”

“You look like you could use something to get you out of your head,” he offers, expression never faltering as he gestures to the lines cut on the table. When Venus continues to stare at him, eyes narrowed and suspicious, he laughs. “I was just offering,” he shrugs as he sits up and moves closer to the table. “But if you’re not interested…”

She watches him lean down and snort a line before he sits back up and reaches for a different rolled bill. She stares at it for a moment as the voice inside her head tells her to get up and walk away. However, she decides that she wants to enjoy herself. She’d rather be too high to remember being miserable than too sober to experience every moment of it. So, after a moment of hesitation, she takes the bill from his fingers and rolls her eyes at the grin on his lips when she moves closer to him to reach the table.

The man beside her doesn’t move so she’s forced to lean over his lap as she stretches to reach the drug. She can tell that he’s enjoying this position, if the grin on his lips is anything to go by, but doesn’t let herself dwell on it as she does a line of her own. The man looks somewhat impressed as she tosses the bill onto the table without so much as flinching and Venus rolls her eyes when he shifts closer to her.

“Why are you here when you clearly don’t want to be?” he asks as he tilts his head to get a better look at her. 

His tone isn’t judgmental nor is it rude. It’s just curious, she notes, as she turns her head to face him. She allows her eyes to roam over his face, to take in the smudged black eyeliner around his eyes, before they trail down to the expanse of chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. He’s beautiful, that much she can admit, and she wants to look away. Venus doesn’t want to let her guard down and get too comfortable because even though she’s gotten good at turning down rockstars, she’ll be the first to admit that it’s hard. Especially when they’re fun to look at. And she knows that with the drug soon to be coursing through her system, it’ll be even harder to turn this one down.

However, she reminds herself to stay strong. Judging by the look in his eye and the smirk quirking his lips, he’s more trouble than he’s worth.

“You done checking me out?” he asks after a moment of silence.

Venus blinks before she glances up to meet his eyes once more. He looks amused now, nearly giddy, and she does roll her eyes. “Bite me,” she huffs before she reaches out to grab the bottle of Jack off the table.

“Sure,” he shrugs, smirk prominent on his lips as he reaches out to grab the bottle of Jack from her, “but I didn’t think you’d be into that sort of thing.”

Venus rolls her eyes before she watches the man take a gulp of whiskey from the bottle. His eyes never leave hers, even as he leans forward to return the bottle to the table. It’s stupid, a fucking staring contest to see if he can get her to blink, but she doesn’t relent. She meets his amused gaze with her own level one and waits for him to be the one to give up.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminds her as he shifts a little closer to her.

“Do you really want an answer?”

He pretends to think for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he sees the fire in her eyes and hears the challenge in her words. “No, not really,” he finally answers.

Venus’ own eyes narrow and she can feel the frown on her face. She isn’t sure what to make of the man in front of her. Usually, she’s good at reading the asshole rockstars who hit on her. They stare at her tits, try to sweet talk her, flash their wealth, or even go so far as to attempt to touch her. This man, however, has done none of those things. He hasn’t followed the pattern his predecessors have set and that throws Venus off enough to make her blink. Across from her, the man grins and reaches for the bottle once more.

The pair of them sit in relative silence for what feels like a lifetime. Venus stares unabashedly at the man beside her, attempting to read him, as he lazily glances around the room. She can feel the drug beginning to take hold in her mind. She can feel her heart beginning to race and her judgement clouding. She’s no stranger to a casual hookup, she does let loose and have fun every now and again, but hooking up with a rockstar is something she’s tried her hardest to avoid (she won’t admit it to anyone but she failed and hooked up with some guitarist after getting a little too fucked up on her first tour with the boys).

However, she can feel her resolve crumbling the moment the man turns his head to look at her once more.

“Who the fuck are you?” she manages to ask, even though she can feel the sense of euphoria building in her mind and threatening to drown out anything that isn’t going to contribute to her high.

“Who the fuck are you?” he returns, voice just as amused as it’s been the entire time she’s sat with him.

She’s impressed that he didn’t fire back with some variation of, “Don’t you know who I think I am?” He’s completely dodged every rockstar cliche she’s catalogued in her brain and it annoys her. She’s not afraid of a challenge but some things should just be easy, like knowing when a man is more trouble than he’s worth. This one, however, is proving to be difficult and she doesn’t like it.

As she stares at him, eyes narrowed and frown on her lips, he rolls his eyes and moves closer to her. One of his hands grips her thigh while the other moves to the back of her neck as he leans in to kiss her. Venus is surprised but she finds herself leaning into the kiss rather than pushing him away. She knows that it’s a bad idea, knows that rockstars only mean trouble, but she can’t bring herself to care as she feels the drug fully settling into her body. She feels her high begin to envelope her and all she can focus on is the taste of whiskey and cigarettes as she returns the kiss.

His hand moves up her thigh and dips beneath her black leather skirt. She can feel the callouses on his fingers, confirming her suspicions that he is, indeed, a musician. However, that realization doesn’t even begin to faze her as he nudges her thighs apart. She wants to care that he’s got his hand up her skirt in the middle of a crowded living room but, if she’s being honest, she doesn’t. She knows that this isn’t the most fucked up thing anyone has seen over the course of the night and she’s certain that their’s won’t be the only act of exhibitionism anyone witnesses. So she gives in to the high, gives in to the man whose teeth are sinking into her bottom lip as his fingers nudge the material of her panties to the side.

His hands are rough but skilled. Her fingers tangle in his hair as his thumb brushes her clit before he sinks two fingers into her heat. He’s able to keep a steady rhythm despite the stimulants coursing through his system and Venus can’t help but imagine how good other aspects of this man will be as she shifts closer to him.

Across the room, Ashton and Calum stand with a group of girls who are all too aware that the boys will be opening up for Mötley Crüe on their latest tour. They understand that these girls only see them as a steeping stone to the bigger stars but they don’t care. It’s fun, it’s relatively harmless, and everyone gets something from it. Why question a good thing?

However, before he can get too comfortable with one of the girls, Ashton hears someone exclaim, “Fucking Nikki!”

He glances over to see Tommy, Mötley’s drummer, shaking his head and turning back to the kitchen. He turns his head to see what had caused the exclamation and nearly drops the glass in his hand when he realizes what he’s looking at. “What the fuck?” he exclaims, his voice louder than he intended. “Is she fucking stupid?”

Calum, surprised by the sudden outburst, turns his head to follow Ashton’s gaze. When he sees Venus on the couch with Nikki Sixx, his hand up her skirt and hers unbuttoning his pants, he blinks. “Whoa,” he laughs as he shakes his head. “Didn’t think the first rockstar she hooked up with would be him but good for her.”

“What do you fucking mean, good for her?” Ashton questions as he turns to face Calum. “She deserves better.”

“Chill out, mate,” Calum huffs as he nods to the counter where lines have been cut. “Take a bump. She’s enjoying herself, you should, too.” When he sees that Ashton wants to argue, Calum rolls his eyes. “She’s an adult, Ash. She can do whatever the fuck she wants. Or do whoever the fuck she wants,” he amends as he glances over to see Venus on Nikki’s lap, skirt bunched around her waist and hands gripping his shoulders. “Jesus, she’s hot. How the fuck did he manage that?”

“Everyone wants Nikki,” one of the girls with them giggles. “He’s gorgeous and, like, totally fucking rad.”

Her friend nods in agreement but Ashton doesn’t pay them any mind as he glares at the pair of them on the sofa. Venus and Nikki are making no attempts to hide what they’re doing (he suspects the massive amount of blow on the table in front of them has something to do with that) and the cocky smirk on Nikki’s face as Venus rides him makes Ashton’s blood boil.

Venus’ eyes are screwed shut, her mind blank of anything except the man beneath her as she feels his fingers dig into her skin. He’s letting her do most of the work, letting her fuck herself on his cock as he watches her tits bounce, and she feels as if her heart is going to explode as her orgasm builds. She doesn’t even attempt to keep her moans quiet and she can hear cheering from some of the partygoers as she begins to fall over the edge but that only spurs her on.

Nikki cums not long after Venus and the pair remain still for a moment before she moves off of his lap and returns to her seat beside him. She tugs her skirt back down as he tucks himself back into his pants before she leans over and grabs the bottle of Jack from the table. After she takes a gulp, she passes it to him and he smirks at her.

“Nikki,” he introduces as he passes the bottle back.

“Venus,” she returns, and just like that, she can feel the shift in the air.

As Venus attempts to wrap her hazy mind around what’s happening, the party goes on. 

Ashton follows Calum’s advice and takes a bump. After fifteen minutes, he can’t remember what he was so angry about and doesn’t attempt to stop the hot blonde from dropping to her knees in front of him. Calum, who usually prefers to keep his wits at least somewhat about him, manages to keep his clothes on but does find himself downing more Jack than he probably should. Michael, whose date for the evening has gone on to bigger and better rockstars, finds himself with his head between the thighs of a gorgeous brunette as the rest of the party cheers around him. And Luke, who is farther gone than even he realizes, finds himself holed up in a bathroom with Laura and more China White than either of them need.

It’s the same ole situation, the same story they’ve all heard a million times before, only this time, they’re the ones living it.

Author’s Note: Again, I promise there will be more Ashton. This is just. To get us started? And I honestly wanted an excuse to write Nikki smut, whoops. The Dirt reminded me how in love with him I was as a kid, tbh. Also, you can imagine whichever Mötley you want. Personally, I imagine MGK!Tommy and real Nikki but, like. Whatever floats your boat. Also, if anyone wants an actual fic for one of them, let me know.

[zhxngweiascian]

001 ❝ ‎ 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟑. ― 𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙻𝚒.

— He hated such pompous events, the kind that was thrown only to show off wealth and stature, the kind that felt as if it was closed off to the rest of the world and was thrown into another universe of glitz, glamour and champagne that tasted like the stars. Alexander sighed, nimble fingers finding the lapels of his already pristine suit to straighten; he could not wait to get out of it, to discard his petticoat and gloves and retire for the rest of the night. The foie gras on the saltine crackers and the one too many old fashioned had begun twisting his stomach into knots of discomfort more than the attention that flit his way from the wide and blue eyed party goers.

He stood in the corner by the table laden with amuse-bouches and piled with hors d'oeuvres, nursing his glass of champagne. He wondered where all this food went, whether if anyone really would eat or it would all simply go to waste; his heart went out for the city he lived in, adopted and made home for the span that was his temporary life. The War had ended just a mere couple of years ago but the chaos it had left in its wake was tangible enough that he could taste it on the tip of his tongue, the air rancid and filled with the aftermath of gunpowder. He disliked it. London. Where no one knows his neighbour. Where shops do not know their customers. Where physicians are suddenly called to unknown patients whom they never see again. Where you may lie dead in your house for months together unmissed and unnoticed till the gas-inspector comes to look at the meter. Where strangers are friendly and friends are casual. London, whose rather untidy and grubby bosom is the repository of so many odd secrets. Discreet, incurious and all-enfolding London. The city wasn't something he had known previously or was too familiar with- but one thing he was certain of, a part of him loved watching all of it unravel. This place hummed to the tune of debauchery. This city was filthy and deep in the thrall of unending sin, so saturated with the kiss of decadence that the sky threatened to buckle and crush all those living vivaciously beneath it in punishment.

"You're hiding away again?" a very familiar voice rang in his ear, reminiscent of the dulcet tinkles of bells and the angelic choir of church. It automatically brought a smile to his face and every single thought he had wasn't of any importance. He faced a knowing grin, one that curved into a cheeks hued a lovely pink. Rosalie Han was a sight for sore eyes in her dress the color of the midnight sky, sparkling with countless beads that sparkled and bounced back reflections when they caught the light of the chandelier. She came to a stop next to where he stood, beginning to peruse the menu displayed.

"I'm not hiding," he scoffed under his breath low enough that only she could hear; they both knew he hated being here... just like they both know that he would always indulge in her whims to go frolic with humans.

Rosalie nodded, carmine tinted mouth curved into a smirk and picked up a cream puff to hold to eye level, turning it this way and that way in an inspecting manner before she deemed it decent then proceeded to shove the entire thing in her mouth.

Alexander took a sip of his champagne, shaking his head at the woman. "By whatever war wages, not in front of your many suitors!" he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to hide his own simper as he tilted his glass briefly to the crowd as if to make his point.

"Don't tell me what to do, you oaf!" Rosalie yelled in a whisper, shooting him a murderous glance. Alexander's grin lifted further.

"The Hastings are here. So are the Parks and Chiannis. It's about time we match you with one of them, Rose. Looks like their heirs are vying for your attention." The man murmured, hiding his knowing grin behind the rim of his champagne glass, eyes raking the grande portico of the chateau where everyone of import milled about and rubbed elbows with each other.

Her gaze found his face, reflecting the thousand and one lights from the chandelier overhead despite the incredulity that swarmed in them and scoffed a sound. "So you'd have thrown me to the wolves?" she asked, lips downturned in a moue and followed his line of gaze. Alexander laughed, the sound low and reverberating in her ears that she couldn't resist but to grin too. Feigning annoyance, she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing water, finishing half of the starry golden liquid in a quick sip.

"Frankly, I pity the wolves."

There it was, the cynical joke shared between the two long-time friends; their kinds were polar opposites but here they were, hidden in plain sight, hand in hand and with a shared history that transited time. Rosalie laughed, eliciting a low chuckle from him too; it was always fascinating how she laughed freely, drawing the attention of whoever stood close enough to catch an ear of the wonderful sound. And those who looked found it a peculiar sight, one that was uncommon to most yet, in a way, felt normal.

Alexander Li was an enigma and despite how his circle was made of those in power, there was little known about him other than he was a professor of philosophy and physics. He was tall and trim, with the build of a young man proficient in warfare even though he had not been in the war. His dark hair was straight and styled in a manner suggesting a desire for order in all things. They framed eyes so pale a shade of brown they appeared amber in certain flashes of light, like those of a tiger. His profile was an artist’s study in angles, and he remained motionless, face was set in a cool and expressionless canvas, save for when his thick eyebrows raised a fraction when an odd woman approached the pair to converse. He felt Rosalie stiffen, her dainty hand reaching to loop around his arm. He could have well imagined the curse that slipped past her lips but the woman both had been staring at was a mere foot away by then.

Evelyn Ackley jumped, unable to hide his surprise. She was the hostess of the party, the wife to a Lord who spoke little of sense and much more about himself. Her grin was wide and surprised and Alex thought that it seemed too bright to be genuine. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. For foreigners, your English is extraordinary. There is not a trace of an accent to be found."

"I have an American accent," he replied dully.

Ackley waved him off, the gaudy bracelet of diamonds she wore almost blinding him. "You know what I mean."

Do I? he wanted to say. Would I be less if I sounded like where I was from, like all those in this city who were forced to learn more than one language, unlike you? His mouth opened, the words right on his tip on his tongue when Rosalie chirped in, sounding sweet.

"No, we do not," she laughed, as if the other woman told a joke that tickled Rosalie's bones. It was a natural sound, but only those who looked closely noticed how her nimble fingers tightened around Alex's forearm. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I find the wine at this party a bit too bland." He bit into his inner cheek, refraining from making a sound of laughter.

Smoothly, Rosalie tugged on his arm with enough force that he had begun veering into the direction she led him in. He had enough time to bow at the Lady of the house, automatically falling into step with the smaller woman.

“I actually liked the wine,” he spoke after a moment, breaking the silence that had taken over.

She groaned, throwing him a side glance of disgust. “I am beyond appalled but not surprised you began losing your sense of taste.” Her chin rose so that the tip of her nose scrunched a fraction, her plump lips curved downwards into a faux remorseful pout.

He laughed goodnaturedly, his other hand reaching over to gently pat her hand that rested on his arm. It was true; he’d lived in London for about seven years now. He’d seen how the war had ebgan and lit even the smallest alleys with fires from both enemy and allies and he’d been there when it all came to an end. He’d seen it in the papers, how the new decade was called ‘the Roaring Twenties’ and wherever he went, the hedonistic lifestyle that London had adopted was an escape from the debris and chaos the war had left in its wake. He didn’t mind it; changes were bound to happen.

“Come, let’s go get some good wine,” he chuckled, veering to the left and out of the chateau that would party until past dawn.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝐀 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.

They sat at the top of the citadel just a mere 20 minute car ride away from the party. A little brown paper bag had been torn so it laid flat on the ground where they sat and on it sat a small display of cheese, crackers and grapes that they had stolen from the festivities. Surely, a handful of hors d’oeuvres would not be missed. The sky was lit with a canvas of stars and unfortunately enough, they weren’t seen from the city, too bombarded and overwhelmed by the city lights to shine on their own. But the more you looked at them, the more they rose to the surface of the dark sky, the tinier specks beginning to gather the courage to come to light too. If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.

“Ah, I wish I could get drunk on this!” Rosalie pronounced, breaking the otherwise impeccable silence of the night and wrenching him out of his thoughts.

Alexander took a sip of his wine bottle and turned his head to look at her. “The wine finally to your taste?”

She made sure that he could see her eye roll and he laughed, placing his bottle of wine down so he could swiftly pull off his suit jacket. In the same motion, he leaned over to her, gently placing the comfortable fabric over her dainty shoulders; neither of them got cold but it was more out of habit that he did it.

Silence befell the two again, a comforting cocoon that required nothing but each other’s presence to feel comfortable. His eyes remained on her, watching how she snuggled into his jacket and preoccupied herself with the contents of her own bottle of wine.

It was a beautiful and delightful sight to behold the body of the moon but Rosalie Han, who he’d known for what felt like eternity, was ethereal in her beauty. Even when the moonlight befell her being and kissed her skin of alabaster, it seemed as if she glowed from within, matching the moon’s light with her own. Her hair had escaped from the coiffe she had donned before the party, falling down her shoulders and back in waves of ravened hues. Sooty eyelashes fluttered everytime she blinked, the rouge on her lips that was once pristine now a faded dusty shade on her lips. She had always turned head wherever she went but it was in the serenest moments like these that Alexander allowed himself to really look at her. She had never changed in all these years he’d known her yet just like him, she molded with time, embracing the lifetime of infinity she had. Before he knew it, he was staring into dark pools of obsidian, lit by the moon and had it known for the remaining of his senses that had not been affected by the alcohol, he would have fallen into them and drowned.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she mused, picking a grape from the pile to plop into her mouth.

Alexander shook his head, turning his head away from her to look off into the horizon. Far into the distance, he had begun to spot a faint line of light. Dawn would arrive soon, forcing the both of them to retire back into their lives; despite how different they were, somehow they always managed to intertwine their own paths.

“Nothing,” he chuckled, taking the last sip of his wine. If the English had done one thing right, it was to allow the French to sell their alcohol in the city.

“Say it!”

A grape hit his cheek and he scoffed as he picked it from his lap where it had fallen and bit into it, ignoring her giggles.

“Remember when we attended Tom’s and Alina’s wedding last year?” he asked, reaching for a saltine that had a dollop of cheese in the middle.

Rosalie nodded. “The wedding itself or the time we both said we would marry each other in another thousand years if we are still single by then? Are you going back on your word now, Alex?”

He tutted his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he finished the last bit of his cracker and cheese. “I was just thinking that you shouldn’t keep your hopes up! Who knows maybe you’ll thankfully find someone and I will finally get rid of your loud self?”

It was a rare sight to watch the professor laugh, the sound natural as she hit him hard with the back of her hand before joining in his laughter as well. Who knew such a stoic man could manage such a face, so carefree that for a moment, he seemed like just a simple boy. But Rosalie Han, just like all of the versions of herself that he knew, often had that effect on him.

They sat there on the concrete floor of the citadel, munching on their snacks and sipping the last of their wines amidst childish banters and laughter the entire remainder of the night. It was only until dawn broke over the horizon, painting the skies a shell pink and a faint gold that they both made a move, going back home and broke away from the glitz and glamor that the night had left a residue on their skin.

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

We Got Time.

Happy Gift Exchange @godisthedice The prompt you sent was:   Sentinel AU - Sentinel!Ian and Guide!Mickey. Ian is a fragile Sentinel/prone to zoning out because of his bipolar. Any take on the AU you want other than that!  Now I have to confess I have never heard of Sentinel before so I have had to embellish a little but this is what I came up with and I hope you like it :-) 

Mickey has been going to Boys Town for a while. Four months to be exact. At first, he hung back and watched, glaring at anyone who approached him, no matter how hot they were or how drunk he was. After a couple of visits to the same place, a rough and ready bar called Pile Driver with none of the pretty, eclectic lighting and décor of the more popular places on the strip, Mickey decided to try his luck with a blonde, who looked like a redhead under the red bulbs lining the limited seating area.

The sex had been pretty good, not rough enough for Mickey’s liking and over too soon, but it had been a release of sorts and the guy had large hands and solid jaw and was tall as fuck. He had been nice enough and quiet enough that Mickey didn’t immediately get up and leave afterwards. They had a drink, chatted shit and then shook hands and disappeared into the night, going their separate ways without remorse. It had been easy and easy was exactly what Mickey wanted.

Being gay in Southside was not pleasant. Being gay in his father’s household was outright dangerous. It had taken Terry getting a six year stretch for some stupid shit that Mickey didn’t even know the details of, for him to consider seeking out what he wanted so badly.

After the first time Mickey found it easier and easier to get what he needed. He didn’t go off with someone every time he visited, he wasn’t fuckin’ desperate! But if he spotted someone who looked good and didn’t chat shit at him like he was some virginal twink in need of reassurance, then yeah, Mickey might go out back with them.

It’s kinda monotonous and maybe a little less than Mickey truly wants but it satisfies at least a part of whatever the fucked up thing it is inside him and so he keeps going back, wearing his few smart button downs in a random rotation in the hope that no one will notice he always wears the same things. He just about has money for beer, sure as shit doesn’t have money for clothes to impress fairies in dive bars.

On the night when everything changes and Mickey Milkovich’s world gets turned upside down, he is wearing his pale grey button down, the top few buttons undone allowing a glimpse of fitted black tank beneath. He’s wearing dark jeans as usual and steel toe-capped boots, old and frayed so that light sparks off the patches of exposed metal. It could be any of the countless nights he has been there.

He’s on his third beer, getting quietly buzzed and beginning to scan the crowd for potential when he feels it. A wave of confusion and fear, crashing over his mind and lapping at his temples incessantly. Mickey puts his beer down shakily and glances around the club. He can feel whoever it is growing weaker whilst their fear spikes, but he can’t see anyone who looks like they are in distress – every fucker in the club seems to be having a great fucking time so who the Hell ...

The bright white lights from the DJ booth rake up the dancefloor, briefly illuminating the club and Mickey sees them – two men huddled close together, one leading the other toward the exit with a firm hand around his waist. The leader is older, his clothes and manner suggest wealth and there is a wedding band on his finger that catches the light treacherously. The other is young, possibly even younger than Mickey. He’s tall and wearing a thin tank top without a jacket despite it being the middle of winter. His eyes, ringed in dramatic black liner are closed, his mouth slack. Mickey huffs an impatient breath and shakes his head. Another tweeker just got off duty at another club most likely. There have been a few of them lately and if Mickey didn’t value his anonymity here so much, he would definitely be bringing some product to shift to these assholes.

The waves of sudden intense feeling from a random person are nothing new to Mickey, he’s had them for years and normally can ignore them, push them aside and move on with his day without a second thought. This time though, trying to ignore it is like trying to ignore a sharp stone in his shoe. He twists and shifts uncomfortably and shrugs at the fabric of his shirt, suddenly too tight across his shoulders. Whatever is going on, it’s not his business and it’s not going to get him laid, so as far as Mickey is concerned, it is not his problem. The feeling eases up slightly when the young man is out of sight and Mickey takes a shaky sip of his beer, sloshing some of it down his sleeve in the process.

“Shit!”

He bunches the cotton over his hand and rubs the damp fabric against his jeans irritably. A brunette on the dancefloor catches his eye and winks. Mickey gives him a small smirk in return and is about to saunter over when another wave of fear strikes him, it is like a firework, sharp and illuminating the darkness but fading quickly, and Mickey grabs his coat from the barstool and starts running towards the light trail before he can think about it.

The cold air hits him as he bursts out of the club, it burns his chest and stings his eyes and he skids on a patch of ice, arms flailing to keep his balance. He looks around frantically, the guy he is following is pushing out all kinds of garbled anguish and horrible as it is to be feeling it all crowding around in his own head, Mickey takes heart at its presence because it means that the kid is still there. He hasn’t lost him. Mickey walks as quickly as he dares, boots crunching the thin ice underfoot, shattering the surface of frozen puddles. He rounds the corner of the building, heading in the direction of the unofficial taxi pick-up point and sees them up ahead.

The old guy is propping the barely conscious guy up, one hand down the kids pants and running the other over his chest as he kisses and licks his face under a street lamp. In the brighter light Mickey can see just how young the redhead is. He makes a disgusted noise at the back of his throat and stomps toward them.

“Why don’t you molest someone your own age, you jerk!”

Mickey grunts, grabbing the older man roughly and dragging him away, slamming one fist into his gut.

“Ow! Fuck!”

The man twists in Mickey’s grip but can’t break loose and glares at him accusingly

“You’re an animal”

“I’m not the one groping and licking on underage boys, am I?”

Mickey quips back at him, his tone more frustrated than truly angry now that the danger of losing them has passed.

“We’re just having some fun …”

“Shut the fuck up! Now give the kid some money before he calls the cops on you.”

There is a stammer of apologies and a flurry of bank notes and then Mickey tires of it all and shoves the old perv backwards, booting him in the ass for good measure as he scurries away.

“And learn how to run like a dude!”

Mickey yells after him, flexing his fists and stooping to pick up the fallen money. He glances up to make sure the asshole who has just completely derailed his night hasn’t wandered off too far. The boy is slumped on his side in a snow bank, pale lips turning blue with cold.

“Jesus Christ.”

Mickey shakes his head and stuffs the cash in his pockets, abandoning the last couple of notes in his concern. He crouches beside him, shaking his arm far more gently than he usually would in such a situation.

“Hey. Hey! Fuck.”

Mickey runs a hand over his face. There is no way the guy is getting up on his own. Mickey looks around as if hoping some magic wheelbarrow might appear and when it doesn’t, he begins to gather the lanky limbs up from the snow. He grunts with the effort of lifting the unconscious body over his shoulder, one arm wrapped securely around the back of his thighs. The kid might be a skinny little shit but he’s solid and the weight of him is both inconvenient and comforting. Mickey is dimly aware that the redhead might piss on him or vomit down his back but he doesn’t worry about it too much.

Southside is not an impossibly long walk away but it’s enough that Mickey grits his teeth and scowls at the thought of navigating the icy patches of sidewalk and hefting them both all the way back to his house but fuck it, he can’t exactly just drop him back down in the snow for some grey-pubed shithead to take advantage of.

“You call for a yoo-ber?”

Mickey glances up in surprise at the driver of the vehicle but after a moments hesitation, nods affirmatively

“Yeah I called for a yoo-ber.”

He echoes, not realising the drivers accent has thrown the word off. What the Hell does Mickey know about cabs? In his world if you need a goddamn ride, you hitch one or steal one – you don’t download a fuckin’ app and pay strangers for shit you can do yourself.

He bundles the redhead into the back seat and clambers in after him, giving the driver his address and shrugging out of his coat. This is definitely one of the nicer cars Mickey has ever ridden in and in other circumstances he’d slip his hand down the seats to check for lost cash, smokes or credit cards – rich people are almost always careless with their stuff – but today he is focussed on the boy whose eyelids are starting to flutter.

Mickey clumsily throws his jacket over the long pale body and sits back in his seat, thinking what his next move should be. The house should be empty but if it’s not he’s just going to have to make something up, maybe he can say that the guy owes him money and Mickey is going to torture it out of him when he wakes up? It’s flimsy but Mickey can’t seem to think properly. The clarity that had come when his fuckin’ damsel in distress passed out is now waning as he wakes, and Mickey’s head is once again crowded with too much emotional static.

He’s heard of this sort of thing. Every now and then a couple of assholes make the news with it – a Sentinel and a Guide find each other in the big wide world and live happily ever after or some stupid shit like that and everyone goes nuts for it. Mickey had anxiously wondered on occasion if he might be a bit like those freaks but he trained himself to ignore the emotions. One thing that growing up with Terry had taught him was how to push your feelings way, way down inside and never let them slip out into view. Mickey is damned expert at that and it’s served him well but something about the redhead beside him … Mickey couldn’t ignore him and he’s fairly certain it wasn’t just because he is hot. He hadn’t even got a good look at him til they were already outside and sure, the flaming hair and strong, pale limbs are nice, his ass is pretty great, and Mickey may have wanted to trail his fingertips over those high cheekbones but it had been more than that … more forceful than lust. The urge to protect and …. Mickey shuts the word ‘Guide’ down in his head before he can even fully think it. Fuck that. It’s all bullshit anyway … probably.

The cab pulls in outside the Milkovich house and the driver shakes his head in confusion when Mickey tries to shove some crumpled dollar bills at him.

“It is charged to your card, Mr Green.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

Mickey nods, as if this makes total sense to him and drags his semi-conscious companion out of the vehicle. Mickey chances setting him on his feet, and although he leans against Mickey’s shoulder heavily, the redhead manages to stand and the effort of doing so seems to wake him up a little.

“I’m Ian. We gonna have a good time?”

Mickey recognises the accent as Southside and smiles a little to himself without looking up at … Ian.

“Oh yeah, a real good time. Most likely listening to you puke up whatever cocktail of crappy knock off pills you ingested with that old creep at the club.”

“You’re pretty.”

Ian mumbles, trying to rest his cheek on Mickey’s head, causing the shorter man to jerk away and both of them to stumble, almost falling on the porch steps.

“Shut the fuck up, Firecrotch.”

Mickey’s tone is far softer than the words he speaks. He can feel exhaustion and uncertainty rolling off Ian in waves and the urge to smooth away his doubts is almost as strong as Mickey’s natural inclination to keep his distance.

“What’s your name?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey.”

Ian repeats softly and something about the way Ian says his name makes Mickey smile despite himself.

Making it through the front door is one thing, but navigating the cluttered living room to try and get to Mickey’s bedroom is something else entirely. Mickey irritably kicks bags of stuff aside as he tries to steer Ian through but inches from the bedroom door, Ian snags his foot on something and sprawls across the floor. Mickey grabs for him but a blinding stab of pain overtakes his movements and he staggers back against the wall, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead.

“Fuck!”

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe through it, nostrils flaring. He has never really thought of himself as someone with a great deal of empathy. He tends to think of life as one big cluster fuck and if you fall down, you get fuckin’ trampled – end of story, bitch! But now something loosens within him and Mickey can feel the tight grip he keeps on himself slackening, letting empathy coil out from him and wrap gently around Ian, who is still on the floor, his fingers sticky with blood from a cut above his eyebrow.

“What are you …?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know just …”

Mickey keeps his eyes closed and reaches out with his mind. He has no idea what to do but something is telling him to take them both somewhere safe.

He pictures an empty building, beer cans line the ledges of broken windows, graffiti covers the walls, and it is cold as fuck. However it is also private and they can be alone here. Mickey knows this place well. He turns slightly and sees a large black box to his right, it looks heavy and when Mickey leans into it, the surface is almost uncomfortably hot. Mickey keeps his hands against it though and gradually begins to lean his weight into it, his nailbeds turning white with the force he is exerting. The box rasps against the chipped concrete floor and grudgingly begins to slide back.

In the living room, Ian is watching him with wide, disbelieving eyes as all his fear, even the muddled, muted fear that the drugs had created begins to disperse.

Ian knows what he is, he is a Sentinel and he has accepted that with a sort of reluctant pride. He’s never found cause to be ashamed, not about the shitty house he grew up in, not when he realised he was gay, not when he was diagnosed with bi-polar and not when he discovered his sentinel abilities. He is who he is and doesn’t need anyone to try and change him or save him.

Maybe that is why finding a Guide has been so hard. Many people have felt almost right but none of them have been the one. Even the ones who have accepted most of him, eventually Ian has always been able to feel them prodding tentatively at the edges of bipolar, trying to patch over it or wrap around it, refusing to accept that it is simply a part of who he is.

He feels Mickey approach that part of him, raw and confused and never fully at peace and tenses ready to do whatever it takes to stop it being interfered with, but Mickey simply observes it for a moment and then withdraws his attention.

Mickey pushes the box until something soft and pliant catches his eye. He steps around to look down at it and sees a substance like knotted cobwebs trailing after his progress. The individual strands are pale silver and shimmer in the weak light of the abandoned building. Mickey can tell they are fragile just from looking at them. Whatever the fuck they are, it ain’t his business. He’s here to move this weird box and although the stuff is snagged on it, he doesn’t think that he’s going to damage anything by carrying on. So that is what he does and little by little, the box edges toward one of the gaping holes where the windows used to be and finally, Mickey manages to tip it out, sending it tumbling into the nothingness below. Mickey steps back, panting, and takes a moment to catch his breath.

Ian’s mind clears and his breathing eases, completely in rhythm with Mickey’s own. He wishes Mickey would open his eyes, look at him properly but he takes the opportunity to look freely at his body, taking as much as he can in. Large feet in heavy boots and strong, stocky legs. His torso is broad and he’s clearly strong but maybe a little … soft? Ian wishes the light was better because he wants to see as much of his new friend as possible … maybe more than a friend should strictly want to see...Ian blinks and cocks his head to the side, squinting to read the words tattooed across Mickey’s fingers and he breaks into a wide smile when he finally pieces the letters together.

The shift in Ian’s mood breaks Mickey’s concentration and he opens his eyes, smiling softly in response to the ripple of happiness that has just washed over him. An electric blue gaze meets a gentle green one and it is almost too much.

Almost.

Love at first sight it a myth that Mickey Milkovich has long called bullshit on, but the swell of Ian’s emotion crashes over him like a summer storm, hot and fast, understanding and want crashing around him like thunder and the look in his eyes illuminating Mickey’s world like so many forks of lightening. He takes a shuddering breath and sees it mirrored on Ian’s lips. Mickey has no idea how he could stop it even if he wanted to and so he lets it flow over him and out of him, his cheeks growing hot with the unspoken admission.

Their breathing is completely in tandem, chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Mickey bites down on his lower lip until he tastes the metallic tang of blood. He can feel Ian, all of Ian. He can feel him as clearly as he can feel the throbbing of his bitten lip and he knows instinctively that Ian can feel him just as well. Hopes, fears, dreams. Their qualities and flaws all laid out in a dazzling array of complexities and acceptance blooms, clear and honest and vibrant in the small, cluttered room on a street in Chicago’s notorious South Side.

*

“We gotta put something on that cut.”

His voice is strained even to his own ears and Ian doesn’t reply, merely rubs the back of his hand across the wound, dashing away the drying blood, wiping it off on his jeans before holding out his hand to Mickey.

If what the papers and news reports say is true, they may not have had a choice in the unexpected bond that had formed between them but as Mickey bent to touch his fingers to Ian’s palm, he knew that it was a conscious choice and one that he would probably make every day for the rest of his life.

“Are you my Guide, Mickey?”

Ian asks, almost shyly, squeezing Mickey’s fingers tightly as the words echoing between their newly linked perceptions. The question startles Mickey out of his own thoughts and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“How the fuck should I know?”

Mickey scowls, aware that this is not how Guides are supposed to speak to their Sentinels. They’re meant to be all calm and zen and shit.  Ian doesn’t seem to mind though. Ian smiles again, a sweet, full-lipped smile that makes Mickey’s stomach flutter. If he was Ian’s Guide he should feel in complete control, he should be dominating the situation completely but that is not what is happening. Something is shifting between them, a swift change like sand dunes disturbed by a strong wind only to form a more beautiful pattern on the desert floor.

Ian pulls Mickey down to him and Mickey slides willingly onto the floor beside him, letting Ian’s large hands frame his face, cradling him and sending a constant stream of curious, hopeful contentment across the fragile air between them.

“Have you ever …?”

“No.”

Mickey shakes his head firmly and then hesitates, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“Wait, you talking about this gay shit or this weird new shit?”

Ian laughs and it is the best sound Mickey thinks he has ever heard. Not much can cajole Mickey out of a decent frown but that sound does.

“Weird new shit. You found me at Pile Driver so I figured … you know ...”

Ian rubs his thumb lightly over Mickey’s cheek, playfully tugging his earlobe. Mickey looks away and bites his answering grin back, sucking in his cheeks and making a bored motion with his tongue.

Ian leans forward and their lips touch ever so briefly. It is the first time Mickey has ever been kissed and he pushes out a sense of exhilaration so strong it makes Ian laugh that rich, wonderful laugh again as they pull apart.

The connection between the two boys has been thrumming along gently, like soft background music in a restaurant, but now Mickey begins to weaken it, pulling away a little, wanting his space back. He might have just fallen in love with someone and that is shit that needs individual processing, not a group activity.

“Don’t ...”

Ian’s brow creases and he grips the back of Mickey’s head tightly, fingers raking through the thick black hair.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, man. Wanna get out of your head before I fuck something up in there.”

“You won’t!”

Ian shakes his head and Mickey snorts, gently unfolding Ian’s fingers from his head and placing them away from him.

“You done this before?”

“No but ... I’ve heard about it and I know a bit.”

“But you can’t do what I just did?”

“No …”

“And you don’t know how that bit works?”

“Not really …”

“Right. So learn a unique skill or shut the fuck up.”

Mickey smiles gently and disentangles himself from Ian, standing and offering him a hand up.

Ian presses his lips together and gives Mickey an exasperated look climbing to his feet unaided.

“Fuck you! You’re my Guide and you’re supposed to help me do … whatever shit I need to do.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, almost daring Ian to contradict him.

“Well maybe I need more help!”

“Jesus. You always this needy?”

“No. I usually just get what I want.”

Ian smirks and Mickey returns it ruefully.

“Yeah I bet you do, Firecrotch.”

“Ian.”

“Whatever. Bathrooms through there. Go sort that cut out.”

*

While Ian goes to the bathroom to clean up, Mickey gets a couple of cans of beer from the fridge, considers it, and then pours two glasses of orange juice instead. He doesn’t know how he managed to push the effect of the drugs away, but he is fairly certain that just because he somehow did, Ian still shouldn’t be drinking.

Ian looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and flinches. He looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes and pallid skin … fuck sake. He feels like he is at the tail end of a come down, it’s a soft landing thanks to Mickey, but his head still feels to heavy for his neck. Though perhaps it is just all that has happened. He had been about to go back to the apartment of some sleazy creep and get pawed over  on an expensive couch whilst snorting, smoking and popping as many drugs as he could to try and quiet the sensations in his mind. Then, out of nowhere a beautiful, tough stranger shows up, rescues him, heals him, Guides him and, unless Ian is very much mistaken, they have fallen in love too. What the actual fuck?

He pinches himself sharply wondering if he is about to wake up and hears Mickey’s voice call out from the kitchen

“You okay?”

The connection. Mickey must have let himself back in a little bit just in case. Ian smiles at the thought of someone actually caring enough about him to want to do such a thing.

“Yeah, fine.”

Ian splashes a little water on his face and notices an open letter at his feet. It looks like a bill and it looks like someone has wiped their ass with it. The name at the top of the letter is ‘Mr I. Milkovich.’ - not Mickey then but perhaps a brother? Or maybe his father? Mickey certainly looks young enough to live with his parents still. Perhaps it is just a roommate? It is absolutely fucking weird to know so much about a person and not actually be sure of their last name. Ian grins to himself and adds it to the list of weird shit that just seems to happen to him.

Realising he is taking too long, Ian gently pats his face dry with the hem of his shirt as there are no towels in sight and unlocks the door, heading out to the living room and then following the smell of tobacco smoke though to one of the bedrooms. He finds Mickey sprawled on a rumpled bed, sipping a glass of orange juice. When he sees Ian he gives him a cocky grin and, unless Ian has imagined it, spreads his legs a little wider.

“Take a seat.”

Ian does so, sitting a little awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. The distance between them seems too far, a wide yawning chasm that neither is sure how to brace. Mickey clears his throat, places a hand almost protectively over his crotch, seemingly embarrassed about his presumption, and hands Ian his juice.

“Figured beer would be the last thing you need.”

“Yeah, probably right.”

Ian’s leg begins shaking up and down and he worries at a hangnail on his thumb.

“I don’t know how that shit happened earlier but I think I’m in love with you and you’re really fucking hot.”

He blurts suddenly and Mickey chokes on his drink, sending bright droplets across the room and dribbling the remainder down his chin.

“Damn! You just wanted to put that out there, huh?”

“Sorry.”

Ian ducks his head abashed as Mickey wipes his face on his sleeve, grinning.

“Nah, it’s cool. You look pretty good yourself, Freckles.”

“Yeah?”

Ian glances up, giving Mickey a one-sided smile, creating a dimple in his cheek that Mickey feels an almost overwhelming urge to kiss. He can feel the bond between them flexing as Ian’s happiness peaks again, a warm nudge against Mickey’s mind.

“Yeah.”

Mickey sits forward and lets his hand trail the length of Ian’s thigh, paying close attention the rhythm of Ian’s breathing and stopping his exploration when he hears it hitch.

“You OK?”

“Yeah … yeah just … relaxing.”

“Sure. Well go ahead and relax, Firecrotch. I got you.”

Mickey’s confidence is growing and he can feel Ian’s emotions stabilising as he touches him. Mickey has been told many times that he is a damn good lay, but no one has ever actually relaxed just from his touch before. It is a novel change from using his hands to do violence or tear off clothes before frantic coupling and he takes his time with Ian, gentling him as he travels his body.

“Is your last name Milkovich?”

“Mmhhmm.”

Mickey hums response as he scoots closer to Ian, ducking his head to place a kiss against his collar bone.

“Mine is ‘Gallagher’.”

“Good to meet you, Gallagher.”

Mickey carefully unbuttons Ian’s jeans and shoves his hands inside, grasping the hot, hard length of him tightly and running his thumb over the slit.

“I can’t wait to have you inside me, gonna ride that dick so fuckin’ good.”

Mickey licks his lip impatiently when Ian doesn’t immediately respond. He’s never fucked on a bed before and never done it with a guy this hot. He feels a little overwhelmed and so reverts to the sort of thing he normally says to speed things along and get him what he needs. Ian bucks his hips desperately but then grunts and stills Mickey’s hand with one of his own.

“What is it? You don’t wanna fuck me or something?”

Mickey’s voice is slightly strangled and his fingers twitch in Ian’s grasp making the younger man smile.

“I haven’t … I don’t … Can I at least touch you first?”

The question makes Mickey’s cock twitch in anticipation and he nods curtly.

“Course you can touch me! Knock yourself out, man.”

Ian’s hand hovers uncertainly for a split second and then plunges into Mickey’s hair, carding through it to cup the back of his head as he comes up to straddle Mickey’s thighs. The kiss Ian places on Mickey’s lips is fierce, all clashing teeth and thrusting tongues and Mickey can’t help the desires that he projects across to Ian, the urge to be treated roughly, the ache of wanting something hard and fast and furious, the desperation to be understood. It is the opposite of what a Guide should encourage his Sentinel towards and Mickey feels a twinge of guilt. Ian feels it too and pulls back to look down at Mickey.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Ain’t I supposed to do that shit for you?”

“Who gives a shit what we’re supposed to do?”

Ian smiles, kissing Mickey again and deftly opening the buttons on his shirt fastening first his lips and then his teeth around one dark nipple, a soft moan escaping as he feels the tiny bud of flesh harden and the sharp hiss of Mickey’s breath as Ian releases him.

Ian begins undressing Mickey, swift practical motions that calm Mickey’s skittering nerves. Once Ian has him down to his boxers, he glances uncertainly toward the door. Ian follows his gaze and immediately stands, crosses the room and closes it, flipping the flimsy lock Mickey has attached to it into place. He understands, maybe not everything but enough to know that Mickey clearly values his privacy.

“Just you and me.”

He smirks, tugging his tank off, and turning in a slow circle, arms held slightly away from his body.

“This okay for you?”

Mickey nods, not trusting his voice. His eyes are wide and staring and he isn’t entirely sure that he is awake but if this is a dream, it is quickly becoming the best dream he has ever had and he is in no hurry for it to end.

“You a military man?”

Mickey nods to the tattoo on Ian’s side and Ian grins almost bashfully

“It’s a long story but kind of … yeah. Army.”

Ian cocks his head to the side, watching him keenly and Mickey feels a surge of confidence pulse out from the redhead into the room. He nods again and it is all the permission Ian needs.

He pulls Mickey to his feet, steadying him with firm hands on his shoulders and looks down at him intently

“You gonna kiss me or just fuckin’...”

Ian shuts him up with a kiss and they smile into each others mouths, hands trailing each others bodies. Ian moves ones hand and pinches Mickey’s nipple, softly and then harder, pulling the shorter man up onto his toes, a flush of pleasure creeping over his cheeks as Ian twists him lightly, just enough to see the pulse in Mickey’s neck jump. His other hand tightens on the firm shoulder in his grip, pressing his thumb hard into the collarbone, his fingers leaving bright white outlines on the already pale skin.

Mickey shivers, the room is cold and his skin is too sensitive, he shifts on the balls of his feet, not sue whether Ian means to let him rest back onto his heels or not.

“Get into bed.”

Mickey snorts, he barely knows Gallagher but the guy says it as if they’ve been sharing Mickey’s bed for years, as if he belongs there, as if he is as much a part of the room as the cracked ceiling and patchy carpet.

He has no idea how Ian manages to burn even in the cold of the room but as Mickey scooches over in the narrow bed and Ian folds around him, the heat from Ian’s body makes him curl involuntarily into him, pressing his forehead against the toned muscle of Ian’s chest.

He feels fingers trail down his back, the tips blunt and strong as they curl around Mickey’s ass, kneading one of his cheeks lightly, then squeezing more firmly.

“You have a really great ass.”

Mickey allows his own hand to travel down to grope the round swell of Ian’s behind and he grins.

“You too, Army.”

“You like nicknames, huh?”

Ian begins kissing down Mickey’s temple, his jaw, his neck. He shuffles down the bed, not worrying about the sudden chill as his legs left the shelter of the quilt.

“Got a problem with that?”

Mickey peers down the length of the bed, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Would it matter if I did?”

“Not really.”

“Well then quit fucking staring at me and spread ‘em.”

Ian bites Mickey’s calf firmly and Mickey tips his head back, grinning up at the ceiling, his eyes closed. He didn’t think a bed could make much difference, and by anyones standards his bed is uncomfortable. He usually sleeps on top of the quilt, wrapped in a hoody or his coat rather than try and sleep with springs poking him in the back but even with his shitty mattress, being in bed with Ian is so fucking liberating he almost wants to laugh with the joy of it.

He thinks of his father, what Terry would say if he knew. It is a recurring thought that comes to Mickey at some point during every encounter he has ever had with another man. Usually Mickey grits his teeth, closes his eyes and, if things are far enough along, thrusts himself back until pain and pleasure finally mingle and he cums over his clenched fist, already tugging his pants up with his free hand.

However with Ian between his legs, kissing the inside of his thigh and gripping his hips tightly, Mickey can barely see Terry’’s face. It is blurred and faint, like he is viewing it through smeared glass and the shame he feels is muted too.

Ian’s tongue slips between his cheeks and Mickey wraps his hand in Ian’s hair with a sharp curse.

“Jesus, Gallagher!”

Mickey’s dick is so swollen he is worried he is about to cum all over himself but Ian seems to know his body as well as he knows everything else and he shimmies back up the bed, looking at Mickey as if he is the best thing he has ever seen.

“Got lube?”

Mickey nods and leans over the edge of the bed, rooting through the junk under his bed until he comes up with a small bottle, the label scratched off just in case.

“Here I … Ian?”

Ian’s face is stony, his eyes fixed on the wall somewhere over Mickey’s shoulder as he kneels rigidly on the bed.

“Ian?”

Mickey drops the lube on the mattress between them and gently grips the back of Ian’s head.

“Hey. Hey it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone’s been stabbed.”

“It’s Southside, man. Of course someone’s been stabbed.”

“I don’t … I can’t see them...”

Mickey bites back a curse and looks around for his boxers which are no where to be seen. Mickey bites his lip, squares his shoulders and kneels up in front of Ian, shifting his grip in the red hair to a more certain one and locking eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about this right now. Let it go, man.”

Mickey can feel the instant Ian's sight starts to come back under his control.

"That’s it, you got it"

He coaxes, as Ian draws toward Mickey’s touch, the anxious fear within him easing as he melts forward, sinking his face to Mickey's shoulder and breathing in the scent of him.

“I got you.”

Mickey strokes Ian’s hair and kisses his temple as light tremors flash through the younger man’s body. There is a sudden rush of thinking awareness in the bond between them, Ian's emotions spike, twist, flutter and then … there is stillness.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian murmurs, swallowing heavily.

“Don’t worry about it, man.”

Mickey shrugs and continues smoothing Ian’s hair, his free hand tugging the quilt up around their shoulders, shrouding them from the outside world.

“You think I’m crazy? A Sentinel too fucked up to know where to look.”

“Nah. You’re … well you’re whatever the fuck you are, same as anyone else.”

“You are definitely my Guide.”

Ian smiles and nods to himself, the question is gone and certainty sits proudly in it’s place.

“You think?”

Mickey rubs a finger under his nose and Ian nods firmly

“Yeah. It’s … I can’t explain it but everything about you, even the way you smell… you’re the one.”

Ian closes his eyes so he doesn’t see the hope and the shock that flit across Mickey’s face.

“Lay down, Gallagher. You look beat.”

Ian frowns and cups a hand around Mickey’s balls

“But don’t you want …?”

Mickey kisses him by way of answer and then pulls back, gently patting Ian’s face and easing them both down onto the bed,

“You gonna run out on me in the morning?”

“No!”

“Then we got all the time in the world.”

Their limbs entwine and Ian speads the blanket over them, tucking it securely around Mickey’s broad back, another first for the brunette.

“I haven’t even said thank you. For rescuing me.”

Ian blinks bleerily and the flush of warmth that spreads through Mickey’s chest feels strange and a little uncomfortable but not unpleasant.

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.”

“You say that a lot.”

“You talk a lot.”

Mickey sees Ian’s eyes crinkle at the edges as his lips soften and curve into a small smile that is entirely fore Mickey.

“Better get used to it, Mick.”

As Mickey shuts off the lamp, there is not a word from either of their lips but they both drift into an easier sleep than either has had in a long time and it truly is the start of something beautiful.

[worldbuildingworkshop]

Worldbuilding Tutorial #9: Example World B

Intro This world, as usual, will be a much better example for building your standard fantasy world than World A was, for the tutorial on government an on others. I will use a couple different methods of building governments just to demonstrate examples of how to come up with these things. 

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Region #1: Warm Coastal Region This is a region with a small physical area but a high population density and a lot of resources moving through. It’s a trade city with a lot of money flowing and a lot of access to unusual services and goods, and thus the government needs to be able to support all of that. A lot of the day-to-day trade affairs are governed by guilds; there are many major guilds in the city - for shipbuilding, carpentry, theater, blacksmithing, dyers, bakers, you name it - and individual guilds will tax their members for funds by which the guild operates. Guild members are expected to abide by certain rules about where they can conduct their business, who they can conduct it with, etc; operating in a craft without belonging to the guild is not quite illegal but heavily penalized. In return the guild will help protect them and their families and support them in some situations - especially legally but in other ways, including monetary ways, as well. The guilds have a lot of power in the city, and while they do not run it and nor are the guild masters de facto on the ruling council, they have a lot of weight to throw around if they choose to. They also compete heavily with one another (and within themselves at times) and are not beneath sabotage and subterfuge in order to get an edge.

There are two portions to the actual rulership of the city: the council and the regent. The council does most of the heavy lifting; they do the proposals, the research, the wording of the decision or law, etc. The regent then approves or disapproves the decisions and signs off on them, although the regent can be overruled by a 8-1 vote. The council and regent are also in charge of adjudicating major crimes (minor crimes are usually dealt with by city law enforcement, who answer in turn to the regent). Regency is hereditary through a family member chosen by the current regent and approved by the council (does not have to be a child); councilship is not hereditary (though the same family will often find their hands on the seats) and can be any of the upper-class members of society. Candidates are nominated by guilds and other powers around the city, including the regent, who serves as a tiebreaker in the ultimate vote on new council members.

Region #2: Wooded Region Because of the widespread smaller-scale communities and the cultural disinterest in large-scale stratification, government in this region tends to come down to individual villages. Generally villages will have a town meeting every week which is open to anyone who wants to come; during the meeting everyone has the opportunity to discuss issues with other townsfolk, say their bit or present their own perspective, and then the yes or no of the issue is determined by a simple majority vote. There are several city officials who are in charge of running, conducting, and mediating these meetings; they are the closest it generally comes to any kind of ruler. They are also the figures who, in times of crisis, will be sent as “diplomats” to speak to other towns or villages and come to an agreed-upon course of action. These figures are usually people who have been active in the town meetings for a long time and shown interest in the job, who are then brought in as trainees until someone is ready to retire (or the population grows such that they need another person to fill the job).

Region #3: In-Between Region This region operates in a somewhat feudal system governmentally speaking. There are a number of fifes which are ruled by various nobles or warlords; this land is governed by the owner, whose rulership is hereditary. Generally the more land and resources a noble has, the more power they have; as such, land wars between fifes are fairly common. If you live on the land belonging to a fiefdom, you are assumed to belong to that fief and subject to its laws; for more travel-oriented jobs, such as trading or barding, it is common for people to pledge themselves to a particular house who then becomes the patron of that person and funds their ventures (so getting a house to accept your pledge is a big deal). Fiefdoms can negotiate with other fiefdoms to make alliances, trade or land deals, fund armies, etc - all the larger decisions that require some degree of coordination.

Region #4: Open Plains Region This region is essential rule by local warlords. Bands vary widely in size from 20 to hundreds of people, and bands may merge or split as it becomes politically or economically necessary. The headperson in charge of an individual band is whoever has enough sway to keep control of and manage it well; this is often hereditary, although traditions vary somewhat and in all bands there inevitably comes a time when the next blood relative doesn’t have the skills necessary to take care of the band, at which point they are usually usurped by someone who does or the band splits off to follow a rival. Marriage between bands is common as both a way to keep inbreeding from becoming an issue and also as a way to cement alliances and other agreements; it is traditional for the member of the more powerful band to join the less powerful one as a sign of good faith. At times there will emerge warlords who have the drive and skill to bring many bands together into their own and create something more like a dynastic period under a single ruler; this also tends to break apart eventually, though that time can vary to the rulership of a single headsperson to many, many generations.

Region #5: Cool Coastal Region Unlike the other regions so far, this region is actually ruled by a monarch and a centralized state. Individual towns and people pay taxes, the wealth goes back to the monarch who distributes it across various projects throughout the region. The rulership is hereditary to some extent, although it usually passes within the same family rather than from parent to child; the monarch nominates an heir and their advisers and other notable figures (like a representative from a particularly large city) confirm or deny the nomination.  Aside from taxes and any state projects that are local, there isn’t much day-to-day interaction between communities and the government; mostly the communities regulate themselves however they see fit, usually a combination of selecting a community member to be the headsperson (usually an elder or married couple of elders) and town meetings.

A cultural note on the monarchy in this region: unlike in our world, the position comes with very few bells and whistles. The vast majority of people don’t know who the reigning monarch is and don’t particularly care except in passing; there’s little glory or personal wealth attached to the position, mostly just a sense of duty. If a particular monarch starts to step outside the lines on cultural norms, it’s usual for their advisers to stage a quiet coup and things essentially go on as they were. 

Region #6: West Coastal Region Like region #5, this region is ruled by a monarch. Unlike the previous region, the power structure is much more stratified, top-down, and rigid; the throne usually passes from parent to child, comes with a lot more glory and power and wealth, and is paid more direct attention by common folk. Rulership is usually done by a married couple; the man’s (King’s) purview usually includes collecting taxes, running the military, and making trade agreements. The woman’s (Queen’s) purview usually includes distributing crown resources and overseeing legal or judicial affairs. The two work together on projects that fall under both their purview, but otherwise work independently - hence one of the important traits that people look for in their rulers is a good marriage, because a bad one will tear the country apart. 

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Up next will be a tutorial on religion and magic and how those play out in different cultures (rather than the reality of divine forces in your world, which was covered in the metaphysics tutorial). 

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms

for Tuesday, november 10 of 2020 with Proverbs 10 and Psalm 10, accompanied by Psalm 50 for the 50th day of Autumn, and Psalm 15 for day 315 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 3rd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 10]

The proverbs of Solomon:

A wise son makes his father glad,

but a foolish one fills his mother with sorrow.

Riches gained through dishonest means will eventually vanish,

but doing what is right avoids a deadly consequence.

The Eternal does not allow the right-living to go hungry,

but He will frustrate the plans of the wicked.

A slack hand produces nothing but poverty,

but an industrious hand soon takes hold of riches.

A wise son stores up for the winter months while it is still summer,

but a shameful son lies around even during the harvest.

Blessings come to those who do what is right,

but words spoken by the wicked cover up violent schemes.

The memory of one who lived with integrity brings joy,

but the legacy of a wrongdoer will rot away.

The wise at heart will gladly obey direction,

but one who fills the air with meaningless talk will fall into ruin.

The path of integrity is always safe,

but a person who follows a crooked way will be exposed.

Whoever winks his eye signals trouble,

and whoever fills the air with meaningless talk will fall into ruin.

The mouth of the righteous is a spring of life,

but words spoken by the wicked cover up violent schemes.

Hatred fuels dissension,

but love calms all rebellions.

Wisdom lives where insightful words are spoken,

but harsh punishment awaits the senseless.

The wise store up knowledge as a safeguard,

but the meaningless chatter of fools means that chaos is near.

The wealth of the rich is their powerful fortress;

the poverty of the poor reduces them to rubble.

The reward of those who do right is a satisfied life,

but the profits gained by those who do wrong is used to sin.

Those who accept instruction are travelers on the road to a meaningful life,

but those who refuse correction wander off and pave a path to ruin.

Lips that lie cover deep-seated hatred,

and whoever spreads a libelous rumor is acting as a fool.

The more you talk, the more likely you will cross the line and say the wrong thing;

but if you are wise, you’ll speak less and with restraint.

The speech of those who do right is of greater value than the finest silver,

but the thoughts of wrongdoers are worthless.

The right-living teach many,

but fools die with no clue how to live well.

The blessing of the Eternal is what makes someone rich,

and He doesn’t add pain to it.

Mischief is the sport of fools,

but wise actions bring joy to a person with insight.

Whatever wrongdoers fear the most will happen to them,

but those who do right will receive what they long for.

After the storm passes, the wrongdoers are blown away,

but those who do right are safe and sound on their firm foundations forever.

As vinegar vexes the teeth, and as smoke irritates the eyes,

so a slacker annoys his boss.

Reverence for the Eternal makes for a long and peaceful life,

but a wrongdoer will have years taken away.

The hope of those who do right is joy and celebration,

but the only prospect for those who do wrong is futility.

The way of the Eternal offers safety to those who love justice,

but it destroys those who perpetrate evil.

The right-living will never have their land taken away,

but wrongdoers will be uprooted.

Wisdom flows from the mouths of those who do right,

but tongues that twist the truth will be cut out.

The lips of the right-living understand what is proper,

but the mouths of wrongdoers twist and pervert the truth.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10 (The Voice)

[Psalm 10]

The Cry of the Oppressed

Lord, you seem so far away when evil is near!

Why do you stand so far off as though you don’t care?

Why have you hidden yourself when I need you the most?

The arrogant in their elitist pride persecute the poor and helpless.

May you pour out upon them

the very evil they’ve planned against others!

How they brag and boast of their cravings, exalting the greedy.

They congratulate themselves as they despise you.

These arrogant ones, so smug and secure!

In their delusion the wicked boast, saying,

“God doesn’t care about what we do.

There’s nothing to worry about!

Our wealth will last a lifetime.”

So seemingly successful are they in their schemes,

prosperous in all their plans and scoffing at any restraint.

They boast that neither God nor men will bring them down.

They sneer at all their enemies, saying in their hearts,

“We’ll have success in all we do

and never have to face trouble”—

never realizing that they are speaking this in vain.

Their mouths spout out cursing, lies, and threats.

Only trouble and turmoil come from all their plans.

Like beasts lurking in the shadows of the city

they crouch silently in ambush for the people to pass by.

Pouncing on the poor, they catch them in their snare

to murder their prey in secret

as they plunder their helpless victims.

They crush the lowly as they fall beneath their brutal blows,

watching their victims collapse in defeat!

Then they say to themselves,

“The Lofty One is not watching while we do this.

He doesn’t even care! We can get away with it!”

Now is the time to arise, Lord! Crush them once and for all!

Don’t forget the forgotten and the helpless.

How dare the wicked think they’ll escape judgment,

believing that you would not

call them to account for all their ways.

Don’t let the wicked get away with their contempt of you!

Lord, I know you see all that they’re doing,

noting their each and every deed.

You know the trouble and turmoil they’ve caused.

Now punish them thoroughly for all that they’ve done!

The poor and helpless ones trust in you, Lord,

for you are famous for being the helper of the fatherless.

I know you won’t let them down.

Break the power of the wicked and all their strong-arm tactics.

Search them out and destroy them

for the evil things they’ve done.

You, Lord, are King forever and ever!

You will see to it that all the nations perish from your land.

Lord, you know and understand all the hopes of the humble

and will hear their cries and comfort their hearts,

helping them all!

The orphans and the oppressed will be terrified no longer,

for you will bring them justice, and no one will trouble them.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 10 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 50]

God Has Spoken

A poetic song of Asaph, the gatherer

The God of gods, the mighty Lord himself, has spoken!

He shouts out over all the people of the earth

in every brilliant sunrise and every beautiful sunset,

saying, “Listen to me!”

God’s glory-light shines out of the Zion-realm

with the radiance of perfect beauty.

With the rumble of thunder he approaches;

he will not be silent, for he comes with an earsplitting sound!

All around him are furious flames of fire,

and preceding him is the dazzling blaze of his glory.

Here he comes to judge his people!

He summons his court with heaven and earth as his jury, saying,

“Gather all my lovers,

my godly ones whose hearts are one with me—

those who have entered into my holy covenant

by sacrifices upon the altar.”

And the heavens declare his justice:

“God himself will be their judge,

and he will judge them with righteousness!”

Pause in his presence

“Listen to me, O my people! Listen well, for I am your God!

I am bringing you to trial and here are my charges.

I do not rebuke you for your sacrifices,

which you continually bring to my altar.

Do I need your young bull or goats from your fields

as if I were hungry?

Every animal of field and forest belongs to me, the Creator.

I know every movement of the birds in the sky,

and every animal of the field is in my thoughts.

The entire world and everything it contains is mine.

If I were hungry, do you think I would tell you?

For all that I have created, the fullness of the earth, is mine.

Am I fed by your sacrifices? Of course not!

Why don’t you bring me the sacrifices I desire?

Bring me your true and sincere thanks,

and show your gratitude by keeping your promises to me,

the Most High.

Honor me by trusting in me in your day of trouble.

Cry aloud to me, and I will be there to rescue you.

And now I speak to the wicked. Listen to what I have to say to you!

What right do you have to presume to speak for me

and claim my covenant promises as yours?

For you have hated my instruction and disregarded my words,

throwing them away as worthless!

You forget to condemn the thief or adulterer.

You are their friend, running alongside them into darkness.

The sins of your mouth multiply evil.

You have a lifestyle of lies,

devoted to deceit as you speak against others,

even slandering those of your own household!

All this you have done and I kept silent,

so you thought that I was just like you, sanctioning evil.

But now I will bring you to my courtroom

and spell out clearly my charges before you.

This is your last chance, my final warning. Your time is up!

Turn away from all this evil, or the next time you hear from me

will be when I am coming to pass sentence upon you.

I will snatch you away and no one will be there

to help you escape my judgment.

The life that pleases me is a life lived in the gratitude of grace,

always choosing to walk with me in what is right.

This is the sacrifice I desire from you.

If you do this, more of my salvation will unfold for you.”

The Book of Psalms, Poem 50 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 15]

Living in the Shining Place

A poetic song, by King David

Lord, who dares to dwell with you?

Who presumes the privilege of being close to you,

living next to you in your shining place of glory?

Who are those who daily dwell in the life of the Holy Spirit?

They are passionate and wholehearted,

always sincere and always speaking the truth—

for their hearts are trustworthy.

They refuse to slander or insult others;

they’ll never listen to gossip or rumors,

nor would they ever harm another with their words.

They will speak out passionately against evil and evil workers

while commending the faithful ones who follow after the truth.

They make firm commitments and follow through,

even at great cost.

They never crush others with exploitation or abuse

and they would never be bought with a bribe

against the innocent.

They will never be shaken; they will stand firm forever.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 15 (The Passion Translation)

[divulgacion-alternativa]

Benjamin Fulford Publication Links - August 24 - 2020

Benjamin Fulford Publication Links - August 24 - 2020:

If this sounds like a “paranoid conspiracy theory” please note that David Rockefeller Jr., Warren Buffet, Michael Bloomberg, George Soros, Ted Turner, Oprah Winfrey, and others have publicly said they wanted to reduce the world’s population.  https://blogs.wsj.com/wealth/2009/05/26/billionaires-try-to-shrink-worlds-population-report-says/

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/billionaire-club-in-bid-to-curb-overpopulation-d2fl22qhl02

Now David Beasley, Executive Director of the UN World Food Program (WFP) is saying that because of Covid-19 the world is facing “a famine of biblical proportions.” https://www.rt.com/news/498719-global-famine-covid-un/

For me, as it is for many of us, this is personal.  In my case, the latest attack came from a man called Yoichiro Ikeuchi, whose picture and contact information can be seen here: https://www.fanterview.net/interview/933/

This summer, while I was in Canada, he tried to kill a Japanese woman who has been helping me post Japanese language videos.  Ikeuchi had access to private information about her that she never made public.  He told her that two of my former girlfriends had been killed.  In specific he mentioned Lisa Tohama, who worked with me for 12 years before dying of cancer at the age of 39.  Tohama was poisoned by a genetically engineered Epstein Barr virus.

The man who bragged to an associate of killing her, Tenzan Nakai, has fled to a remote island in the Okinawa archipelago, according to Japanese underworld sources.  https://ameblo.jp/hidy0701/entry-11148703068.html

Take a look at these photos of San Francisco’s deserted financial district to confirm the U.S. is in the middle of a Soviet Union style collapse.  https://www.zerohedge.com/personal-finance/haunting-photos-san-franciscos-desolate-financial-district-during-morning-rush

Here you can see articles describing quarter-mile long bread lines, failed garbage collection, dysfunctional public transit, and depopulation in New York.  https://www.zerohedge.com/personal-finance/quarter-mile-food-bank-line-spotted-queens-fiscal-cliff-underway

https://www.politico.com/news/2020/08/16/mta-new-york-biggest-public-transit-system-congress-395717

https://newyork.cbslocal.com/2020/07/29/trash-collection-nyc-sanitation-department-budget-cuts/

https://www.cnbc.com/2020/07/09/shark-tank-investor-herjavec-were-about-to-see-biggest-exodus-from-cities-in-50-years.html

Also, U.S. cities have become war zones with major shooting sprees constantly taking place in Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, etc.  https://chicago.suntimes.com/crime/2020/8/23/21396881/chicago-weekend-shootings-homicide-gun-violence-august-21-24

https://newyork.cbslocal.com/2020/08/21/violent-night-shootings-in-new-york-city/

https://www.cbsnews.com/video/los-angeles-shooting-spree-leaves-at-least-4-dead/

The societal collapse also means many police forces in the U.S. have degenerated into uniformed criminals.  https://www.wnd.com/2020/08/girlfriend-accused-selling-pot-government-takes-boyfriends-jeep/

The Canadian government used to warn its citizens not to carry cash to the U.S. because police would steal it.  Now it is telling Canadians not to go to the U.S. at all.

NSA sources are also saying there is a strong danger of major terrorist incidents over the next 90 days inside the U.S. and elsewhere.  https://www.zerohedge.com/geopolitical/florida-airport-evacuated-after-huge-live-missile-found-accidentally-shipped-amazon

https://www.zerohedge.com/markets/massive-fire-rips-through-texas-industrial-park

Fortunately, there are growing signs of some sort of mind-blowing military move against the cabal, possibly as early as September, multiple sources agree.

Of particular interest is a total blackout of satellites over a huge area of the South Atlantic.  The story at the link below talks about some sort of “magnetic anomaly” that forces operators to shut down satellites going over the South Atlantic.  If you look at the map though, it is centered right on Buenos Aires, Argentina.  Nazi sources say this is to cover up a major military deployment.  https://www.sciencealert.com/nasa-is-tracking-the-mysterious-evolving-anomaly-in-earth-s-magnetic-field

Then we have credible Russian reports and videos of UFOs flying over Antarctica.  Could this anomaly be the cover for some sort of secret space force military move against the cabal? https://www.rt.com/russia/498558-ufo-footage-cosmonaut-expert-analysis/

We shall see.  As always with this space stuff, believe it when you see it and even then examine it and question it, as the fake blue beam psyop is rumored to be just getting warmed up.

Even if no space force comes the rescue, the U.S. military needs to invade California and occupy the big hi-tech companies’ headquarters.  Whoever controls the Fed printing press in the U.S. right now is clearly pumping vast amounts of money into them.  If you remove Facebook, Apple, Amazon, Microsoft, and Google from the stock indexes then the stock market remains stuck at the lows reached after the March price collapse.  https://www.zerohedge.com/s3/files/inline-images/equal%20weighted%20S%26P.jpg?itok=1PMmHmls

https://www.zerohedge.com/markets/what-sp-would-look-without-5-megacap-tech-stocks

Even hi-tech companies like Tesla, which actually make things, are clearly getting more money than a functioning capital market would allocate to them.  Last week Tesla’s PE, price to earnings ratio passed one thousand to one.  That means it would take a thousand years for Tesla to pay off any investment in its stock right now.  https://brucewilds.blogspot.com/2020/08/teslas-pe-ratio-moves-past-thousand-mark.html

Aside from California, another cabal stronghold appears to be South Korea.  Korean gangsters who have been subcontracting control of Japan and South Korea for the cabal are starting to panic as they see the wheels of justice grinding towards them.  A sign of this is that the South Korean slave regime is upping Covid-19 restrictions to draconian levels in a bid to keep their populace under control.

They are desperate in part because North Korea is getting ready to announce South Korean government officials were responsible for murdering Kim Jong Un.  You can be sure the guilty parties will not be long for this Earth.  https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2020-08-23/jump-in-seoul-s-covid-19-cases-sparks-fear-of-nationwide-spread

https://nypost.com/2020/08/23/kim-jong-un-in-a-coma-as-his-sister-takes-control-report/amp/?utm_source=reddit.com

-------------END-----------------

[beneathshadowsrp]

MARCO LATZ

FACECLAIM: JESSE RATH AGE: 28 SPECIES: HUMAN OCCUPATION: Unemployed ARRIVED: Just Arrived CURED SUPERNATURAL

“THE GRIFTER”

Deceit gets such a bad reputation. When everybody in the world is looking to be someone they’re not already, what’s a little action on those flighty thoughts going to hurt? At least, that’s the way Marco views matters. For most of his adult life he’s either been somebody’s dream come true, or their most hellish nightmare, to everything and everyone in-between. He becomes whatever he needs to be, whomever he needs to, in order to get by, and thoroughly enjoys doing so. After all, where’s the fun in just being one person when you could be five different people through out the week? And reap the benefits that each one of those people would receive? There’s nothing wrong with a little white lie here and there, and he certainly isn’t the first to utilize his gift of speech (among other talents) to get what he wants. Nothing wrong at all; especially when the person who taught you everything you know was your very own mother. She didn’t have the very best upbringing: your typical ‘Orphan Annie’, except without the musical numbers and adorable little dog to cheer up audiences. And the fact that Monicah was a succubus, whose parents were killed by hunters. She spent the better part of her childhood digging for table scraps, begging for change, and when she grew into a young woman, engaging in certain acts that, while unpleasant, secured her a bed and sustenance for the night. Not once did Marco ever glean an inkling of shame in her gaze whenever she would talk about her past. What she had to do to survive, and eventually thrive, didn’t define her, nor tear her down. Life was life - unfair at the best of times, and clawing your way out of the gutter sometimes got a little messy. One particular mess came in the form of fate leading her towards the human she would soon come to fall completely head over heels for.

He was not only pleasant to engage with, but everything about him seemed to pull her in. His scent, his swagger, those impossibly bright eyes that seemed to go swirling into the heights of the bluest sky. She knew that she would have to have him, in any and every way a woman could. Where other girls would practically lay themselves over him, she resisted, purposely keeping her distance. She teased, pretended not to notice how her pulse quickened when he would arrive, scoffed at his jokes. And when he could have had any other girl in a line up of them, when they cooed and waved him in their direction, he finally chose her. And then continued to choose her; their nightly routines wore him, but she didn’t care. He whispered promises of luxury and protection, and she gave herself to him over and over again, in the moment not caring if his words were just that. As it turned out, her lover actually was genuine in his speech, and in a few months, she had moved into his massive house, been showered with affection, and wanted for absolutely nothing. 

When little Marco was born, with irises black as midnight, their adoration only blossomed, both wanting nothing more than their little bundle of joy’s happiness. And for a few months, that want flourished: truly a spoiled little baby, growing stronger every day with a wealth of love and affection. The new parents were positively animated when it came to the potential of their child, musing over how his life would be one rich and full. Of course, life is what happens when you’re making other plans. It was a little past midnight when a sharp knocking on the side of their house roused both parents, mother swiftly heading to her still slumbering child with father headed downstairs to check out the noise. Barely had little Marco been swept into his mother’s embrace, when the shot had fired. And another, more in succession, a groan of pain reverberating off the walls causing her blood to run cold. Only when she arrived downstairs would the horror of what had happened truly hit her - husband, bullet wounds indenting his upper body, a pool of his own blood surrounding his lifeless body.

After losing her husband, Monicah feared the worst for herself and little Marco. Neither of their parents were alive, so she didn’t have to worry about them taking custody of her child. But still, there was the matter of how they were to go on now that he was dead. A fierce protectiveness surged within her, determination to keep her child out of harm’s way overriding every other sense; she took all of the important documents, drained their savings, and fled. Brooklyn wasn’t exactly her first choice, but it had been one of the first flights out. Only meant as a temporary residence, the city began to become something of a home as the years passed. It was so hustle and bustle, and with so many people, Monicah found blending in to be rather effortless. Marco was home schooled - she wouldn’t risk ostracizing him due to his supernatural lineage. At least until he was old enough to get a pair of colored contacts. On his ninth birthday, Monicah presented him with a pair of hazel contacts, and an admonition: be someone they want to befriend. Be whoever you need to be in order to blend in. After watching his mother hustle for years in order to provide for them, Marco took the words to heart. 

When he finally entered middle school, he was nearly a blank slate. Nearly. He was initially quiet, taking in his classmates, watching their mannerisms, seeing who was at the top of the rung and who hung towards the bottom. After a couple of weeks, he began inching out of the self made shell: making wise cracks that earned him laughter and praise, having the best lunch so people would always envy him, clothing himself in threads that would identify him as someone to be desired. And, so what if he became the bane of a few teachers’ existence? Or if he happened to snag his lunch when the deli worker wasn’t looking? Or if his clothes didn’t exactly come with a receipt? The older he got, the more he realized that charm was not only a handy tool, but an asset to every day life. When he would come home from a friends house’s with a wallet his mother was sure wasn’t his own, she would only smile and lovingly pat her boy’s cheek. A job well done, she would applaud. 

And when high school hit, specifically junior year, an entirely new realm of possibilities opened up for Marco. His mother had prepared him beforehand about the shift in his make-up, how he would need to feed from others in order to keep his vitality. At first, he had been devastated by the news, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the requirements. But his mother assured him that no child of hers was incapable of anything; when the time came, he would do what he had to, as they always did. Sating his desires actually became quite easy, he found, especially considering that his mother had conditioned him to become just about anything in order to gain what he needed or wanted. He basked in the glow of having both boys and girls alike nearly breaking down his locker for a chance at the handsome young prodigy. It was a thrill unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he soon became gluttonous with the power. Even where his mother cautioned him, he would overindulge – to the point where she finally had to put her foot down. That night, they argued loud enough for the neighbors to hear from a house or two over, but it was the last time anyone would ever hear from both. Marco packed his things later on, along with a few of his mother’s stashed goods and cash, and in the very same manner as she had years ago, ran away. 

The next decade was a whirlwind of adventures; Marco had his fill of life, with no apologies to be found. He stole and screwed, no longer concerned in the least about how much life he took from those he took to bed, nor having qualms about obliterating their credit cards and savings. Humans were nothing but fodder for supernaturals, he came to believe, and he found immense pleasure toying with his play things, harboring all of the glee of a child let loose in a candy store. And his talent to seduce and enthrall only increased as time went on. To the lonely girl at the party, he was Prince Charming. To the fellow with his nose in a book, he was Don Juan. He could cry on command, feign every emotion on the spectrum, and do it all without breaking a single sweat. His entire life revolved around who he could, and would become, sucking every bit of life out of the people who were unlucky enough to fall into his waiting grasp. A true parasite. And he loved every minute of it. 

Until he met her. Irene was her name, a pretty little red-head who seemed so unassuming, so sweet, so friendly. So perfectly naive. Ripe for the picking. They had met at a small hole in the wall bar, and continued to cross paths via her dreams. And yet, with all of her openness, there was a sort of resistance she held. A reservation that Marco found all the more alluring to chase. If only he hadn’t. If only he had known that this supposedly innocent young lady actually worked for the Hamlin Group, and that it was her job to entice supernaturals like himself out into the open. Although reckless, Marco hadn’t been completely idiotic; he never stayed in once place too long, made sure that his conquests for the bigger feedings wouldn’t be missed terribly. He had thought he was careful enough. Finally, after months of pining, Irene invited Marco to her abode for a night cap. Like a dog lusting after a fresh, juicy steak, he followed her home - only to be ambushed in the parking lot. He had tried to fight off his attackers, but there were far too many, and he hadn’t fed recently. Irene was meant to be his next meal, but he hadn’t even gotten to see her breasts before he was being injected with a needle. He could only catch a sliver of her self-satisfied smirk before blacking out. 

After his ordeal at Hamlin, Marco felt, to put it lightly, broken. Tracking down his mother proved to be more of a difficult task than he thought; but he eventually found her obituary after some searching, much to his dismay. So he would never get the chance to apologize for everything. But apparently, her final resting place wasn’t in Brooklyn; it was some place in North Carolina, called Shadow Falls. At first the idea of going seemed ludicrous. Why would he, when there was nothing left of her besides ashes under mounds of dirt? But, then he thought back to Hamlin, to his life before capture, and he realized that a change needed to be made. He would lay low for a time, as they had when he was too young to recall exactly why, allow himself to properly heal… if that were possible. At the very least, adjust to no longer being an Incubus. 

-BEHIND THE CURTAIN-

Despite what he’s been through, there are a few lingering traits of Marco’s that weren’t completely erased. He still enjoys a good bout of sex, although any and all contact has to be initiated by him. He’s not exactly charming, but he does have a likable enough personality. He’s got a rather dark sense of humor, but he does enjoy a good pun every now and then. For the most part, he’s just trying to come to terms with the fact that he is no longer an Incubus, relenting to living a normal life as the very thing he was so accustomed to using and tossing aside.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Wednesday, june 10 of 2020 with Proverbs 10 and Psalm 10 accompanied by Psalm 84 for the 84th day of Spring and Psalm 12 for day 162 of the year

[Proverbs 10]

The proverbs of Solomon:

A wise son makes his father glad,

but a foolish one fills his mother with sorrow.

Riches gained through dishonest means will eventually vanish,

but doing what is right avoids a deadly consequence.

The Eternal does not allow the right-living to go hungry,

but He will frustrate the plans of the wicked.

A slack hand produces nothing but poverty,

but an industrious hand soon takes hold of riches.

A wise son stores up for the winter months while it is still summer,

but a shameful son lies around even during the harvest.

Blessings come to those who do what is right,

but words spoken by the wicked cover up violent schemes.

The memory of one who lived with integrity brings joy,

but the legacy of a wrongdoer will rot away.

The wise at heart will gladly obey direction,

but one who fills the air with meaningless talk will fall into ruin.

The path of integrity is always safe,

but a person who follows a crooked way will be exposed.

Whoever winks his eye signals trouble,

and whoever fills the air with meaningless talk will fall into ruin.

The mouth of the righteous is a spring of life,

but words spoken by the wicked cover up violent schemes.

Hatred fuels dissension,

but love calms all rebellions.

Wisdom lives where insightful words are spoken,

but harsh punishment awaits the senseless.

The wise store up knowledge as a safeguard,

but the meaningless chatter of fools means that chaos is near.

The wealth of the rich is their powerful fortress;

the poverty of the poor reduces them to rubble.

The reward of those who do right is a satisfied life,

but the profits gained by those who do wrong is used to sin.

Those who accept instruction are travelers on the road to a meaningful life,

but those who refuse correction wander off and pave a path to ruin.

Lips that lie cover deep-seated hatred,

and whoever spreads a libelous rumor is acting as a fool.

The more you talk, the more likely you will cross the line and say the wrong thing;

but if you are wise, you’ll speak less and with restraint.

The speech of those who do right is of greater value than the finest silver,

but the thoughts of wrongdoers are worthless.

The right-living teach many,

but fools die with no clue how to live well.

The blessing of the Eternal is what makes someone rich,

and He doesn’t add pain to it.

Mischief is the sport of fools,

but wise actions bring joy to a person with insight.

Whatever wrongdoers fear the most will happen to them,

but those who do right will receive what they long for.

After the storm passes, the wrongdoers are blown away,

but those who do right are safe and sound on their firm foundations forever.

As vinegar vexes the teeth, and as smoke irritates the eyes,

so a slacker annoys his boss.

Reverence for the Eternal makes for a long and peaceful life,

but a wrongdoer will have years taken away.

The hope of those who do right is joy and celebration,

but the only prospect for those who do wrong is futility.

The way of the Eternal offers safety to those who love justice,

but it destroys those who perpetrate evil.

The right-living will never have their land taken away,

but wrongdoers will be uprooted.

Wisdom flows from the mouths of those who do right,

but tongues that twist the truth will be cut out.

The lips of the right-living understand what is proper,

but the mouths of wrongdoers twist and pervert the truth.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10 (The Voice)

[Psalm 10]

Why, O Eternal One, are You so far away?

Why can’t You be found during troubling times?

Mean and haughty people hunt down the poor.

May they get caught up in their own wicked schemes.

For the wicked celebrates the evil cravings of his heart

as the greedy curses and rejects the Eternal.

The arrogance of the wicked one keeps him from seeking the True God.

He truly thinks, “There is no God.”

His ways seem always to be successful;

Your judgments, too, seem far beyond him, out of his reach.

He looks down on all his enemies.

In his heart he has decided, “Nothing will faze me.

From generation to generation I will not face trouble.”

His mouth is full of curses, lies, and oppression.

Beneath his tongue lie trouble and wickedness.

He hides in the shadows of the villages,

waiting to ambush and kill the innocent in dark corners.

He eyes the weak and the poor.

Ominously, like a lion in its lair,

he lurks in secret to waylay those who are downtrodden.

When he catches them, he draws them in and drags them off with his net.

Quietly crouching, lying low,

ready to overwhelm the next by his strength,

The wicked thinks in his heart, “God has forgotten us!

He has covered His face and will never notice!”

Arise, O Eternal, my True God. Lift up Your hand.

Do not forget the downtrodden.

Why does the wicked revile the True God?

He has decided, “He will not hold me responsible.”

But wait! You have seen,

and You will consider the trouble and grief he caused.

You will impose consequences for his actions.

The helpless, the orphans, commit themselves to You,

and You have been their Helper.

Break the arm of the one guilty of doing evil;

investigate all his wicked acts;

hold him responsible for every last one of them.

The Eternal will reign as King forever.

The other nations will be swept off His land.

O Eternal One, You have heard the longings of the poor and lowly.

You will strengthen them; You who are of heaven will hear them,

Vindicating the orphan and the oppressed

so that men who are of the earth will terrify them no more.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 10 (The Voice)

[Psalm 84]

A Korah Psalm

What a beautiful home, God-of-the-Angel-Armies!

I’ve always longed to live in a place like this,

Always dreamed of a room in your house,

where I could sing for joy to God-alive!

Birds find nooks and crannies in your house,

sparrows and swallows make nests there.

They lay their eggs and raise their young,

singing their songs in the place where we worship.

God-of-the-Angel-Armies! King! God!

How blessed they are to live and sing there!

And how blessed all those in whom you live,

whose lives become roads you travel;

They wind through lonesome valleys, come upon brooks,

discover cool springs and pools brimming with rain!

God-traveled, these roads curve up the mountain, and

at the last turn—Zion! God in full view!

God-of-the-Angel-Armies, listen:

O God of Jacob, open your ears—I’m praying!

Look at our shields, glistening in the sun,

our faces, shining with your gracious anointing.

One day spent in your house, this beautiful place of worship,

beats thousands spent on Greek island beaches.

I’d rather scrub floors in the house of my God

than be honored as a guest in the palace of sin.

All sunshine and sovereign is God,

generous in gifts and glory.

He doesn’t scrimp with his traveling companions.

It’s smooth sailing all the way with God-of-the-Angel-Armies.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 84 (The Message)

[Psalm 12]

A David Psalm

Quick, God, I need your helping hand!

The last decent person just went down,

All the friends I depended on gone.

Everyone talks in lie language;

Lies slide off their oily lips.

They doubletalk with forked tongues.

Slice their lips off their faces! Pull

The braggart tongues from their mouths!

I’m tired of hearing, “We can talk anyone into anything!

Our lips manage the world.”

Into the hovels of the poor,

Into the dark streets where the homeless groan, God speaks:

“I’ve had enough; I’m on my way

To heal the ache in the heart of the wretched.”

God’s words are pure words,

Pure silver words refined seven times

In the fires of his word-kiln,

Pure on earth as well as in heaven.

God, keep us safe from their lies,

From the wicked who stalk us with lies,

From the wicked who collect honors

For their wonderful lies.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 12 (The Message)