#cap lost his swagger

[lxndonorris]

his lucky charm - Lando Norris

Y/N x Lando Norris Theme: Smutish, light touching you're Lando's lucky charm for qualifying x word count: 1440+ taglist: @game-set-canet gif by me open for requests, reader or ships welcome :)

The bustling Suzuka circuit hums with anticipation as the Japanese Grand Prix approaches its crucial phase—qualifying. Dressed in the vibrant Mclaren team shirt and cap, courtesy of Lando's team, you find yourself standing in the heart of the Mclaren garage, surrounded by the familiar hum of engines and the frentic energy of race day preparations. 

Your heart races just as fast with excitement as the Mclaren standing a few feet away from you as you watch Lando prepare for qualifying, his presence commanding attention even amidst the chaos of the garage.

You approach Lando's Mclaren, tracing its cold outline with your fingers, completely lost in your thoughts, when hands run along your waistline, pulling you back into a warm embrace. Right away, the familiar scent of Lando's cologne gives him away as he rests his head on your shoulder, humming right into your ear.

Turning around, you smile at the sight of him wearing his racing gear. A surge of admiration washes over you. The sleek lines of his racing suit accentuate his athletic physique, highlighting every contour and muscle beneath the fabric. He looks every bit like the confident and skilled driver that he is. 

His curls frame his face perfectly, adding a touch of youthful charm to his rugged appearance. The hint of stubble along his jawline only serves to enhance his allure, giving him an air of casual confidence that is utterly irresistible.

There is something undeniablely magnetic about seeing him in his element, his passion and determination shining through in every movement and gesture.

"How do you like my baby?" He tilts his head teasingly and lets his hand glide across the car as well, following your prior movements easily.

"Just as pretty as its driver." You smirk, a rush of warmth flooding through you as you trace your fingers lightly over his chest, feeling his firm muscles even though his suit.

Lost in the moment, you almost forget where you are, the world around you melting away as you stand in your own little bubble of intimacy. The scent of his cologne envelops you, a heady mixture of excitement and desire lingering in the air. 

With a tender kiss, Lando prepares himself for the challenge ahead, donning his helmet and gloves with practiced precision.

"Good luck." You say when he approaches you one last time before jumping into the car. With an appreciative nod, he climbs into the cockpit of his Mclaren, and you can't help but feel a surge of pride swell within you. 

With a headset in hand, you tune in to the team's communications, eager to follow Lando's progress. The voice of his race engineer crackles to life, providing updates and encouragement as he navigates the twists and turns of the Suzuka circuit.

With each lap, your heartbeat matches the rhythm of the roaring engines, and your breath catches in your throat as you follow Lando's progress with bated anticipation. And then, the moment of truth arrives.

"P3!" comes the triumphant cry over the radio, followed by Lando's own celebration—a moment of pure elation, a testiment to his passion and skill. The exhilaration in his voice is palpable as he giggles through the radio again; his joy infectious and uplifting. In that moment, you feel an overwhelming sense of happiness wash over you, knowing that you might have played a small part in his success.

As he emerges from the car, his face flushed with the thrill of earning part of the second row, you watch with admiration as he celebrates with his mechanics, his confidence and self-assurance radiating from every pore. And then he turned to you before taking his helmet and balaclave off, revealing a bright smile and his eyes filled with an unmistakable spark of affection.

With a swagger in his step, he approaches you, pulling you into him, relishing the warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing your own. Adrenaline and excitement surge through your bodies, binding you together in a shared moment of triumph.

"You're my lucky charm," he whispers huskily, his words sending a shiver down your spine. 

Blushing, you steady yourself against his frame while his hands are on your waist, holding you close.

You can sense a shift in his demeanor—the excitement of qualifying ignited a fire within him, and his touch feels more possessive and urgent than before. As you stroke his firm chest, you feel the tension in his muscles, his racing suit stretched taut against his body.

His breath is ragged against your ear as he whispers again, his voice even huskier and rougher with desire. "You have no idea how much I was thinking of you during the last lap. It made me so...hard."

You feel a rush of heat flow through you at his words, a delicious thrill coursing through your veins. You let your hand roam his chest once more before you let it wander down his body. When he bends his hip against the palm of your hand, his desire now firm against your touch, you let out a quick sigh, swallowing in a dry throat.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. "Your hand on my skin, it drives me crazy."

"Lando." You growl, his words sending shivers down your spine. The intensity of his emotions radiates from his entire being; his desire is tangible in every glance, every touch.

But even amidst the intensity of your shared desire, there is a tenderness in his touch, a depth of emotion that transcends the physical.

"You're unbelievable." You stroke his chest again, and you feel the rumble of soft growls vibrating against your fingertips. You can't help but smile, delighting in the primal response elicited by your gentle touch. 

His reaction, however, only serves to fuel the flames of desire burning within your belly, igniting a passionate intensity that pulses between you.

"It's true, though." He purrs happily, and you run a hand through his hair, "I felt you so close; it was amazing." Feeling the soft strands of his messy hair beneath your fingers, you can't resist running your hand through it again and again, relishing the tousles feel against your skin. His hair, disheveled from the intensity of qualifying, only adds to his irresistible charm.

"So I helped you?" You breathe as you caress his cheek, tracing the contours of his face with gentle strokes. 

With a soft smile, Lando leans into your touch, his eyes reflecting the depth of his emotions. "You always do." He smiles warmly.

As your hand lingers on his chest, a mechanic's voice breaks through the moment, reminding us of Lando's obligation to attend the qualifying celebration with Max and Checo.

You feel a pang of disappointment at the interruption, wishing for just a few more minutes, but you know that duty calls him, and Lando earned the right to bask in the glory of his achievement alongside his fellow drivers.

With a reluctant sigh, you withdraw your hand, watching as Lando exchanges a quick glance with me, his eyes filled with an apology and a promise of more time together later. You nod in understanding, offering him a reassuring smile as he turns to follow the mechanic toward the others.

As you sit among the audience, watching the press conference unfold, your heart swells with pride, seeing Lando bask in the attention he so rightfully deserves. His confidence and harisma shine through as he fields questions from the media, his responses poised and articulate.

But amidst the flurry of activity, your gaze keeps returning to Lando, drawn to him like a magnet. And as your eyes meet, a silent understanding passes between you. 

You can't help but smile as you notice Lando's unconscious gesture, his hand drifting to his chest in a subtle yet unmistakable motion. It is as if he is reaching out for you, seeking the comfort and warmth of your touch even in the midst of the conference.

All of him is longing for one thing: you.

Then, a question from the press jolts him back into reality. His gaze falters as he struggles to recall the question, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

With a playful giggle, he apologized for his momentary lapse, his charm quickly winning over the crowd once more as he answers the question with ease.

But as he glances back at you, a mischievous twinkle dances in his eyes, and he can#t help but bite his lip. 

With a knowing smile, you return his gaze, your eyes filled with a mixture of love and desire., knowing that this is far from over.

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Fantasies

Also on AO3

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Escort!Fem!Reader

WC: 2.6k words

Summary: I've done escort!Cooper, so I thought i'd try the inverse ;) // Your favorite regular, the Ghoul, drops by at the Atomic Wrangler for a visit.

Warnings: MINORS DNI THIS FIC IS 18+, crossover (fallout new vegas and fallout tv show), smut, formalized sex work (prostitution/escort), unprotected p in v, radiated creampie (with implied radaway use), swearing, shenanigans in front of a mirror, fingering, alcohol mention, vague dom/sub dynamics, just a little fluffy, two fools who can't get enough of each other, lmk if anything else!

-------

The Atomic Wrangler was just as he remembered — swimming in smoke, as if lost in a hazy dream, the ringing of the slot machines and the clacking of dice an accompanying symphony. Drunken patrons shambling about or slumped in shadowed corners, chips spilling from their pockets. Bar fights that were quickly, and often messily, dealt with. 

It wasn’t the best place to gamble, he didn’t think, especially with how well he knew the Garrett twins and their wiles. But that wasn’t the reason for his visits, anyway, so it didn’t really matter to him.

At certain tables on the main floor sat sultry figures that whispered promises of ecstatic oblivion. The deepest fantasies come true, if only for a few hours before sunrise. It was worth every cap if it was in the right company, and he happened to be very particular about who he wanted around. 

He knew you usually hung in the anteroom, and he even caught a glimpse of your skin in a rather low-backed dress as soon as he rounded the corner past the front desk. James Garrett caught his eye momentarily in silent question, to which he nodded in response. That meant you’d be booked for the rest of the night – his and only his. 

Since you’d transferred from the Gomorrah, you were a hot commodity around there, and therefore could charge a much higher rate. You also had the chance to pick your own clients, which hadn’t really been an option before, so you were much more exclusive because of it. 

But out of the handful of regulars you’d amassed, you only had one favorite. You heard him before you even saw him, what with the telltale jingling of his spurs, and when you did see him, a slow, easy smile spread on your lips, mirroring his.

Ruggedly handsome as ever, the same easy swagger and suave edge. His hazel eyes on you felt like a promise – like a caress – and you felt a fire begin to simmer under your skin. No one had ever made you feel the way he did; How quickly he could get your blood to warm, pupils blown wide with desire. No matter how much time passed between visits, he’d become a permanent fixture in your body, impossible to forget. 

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in…” you drawled, casually leaning against the bar. “Back so soon, Cooper?”

He chuckled slightly. “Were you countin’ the days ‘til you saw me next, sweetheart?”

You shrugged one shoulder, playfully noncommittal. “Were you?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said, following your game. “Guess you’ll be finding out soon enough.”

You let out an amused huff, giving him a once over. “You want your usual drink?”

He nodded and you pointedly leaned over the bar for a quick word with the bartender. He noticed some other patrons craning their necks to get a better look, eyes wide as saucers at the vast expanse of exposed flesh. A few of them noticed him hovering nearby, and any who dared to make eye contact were met with a smug wink and grin. 

Under his gloves, his fingers itched to touch, but he kept his hands to himself. The building anticipation would have a greater payout, he already knew, and he wanted it all to be for his eyes only.

Unfazed by the outside attention, you turned back to him with a bottle of scotch in hand and a suggestive glint in your eye. 

“Lead the way, then, cowboy.”

He clicked his tongue twice for you to follow, making his way back to the main room and towards the stairs. His room — which James had given him a key to for helping with some rather pressing business — was at the very end of the hallway. It was the most spacious out of all of them, but it was sparsely decorated, only meant for temporary visits. Still, it was a nice little sanctuary for you two to escape to. 

“So, what will it be tonight, hmm?” You said, setting the bottle down on top of the old dresser. “Wild cowgirl for you to tame? Or maybe you’ve got some … ailment I can take care of for you?”

You opened the closet door and took out a cowgirl costume and an old nurse’s uniform, flirtatiously raising your eyebrows at him. Many fantasies had been played out within those four walls, and you certainly didn’t mind playing a little dress-up. 

“No, none of that tonight,” he said with an amused huff, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

You tilted your head to one side in curiosity. “What would you have me wear, then?”

He made slow work of taking his gloves off, his eyes roaming down and then back up equally slowly until he was holding your gaze. 

“Well, that’s just the thing… I don’t want you in anything at all.”

You smiled, putting the costumes away and leaning against the door as you closed it. “That can be arranged…”

You reached up to undo the top clasp of your dress, but he raised a hand to stop you. 

“Woah there, I ain’t in a rush. Do it slowly…” 

You complied with a small chuckle, undoing the clasp but not letting the straps fall quite yet. You turned around and then let them fall, glancing coquettishly at him over your shoulder. One corner of his lips tugged upwards in a sly grin, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. 

Without turning around, you shimmied it down your hips and heard his sharp inhale as he saw you weren’t wearing panties. You felt a flutter in your stomach at the sound, intoxicated by your effect on him. Still, you didn’t bend forward for him to get a better look at the apex of your thighs, wanting to string him along for a little while longer. He had said he wasn’t in a rush, after all. 

As the fabric fell to the floor, you stepped out of it, only shoes left to discard. You grabbed a chair and sat across from him, extending your leg to rest it on his lap. Another playful grin on your lips as your hand snaked down to cover yourself in a faux display of demureness, your eyes downcast. 

“I could use some help with my shoes, if you would be so kind,” you said, a sultry edge to your tone. 

His eyes flicked down to where your hand was resting as he swallowed hard, but he kept his bravado close as he undid the straps of your high heels and carefully took them off. His hands caressed your calves but went up no further, almost like a test. You gave him a look that said good boy, but he found a challenge within that look, as well. 

“Now, why don’t you come sit a little closer? Don’t much like how far you are right now…” he said.

You raised an eyebrow, practically halfway on his lap already. “That so?” 

He patted his thighs. “Oh yeah, got a whole lotta space right here with your name on it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you stood. But before you could straddle him, he turned you around and sat you down on himself. Affixed on the wall in front of you was a dirty full-length mirror, and he kicked the chair to one side to get a better look at your reflections.

“There we go, much better,” he said, caressing your arm with one hand until it was over the hand that you were covering yourself with. “No need to be shy now. Pretty sight such as yourself… Can’t just let you miss it.” 

You squirmed on his lap, but he held you fast, burying his face in the crook of your neck and kissing the sensitive skin there. You let him remove your hand and spread your legs, arching against him as his fingers lightly traced your inner thighs. 

“You sure don’t waste any time,” you said, trying to sound teasing, but you couldn’t help a small gasp as he cupped one of your breasts with his free hand.

“Somethin’ about you, darlin’… just can’t seem to keep my hands to myself when I’m around you,” he rasped, nipping your shoulder with his teeth.

Slowly, his hand slipped further up, past your sternum and your throat. His fingers dipped past your lips and your tongue circled around his digits, a low hum in your chest. 

“Go on, get those nice and wet for me,” he said, craning his head to look at you, hips bucking upwards as he felt the sudden suction of your mouth on his fingers. He groaned, his voice raspy as he spoke again.“Oh, just like that, sweetheart.”

You moaned, his fingers pressing down on your tongue for a moment before releasing. His hand immediately dipped down, his hips adjusting so he could keep your legs spread over his. When his fingers found purchase, you felt it surge through you, your back taut as a bow. 

“Holy fuck, Cooper.” You gasped.

He chuckled smugly. “Didn’t I tell ya you’d find out soon enough?”

The words melted away before you could try to respond. Your eyes fluttered shut, head tilting back against him. He grasped your chin with his other hand, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Keep those pretty eyes open, darlin’. Don’t you wanna see how I’m makin’ you feel so good?”

You complied with a nod, your eyes training on your reflection. The sight of his hand’s slow, methodical ministrations on your clit, spreading your glistening slick through your folds, stoked the fire burning low in your belly. 

Your eyes met his through the mirror, the intensity in his gaze nearly making you shudder. He kissed your shoulder and nipped gently at the junction where it met your neck. You squirmed against his grip, pleasure intensifying almost to the point of overstimulation.

Your voice was shaky as you said, “I-I think I’m getting close already… Fuck…”

“That so?” He hummed thoughtfully. “Better not look away again, then, ‘cus if you do, I’ll stop.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to glare at him through the mirror. “You’re so mean.”

He chuckled, taking it as a challenge to be even meaner. His hand found a quick, sloppy rhythm that nearly had your body going into overdrive. You could feel his cock straining in his pants against your backside, heard his barely contained groans in your ear as he made sure you didn't break eye contact. The slight humiliation of watching yourself come undone – so wanton and desperate – tinged with the threat of him stopping, finally toppled you over the edge.

With a cry, your muscles seized up as you felt heat spiral outwards from your core. He worked you through it, even as your legs shook and your knees tried to draw close. In the aftermath, your body went slack against him, your breaths coming out in ragged pants. You smiled at each other mischievously through the reflection. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I can’t say I hate it…” You said, chuckling weakly. 

“Oh, and that was just the start of it,” he said, voice husky. “I’m nowhere near done with you… Or did you forget how long our nights usually are?”

“How could I ever forget?”

You slid off his lap and knelt in front of him, eyes glittering as you reached to undo his pants and pull them down. But before you could even try to get your mouth on him, he hoisted you up and onto the side of the bed on your stomach. You let out a small yelp of surprise, the tips of your toes barely touching the floor as he positioned himself behind you. 

“God, are you just not gonna let me do anything to you?” You teased, resting your head sideways to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “I want to touch you, too, you know.”

“You’re forgetting this is my fantasy,” he said, clicking his tongue. “And what I want right now is to make this body of yours feel as good as I know how to. Ain’t gotta do much else but let me spoil you.”

You felt him press against you, the textured skin of his cock sliding against the swell of your ass. You wiggled it a bit, half plead and half tease, eager for the stretch and weight of him inside you. You felt his hands spreading you from behind, getting a better look. A low, rough groan and he couldn’t take it anymore, notching against your entrance and pushing inside. 

You moaned loudly at the immediate stretch, feeling every inch. Your torso lifted, but one of his hands came to rest on your head, pushing you back down against the mattress. With his other hand, he gripped one of your hips tightly, both possessive and ardent.

“Fuck, you’re nice and tight, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Feels so good squeezing around my cock.”

Your walls fluttered around him as if in response to his praise. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, exhaling it slowly to keep his composure. He leaned more of his weight on top of you, his thrusts hard and slow, punching breathy sounds out of your throat every time he bottomed out. You tried to get a better footing but to no avail, instead surrendering to his mercy. Or lack thereof, as it were.

The sounds you were making were loud and unrestrained, like two animals mad with spring fever. Flesh slapping against flesh, breath, and teeth, and sweat intermingling. His body pushed and pulled over you with the intensity – the violence – of rolling waves. God, you had missed this a little too much. 

“C-Cooper,” you whimpered, unable to say anything else.

“That’s it. Just let go and give it to me, doll,” he panted, his movements harder and faster.

You felt yourself dissolve once more, eyes rolling back into your skull as you squeezed tight around him. He made a strangled noise, pushing through for as long as he could until he felt ecstasy wash over him as well. His warmth filled you, pushed deep inside by a few last shallow thrusts.

When he pulled out, you barely had time to catch your breath, unable to help a dizzy laugh. He pounced back on you soon after, when you’d playfully tried to crawl away from him. 

It was perhaps a good thing the room had so little furniture, given that you probably would have destroyed it all, anyway. No corner was left untouched as you two seemed to play an unending game of cat and mouse that always ended the same way… only in different positions. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me!” You said, collapsing on one side of the bed and tucking a pillow between you as a barrier.

He chuckled, lying on his side facing you. “Tough luck, sweetheart. Sure don’t seem like the sun will rise any time soon…”

“So that’s how it is, huh? What if I get you next?”

He smirked, a primal edge to the curve of his lips. “You can certainly try, but you better move fast, ‘cus that barrier ain’t gonna protect you from me for long.”

You bit your lip to contain a grin, feigning being aghast. Still, though, despite these threats and the imminent exhaustion, the last thing you wanted was for morning to come. 

Not that you would give him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud, though. At least not unless he worked particularly hard for it…

Well, perhaps he was starting to get close enough. Maybe he would get lucky one of those nights.

-----

[natjennie]

thinking about how much a time loop ghosts fic would rip like. maybe it's carpe diem right. like imagine cap doesn't reveal his story, he chickens out, the clock strikes midnight no one moves on they dance they go to bed they wake up.

the morning clubs and discussions seem vaguely familiar but, he's been dead almost 80 years, they run into repeating themselves sometimes, it doesn't register as weird. but when robin runs in yelling that there's a pattern to when they move on, cap starts to get confused. maybe robin is just trying again, he thinks it's TODAY instead? but everyone is reacting like this is the first time they've heard it. maybe he dreamed last night? but he's never had such vivid dreams. strange. he's on edge all day, coming up with theories, and everyone who talks to him can tell there's something a little off. but he doesn't rush into things, so he tries his best to do things the same as yesterday and not make anyone suspicious, but keeps an eye out for anything weird. and he has nothing, clock, dance, sleep. maybe it was a weird dream? but here robin comes again and now he knows something is wrong. so then like, who would he go to first? how does he tell the different ghosts?

there's loops upon loops where he tries telling some of them but not others, having to learn the specific things to say to convince them it's happening and to get them to help. there's loops where he goes to alison and loops where he doesn't and loops where he tries staying away from everyone all day and loops where he can quote what everyone is gonna say before they say it and then. he starts to think, is this really any different than being a ghost in the first place? he's so tired and nothing is working and. maybe he should just give up. experiencing this day over and over again isnt functionally any different than experiencing mindless other days over and over again for years on end. and then he starts to question himself. has this happened before and he's just never noticed? where there years in there, before alison, before pat's clubs, when he'd done the same day multiple times and just been so used to the monotony it didn't register?

and he falls into this like hole of grief and fear and confusion and mostly he thinks about havers. about how if he was here, he would know what to do. about how he always knew what to do. and for loops and loops on end, he stops counting, all he does is wish havers was there with him. he grips the swagger stick so hard it snaps and he throws it as far into the forest and as deep into the lake as he can just to watch it reappear in his hands and he thinks about anthony. about what he had, about what he lost, about what he still has to gain. and he thinks that maybe his family deserve to know. it's not that he owes it to them, it's not something being dragged out of him, taken, like everything else. this is something he can give, freely, and maybe, just maybe, it'll start to feel a little lighter.

so he decides, tomorrow, or today, or the same yesterday, or however it works. next loop, he'll tell them. he keeps everything as similar as he can to that first day, in case this doesn't work and he has to start changing variables again, and when the clock starts to chime, he tells them. and he grips the stick over his heart and he's ready.

[violettwrites]

daughter of the deadlands — 01

prologue | next

a/n: hi !! welcome to the official start of dotd !! i do have to admit that the first couple of chapters may be a bit boring, but it’s just a look into madeline’s relationships with everyone but i promise it’ll get better ! i hope :]

anywho ! if you’re enjoying this so far, please don’t hesitate to reblog, like, and/or comment ! i love it when you guys support me 🫶🏻 also should i do a tag list !? let me know in the comments if i should do that !

→ masterlist

→ ask box

MADELINE GRIMES sat on a log at the edge of the camp, her damp hair clinging to her back as the warm georgia sun beat down on her. she had just gotten back from the quarry that was just a short walks away which was her only option to clean herself. ever since society had fell and the dead rose, basic things like having a shower or washing her hair were extremely limited.

her gaze drifted to her younger brother, carl, sitting at a makeshift table with a math book in front of him. his brows were furrowed, and his tongue stuck out between his lips, and it almost made her laugh. he was good at math, but that didn’t stop him from protesting. after all, why did he have to do math when school wasn’t even a thing anymore? but her mother, lori, as always, just ignored his complaints and insisted he do his homework.

madeline was grateful to be sixteen—old enough to avoid sitting with the younger kids and doing homework. besides, she was a straight-A student before everything went to hell. top of her class in nearly every subject—except phys ed. she hated sports. but everything else? easy A’s. she didn’t need to be sitting with the kids and working on fractions.

lost in her thoughts, madeline didn’t hear shane approach from behind until his hand landed on her shoulder. shane had been in her life since she could remember, being her dad’s best friend and all. she jumped, immediately scowling as she turned to face him. she hadn’t liked shane since her dad died. he had this hero complex, always trying to step into rick’s shoes. he claimed he was just protecting their family, but madeline wasn’t stupid. she saw the way he acted around lori—the way they’d sneak off into the woods together. they acted like rick had never existed, and it made her sick.

“hey, maddie,” shane said, sitting down next to her. she dropped her gaze to her shoes—her beloved converse. at least she’d gotten them for christmas before everything fell apart. “you doin’ okay?” he asked, his brown eyes full of concern for the girl, but she never believed it was genuine. there was just something different about him now. far from the shane she used to know.

madeline wanted to ignore him, but she knew better. her mom would just get mad and remind her to be polite—he was “uncle shane” after all. that didn’t stop the uncomfortable feeling in her gut. “i’m fine,” she muttered, inspecting her nails. she really didn’t care how they looked; she just hoped shane would leave her alone. that’s all she wanted nowadays; to be left alone.

he sighed, and she had to fight back a smile. she knew she got under his skin when she barely spoke to him. it was one of the few small joys she had left: annoying shane.

“you eaten today, kid?” he asked, removing his cap to run a hand through his hair before putting it back on. madeline nodded, a small ‘yep’ coming from her lips, keeping her answers short. she hoped he’d take the hint and leave, and, after a moment, he did. “alright, well… let me know if you need anything, ‘kay?” with that, he got up and walked back toward the camp.

her gaze lingered on him for a moment as he walked back towards the rest of the group, specifically her mother. the cocky swagger in his step was prominent, but you could also tell he was stressed. everyone was. and she did feel bad, but he just tried way too hard in her eyes– making himself the self proclaimed leader of the group, and everyone seemed to go along with it just because he had been a cop.

since learning about rick’s shooting, and the beginning of the apocalypse, madeline had withdrawn from everyone. she would constantly replay those moments in her mind; her mother sitting at the kitchen counter in their house, waiting for her eldest child to come home from school to break the news to her sixteen year old that her father was in a coma, and they didn’t know if he would wake up. and then she remembers a few weeks, maybe a month, later when lori had come into her room, telling her to pack her stuff because they were leaving now— without her dad. it had felt like a punch to the gut. shane had gone back to the hospital during that time too, later “confirming” rick’s death, claiming he’d checked for a heartbeat and found nothing. ever since then, madeline barely spoke to anyone.

it wasn’t just their family and shane at the atlanta camp either. other survivors had joined them. there were the peltiers—ed, carol, and their daughter sophia, who was close in age to carl. then the morales family: morales, miranda, and their two kids, eliza and louis jr. the harrisons— with andrea and amy. t-dog and jacquie, known as the douglas family, were there too.

glenn, dale, and the dixons also made up the group. madeline liked glenn; he was always kind, and they bonded over movies. he was a little older than her, only in his early twenties. dale let her borrow books from his rv—though most of them were boring, she appreciated the gesture from the older male.

as for the dixons, lori and shane didn’t want her or carl speaking to them. not that she was planning on it. merle pissed her off the most, especially when he called her “girlie.” daryl, on the other hand, wasn’t so bad. he didn’t talk much anyway.

deciding she’d had enough of the sun, madeline stood and made her way toward the rv to find a new book, considering she had finished the copy of ‘to kill a mocking bird’. most of dale’s books were old classics she had already read, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. once she was halfway there, she heard the c.b. radio crackle to life.

“hello. hello. can anybody hear my voice?”

it was a man’s voice, but the static made it hard to understand. madeline watched as amy, dropping the sticks she was carrying, scrambled to grab the mic. she knew finding other survivors was important, but why bother? it was just going to turn to shit for them in the long run.

if there was a long run.

she furrowed her brows at the commotion but kept walking. dale had given her free rein to the rv, and she appreciated the quiet escape it offered. once inside, she looked through the stacks of books and grabbed a copy of the catcher in the rye— another classic she had already read, but she didn’t mind it.

as she stepped back outside, book in hand, she spotted shane now trying to respond through the radio.

“hello, hello. is the person who called still on the air? this is officer shane walsh broadcasting to person unknown. please respond.”

madeline rolled her eyes. shane’s insistence on clinging to his cop identity annoyed her. it was like he craved the authority— the respect. and it worked on everyone else but her.

she used to be kind to him— hell, she used to love him, she really did. sometimes he’d pick her up from school in the patrol car when her parents had to go to the school for carl, or he’d always make sure to pick up a new barbie doll for her, every single birthday, but things were different now. and she resented him.

“he’s gone,” shane said, glancing up at the group gathered around him—lori, carl, dale, amy, and a few others.

“there are others,” lori said softly, “it’s not just us.”

from the doorway of the rv, madeline watched. she didn’t care much for the conversation anyway. instead, she turned back inside to sit at the small table and opened her book, letting her head rest on her hand as she read.

lost in her own little world as she read the angsty words of holden caulfield, she hadn’t noticed carl make his way into the rv until he was interrupting her.

“maddie?” carl was one of the only ones that called her maddie— besides her parents of course. usually, she preferred ‘mads’, only because growing up she had been bullied by a girl called maddie, but she didn’t really care anymore. the other maddie was probably dead now, anyway.

“hey, buddy. what’s up?” she asked, folding the corner of her page and closing the book. she probably shouldn’t fold the pages of other people’s books, but she didn’t have a bookmark.

“mom’s mad at shane,” he whispered, sliding into the seat across from her, his chin resting in his hands as he pouted at her. “she wanted to put signs up on the highway to warn people about the city, but shane won’t let her.”

madeline sighed, nodding as she stood up. she could care less if their mom was mad at shane. if it kept him away from her, let her be mad. “c’mon, let’s check on her,” she said, ruffling carl’s hair before following him to their tent. she noticed the tension between her mom and shane. she had noticed it ever since she had realised that shane had a thing for her mom, but she never said anything, because lori had never acted on it. not until now, that was.

“mom?” carl called as they approached, and when shane stepped out of the tent, madeline almost scoffed.

“what’s up, bud? she’s inside. go on,” shane said, ruffling carl’s hair before walking past them, his gaze lingering on madeline.

making her way to the opening of the tent, lori smiled at them both. she knelt in front of carl, holding his hands. “don’t worry, your mama’s not going anywhere, okay?” her voice was soothing, playful even, like when madeline was younger. she nodded reassuringly at carl. “yeah—yeah?” she smiled as carl nodded back. “good, now go finish your chores.”

madeline stood silently, arms crossed, watching her brother run off. then she turned to her mother. “so, you’re sneaking around with uncle shane now?” she narrowed her eyes, seeing the guilt wash over lori’s face. “real classy, mom.”

“madeline, it’s not what you—” but madeline wasn’t listening. before lori could finish, she turned on her heel and stormed off toward the quarry, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

the gravel crunched under her shoes as she hastily made her way towards the quarry, her arms still tightly crossed over her chest, jaw clenched as she fought the growing knot in her stomach. she could hear footsteps behind her but she didn’t slow down—she already knew it was lori.

“madeline, please! wait!” lori called out, but madeline ignored her, making her way to the edge of the quarry. she stopped by the water, staring out over the still surface, her back stiff and unyielding. she just wished she could keep storming off, wanting to just keep walking until she dropped dead, but the water in front of her prevented that.

lori finally caught up, her breathing labored as she approached. “maddie, you can’t just walk off like that.”

madeline didn’t turn around. her voice was cold, distant. “what’s the point in staying? so i can watch you and shane pretend like dad never existed?”

lori’s face crumpled, the words hitting hard. “that’s not what we’re doing,” she whispered, trying to hold on to her composure. “you don’t understand… this world isn’t the same anymore. he’s—” her voice cracked. “he’s gone, maddie.”

“yeah, and you just moved on, didn’t you?” madeline spat, turning on her heel to face her mother. “dad wasn’t even dead before you started playing house with shane. how could you do that to him?” she knew she was being harsh, but she was speaking nothing but the truth. and if the truth hurt, then so be it. lori needed to know.

lori’s eyes glistened with tears, guilt etched into every line of her face. “maddie, shane was just trying to help—”

“help?” madeline’s voice rose, anger spilling out in every word. she wasn’t one to get mad like this, not at her mom anyway. but she had been on edge since everything happened. she was finally bursting at the seams. “he’s not helping us. he’s helping you. you’re both acting like dad never existed, like he never mattered!”

“that’s not true,” lori said, stepping closer, her voice trembling. “your dad mattered. he mattered more than anything, but we didn’t have a choice. we had to survive.”

madeline scoffed, turning away again. “survive? by running off into the woods together? that’s how you survive?”

lori shook her head, her own anger mixing with grief. “it wasn’t like that, mads. you don’t know what it’s been like for me, for us. i had to make decisions. i had to keep you and carl safe—”

“safe?” madeline snapped, cutting her off. “don’t pretend this is about me and carl. this is about you not wanting to be alone. you didn’t even try to hold on. you didn’t wait. you just gave up.” she knew she was being mean, but she couldn’t help it. madeline had given up, herself.

lori’s breath hitched, tears slipping down her cheeks. “i never gave up on your father,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “i loved him—i still love him. but he’s gone, madeline. what was i supposed to do?”

madeline’s eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall. it hurt her, listening to how she was making her mom cry, but madeline was angry. “you were supposed to remember him. you were supposed to wait,” she said, her voice breaking.

the silence between them was thick, suffocating. lori took a tentative step forward, reaching out to touch her daughter’s arm, but madeline flinched away, pulling her arms around her body, as if trying to protect the pieces of herself that still ached.

“maddie…” lori’s voice was soft, desperate. “i’m trying. i’m just trying to hold this family together.”

madeline’s eyes burned with unshed tears as she turned to face her mother. “you’re not holding us together. you’re replacing him. and you don’t even care.”

lori’s face crumpled, her heart breaking at the accusation. “i do care,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “i think about him every day. i miss him every day.”

madeline looked away, back to the water. her voice was softer now, but the hurt was still there, raw and exposed. “you don’t act like it.”

lori swallowed hard, wiping at her tears. “i can’t bring him back, maddie. i wish to god i could, but he’s gone. and we’re still here. we have to keep going, even if it hurts.”

madeline’s silence stretched on, the only sound the soft ripple of the quarry. she didn’t respond, her face set in that same defiant expression that had become her shield since her father’s death.

lori took a deep breath, realizing she wasn’t going to get through to her, at least not today. “i’m here, maddie,” she said quietly, her voice full of emotion. “whenever you want to talk, i’m here.”

madeline’s eyes stayed locked on the water, her expression unreadable. “you can go back to shane now,” she muttered bitterly.

lori opened her mouth to say something more, but the weight of madeline’s words silenced her. she turned slowly and began to walk back toward camp, her footsteps heavy as she left madeline standing alone by the quarry, lost in her anger and grief.

[grogusmum]

A Smutty Little Jack Daniels Imagine

I've tried to do a Jack "Whiskey" Daniels fic several times, and I just can't get beyond the idea phase...

Maybe I just can't find him, his voice, something unique I can bring to him... I don't know.

Here is one, still just in an imagine/idea phase, I have literally posted and taken down, and I just don't know if it's something... but chatting with @oonajaeadira , she reminded me who I write for and why, so decided to post it again. We write for ourselves but we share for community. I hope you enjoy.

Warning: poorly executed oral sex (f receiving) it's a pity really

Okay, Ginger pretty clearly lets us know that Jack is not the best lover. But generally speaking, as a fandom, we have decided that Jack is a far more generous and skilled lover than canon tells us . Maybe because it's Pedro (and we literally can not imagine it), or because he has such a sincere and tragic love for his high school sweetheart wife and their little baby whom he has lost... idk. So I was thinking, what if we allow the canon to stand?

Jack Facts:

Fact #1: Can't find your clit to save his life

Fact #2: No foreplay to speak of

Fact #3: He's just terrible, just really bad

Until he meets you...

maybe even at the very same Music Festival that he got swiped left at

You see him go up to Coachella Girl with all his corny swagger and get rejected

But look at him, that dimple, that pout, those jeans, did he say 'what's tinder'?? Adorable

She instead goes for the guy in the track suit jacket and ball cap, cute for sure, but a boy

So you decide chat up "Stetson"

After some flirting, you conclude he is incredibly corny and bit of a goofball, but there's an undeniable charm

You like him and take him back to where your staying

He really talks himself up

All "Ride a real cowboy" "have you calling my name as loud as you want" yada yada

You wonder if he's all talk

But he's a good kisser, a very good kisser, and him calling you "sugar" does something to you

Alas, when you get down to it, his head between your legs, broad shoulds keeping them open wide, he is enthusiastic but sadly incompetent

Every once in awhile he brushes your clit with his mustache or that gorgeous nose and it's a fleeting glimps of heaven but he completely misreads every moan and gasp and does more of what ever the hell his mouth is doing

It's bad if you want him to slow down he speeds up, more to the left he does to the right, no instinct

Finally, you pull him up with sigh

Oh my Gods, he is looking at you with puppy dog eyes. With all his big talk, you'd think the problem is that he is a selfish lover, but you can see he wants to please you

So you are kind and ask him about his experience

He can't tell you about the spy aspect of his experience, of course, but what he does tell you gives you the picture of a whole lot if one-off experiences

You ask if there has been anyone he's reslly gotten to know and experiment with

And his high-school sweet heart - love of his life - wife comes into the conversation

He doesn't say, but you can tell she was somehow taken from him, tgeres a bittersweet shine in his eyes

He admits they were each others first- shy and inexperienced and pretty straightforward in their lovemaking but enthusiastic

You nod and tell him if it were you in high school and he simply put his hand on your knee, you would have melted

He looks down with a crooked smile and then up at you with those hopeful big brown puppy eyes

"Okay," you say, "can you be a good listener, Jack?" He nods enthusiastically. "Get down there, cowboy, I think we can sort this whole thing out."

[sweetsweetjellybean]

Oh sweet sweet jellybean... How about a caption for this baby? 💋

I know this was probably meant to be fratboy!Steve but this one just kind of took root. I do have a second request with this photo specifically for frat boy so keep your eyes out for that. I hope this one is still okay and you enjoy it!

Hot For Teacher – Blurb

“What are you boys doing here this late? Is that a flask in your hand, Mr. Harrington?” As you cross the parking lot, the click of your heels on the asphalt punctuates each word. The ache in your calves matches the one growing behind your eyes. It’s been a long day – a long week, for that matter and the last thing you're interested in is dealing with any more students, especially cocky basketball players who think they're above the rules. 

“Let’s go, give it to me.” Extending your hand, you close the distance.

“I’ll give it to you.” The voice comes from the crowd—Harrington, Tommy H, or one of the others whose names don't seem worth remembering. Their eyes, glassy and brimming with swagger, barely conceal their snickers.

Your expression hardens, a practiced look of authority taking shape as your hand finds its way to your hip. “You with the glasses, you’re about as smart as you look, aren’t you? Wipe that smile off your face.” 

Their laughter fades, eyes shifting downward, lips pressed tight in a failed attempt to hide their amusement—except for Harrington. As your gaze settles on him, he stands taller. His posture defiant – hat on backwards, an eyebrow arching in challenge. Meeting his gaze without a word, you extend your hand once more. 

He hesitates before pressing the smooth metal flask into your hand, his fingers lingering longer than necessary against your wrist. Locking eyes with him, you unscrew the cap and bring the container to your nose. Bourbon – warm and smoky, not the cheap stuff. Procured from his father's liquor cabinet, no doubt. You stretch your arm to the side and turn your wrist. The rest of the alcohol pours onto the ground, eliciting a round of groans. 

“Is there any more?” You ask, tossing the flask back to Steve. “Empty your bags. Now.”

Murmurs of complaint ripple through them, as they fidget and shift in a vain attempt to stall.

That’s when Harrington steps forward, his confidence on full display. “Come on, teach. We’re celebrating our win. Where’s your school spirit?” He asks, turning up the charm with his best, winning smile. “You could stay and have a drink with us.”

“Excuse me,” you huff out on an incredulous breath as he edges forward. 

“It could be fun,” he suggests with a shrug, “You’re not that much older. Live a little. Let that pretty hair down.” 

His hand rises toward your temple, but you're quick to bat it away. “Have you lost your mind, Mr. Harrington?”

His eyes roll, amusement lingering in his smile. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, “We could go somewhere else if you want. I could drive you home after.” 

Your mouth drops open at his audacity, but it only eggs him on. “You know what you’re doing. Running around in those tight skirts that hug that ass just right. I’m sure you thought about it.” He takes a step back, his eyes traveling up and down your body before his lips twist into a smug smirk. “I know I have.”

The air seems to thicken as the moment stretches, quiet enough to hear a pin drop until the scuff of a sneaker kicking at the crumbling blacktop has the bubble popping. “Well, I hope running laps will give you something else to think about. I’ll be letting Coach know all about this little celebration. Now take a step back, Mr. Harrington.” 

His hands raise in surrender as he retreats back to his friends. 

“Now, if you all aren’t out of my sight in the next five seconds, it’s going to be detention for the rest of the year.” They probably know your threat is empty. You have as little desire to sit in an empty classroom after school hours as they do, but they scatter anyway, unwilling to test the waters any further. 

Your arms cross over your chest as you watch the cars their parents pay for kick up dust on their way out of the parking lot. With a tired sigh, you head back to the school to grab the last box from your classroom. Your steps echo in the empty halls. You pause when you catch sight of yourself in a mirror bolted to the wall. Slowly, you turn, looking over your shoulder at your reflection. A small smile curves your lips upwards before you continue down the hall, adding a little sway to your hips. 

[auspicioustidings]

Lost Boys

3. Repenting

Summary: Horangi and Price both investigate the new girl a little more.

The author accepts that this is now going to have to be an OC because this is going to wind up being too many chapters and be too convoluted.

Words: 2.4k

CW: Dubcon bordering on noncon (that cw is going to be on all of this even when the chapter may not feature it)

Look, if they had drugged the food then she would just have to be drugged. It had been years since she had eaten such a decadent meal, the meat tearing beneath her teeth like it was candy floss. The sensation brought with it a flash of something, a memory or a dream. Her teeth sunk into the thick flesh of the throat of some animal, a feral growling in response. Maybe her little food fairies should have left her some bourbon if that was the kind of day she was going to have, dark and twisted in her head. 

She liked the shirt at least, it was merch from a band she quite liked. Had almost gotten to see them live once. Maybe she'd keep it. She would have stayed with just the shirt and underwear on only it meant she kept catching sight of her practically maimed thigh. Much like with her neck, she didn't really remember it happening. Had they drugged her? She tried to figure out how, she hadn't taken anything from them. 

Not much she could do to confirm or disprove anything, so she just pulled on some jeans, shoved sunglasses on and parked her ass out on a lawn chair sat on the crumbling porch, soaking up the sun as if it might cure this not hangover.

"Had fun last night new girl?"

She reluctantly peaked open one eye, lowering the sunglasses to get a look at who was talking to her. This town really was a melting pot she thought, taking in the Korean man with the amused eyes. He had a ragged scar running from his chin up through the right side of his mouth, another set on his left cheek that looked like a claw had been dragged there. That should have been the most notable thing about him, but in her current state the first prize for that went to the set of six packs he was holding. God she could use a drink.

"Turns out it was pretty forgettable actually" she drawled, having expected this kind of comment. Not like she was lying, anytime she tried to remember in detail what happened after cumming her brains out on that motorbike it was like a fog settled thick and heavy over her memories.

The man chuckled, swaggering up onto the porch with the grace of a big cat and sitting on the top step, leaning back on his arms. She considered him for a moment before simply replacing the sunglasses and leaning back to bask again. She could have kissed him when she felt a nudge against her fingers and found he was passing her a beer. When she took it he placed a hand over hers on the bottle and brought it to his mouth, popping the cap with his teeth and looking right at her all the while. Fuck this dude was weird. Everyone here was weird. But as long as he  was content to lounge in the sun and split beers with her she wasn't too bothered. Not like she was particularly normal and it helped that the exchange had given her a pleasant rush of heat deep in her belly.

"König took quite a liking to you, thought he might break right through those chains."

"You work the sideshow?"

"Yes. They call me Horangi, it means tiger."

She looked down at him as he showed off his incisor, dragging his tongue across it. It was sharpened. She could not believe she had not noticed it before, even worse that she hadn't noticed he had something in his eyes. They were yellow.

"Ouch, whatever you did to manage that must have hurt."

"It did."

"Looks cool though."

He grinned and clinked his bottle to hers.

"The giant will at least settle if I can bring him back a name of the little mouse he is so taken with."

She snorted in an unladylike fashion at the idea of being thought of as a little mouse to anyone. The man had seen her for all of 20 seconds, hadn't even spoken to her. She was fairly certain if he saw her here, lounging looking like an absolute bum, drinking beer in the afternoon and internally talking herself out of maybe going for another round with the troublemakers because my God what she remembered had been a sort of absolute feral that had probably awoken something in her, then he would swiftly choose to forget about her existence. 

"My government name is actually a state secret. I worked Coney Island before coming here, they used to call me Preacher," she said wryly. That nickname had stuck to her and never went away after she had lost her temper with a group of people who kept trying to convert all the attraction goers. They had promptly stopped when she had, let's say, converted one of their flock. Honestly he had seemed to thoroughly enjoy the conversion, was praying and everything. 

"That must be a good story."

"Oh it is, but it's classified."

He grinned up at her like a cat, maybe one that was having fun playing with a mouse. He was having fun with her actually. He had never known the 141 to keep one of their meals alive, but he fully understood it now. Corrupting the innocent and then eating them alive lost it's shine after a while, but this girl? Oh she was dancing a delicious line between innocent and corrupted. Tough little thing, she'd not break straight away, they could take their time with her. Take her apart painfully slowly and let her fight against the fear that would inevitably start to consume her. He mused that it may be worth rocking that uneasy alliance their sideshow had with the blood suckers to take her for themselves.

"You should come see the show sometime, we are a lot more interesting than some cowboys."

"Do I get a freebie?"

"Maybe if you help us find God little Preacher we'll be inclined to waive your fee."

She laughed at that. Honestly she was relieved. This place was new, there was no way to tell how the other workers would react to some new ride operator sleeping around with the troublemakers on her first night. Boardwalks were a city unto themselves most of the time. Sideshows, the games, the rides, the beach, the shops, the troublemakers; they were all their own communities that clashed and crossed with one another. Back home it had nearly caused a blood feud when one of the sufers had shacked up with the boy running the shooting game. 

"In that case I'll have you all on your knees repenting in no time."

They sat like that until the sun started to go down and she took off the sunglasses, working their way through beers and amusing themselves with flirty banter inbetween a companionable silence. Luckily she now had more than enough food that she could share snacks throughout the hours. She was pleased she had made a friend. He was pleased he had memorised her laugh so he could think about it later when he fucked his fist. Or maybe he would rile König up enough to do the hard work for him, whisper into his ear that the little mouse was called Preacher and she wasn't the least bit afraid of him yet.

Preacher for her part was relaxed enough that she didn't notice when Horangi tensed, nose twitching, before standing up.

"Better get to work little Preacher, they'll never make as much money without their tiger to scare everyone."

"Thanks for the beer, it was nice to meet you Horangi. I'll be around tomorrow, probably going to try work a day shift."

Her brows furrowed slightly when those yellow eyes of his seemed to catch something in the distance. She couldn't see anything. She was so busy trying to figure out what he was looking at that she was taken fully by surprise when he leaned over her and butted his head against her throat, rubbing against her.

"It was wonderful to meet you too, see you tomorrow."

With that he took off and she was left absolutely flabbergasted and feeling very much like Ghost had been justified calling her a slut from the way her body had reacted to it. 

--

John Price thought himself a patient creature, truly he had to be to keep his little band of animals together. He knew from the moment the girl had put a hand on him that she was theirs. They needed a plaything, some little pet to dote on. Kyle had told him that when Simon and Soap had returned to the den near morning, the former quietly satisfied and the latter loudly excited, they had said they had left her alive and put her to bed. The three of them wanted to go to her again, he had told them no. They needed to back off, let her simmer a little, let him burrow under her skin as someone she could trust before they really started terrorising her. He would start now, stumble across her home while out walking Riley and strike up a conversation. Act the part of the concerned older man at the state she was no doubt in.

He considered setting fire to that plan when he watched the shifter drag his scent across her neck, taunting him with a claim against her. Perhaps he had been letting the sideshow get away with too much recently for the tiger to be this brazen. Maybe if he threw the girl down and fucked her right now on that porch it would hammer home the point that she was theirs. If it had been any of the others they would have done it as well, not as experienced with control as he was. 

--

"Hi boy! Who's the prettiest dog in the world? Is it you? Oh yes it is, it is you isn't it" she cooed, lavishing pets and scritches on the German Shepard that had bounded onto to porch. 

What a day she was having, full of good food, tipsy and now a visit from a dog to boot? Ten out of ten if she was honest, the sleepiness she had been feeling all day only making her feel soft and fuzzy around the edges now. She caught sight of boots coming onto the porch and looked up to find the man from the video store looking at her with a very cute nervous smile. 

"Sorry about Riley here, he doesn't usually go running off like that. Seems he likes you."

"Oh no worries at all sir, he is more than welcome to run off to me anytime" she replied, cooing at the pup before standing up properly. "It was Mr Price right?"

Sir, now Sir he could work with. It sounded fantastic spilling off of her tongue.

"John is fine sweetheart."

Sweetheart, now sweetheart she could work with. Getting this handsome man on side would only be beneficial for her in the long run, she bet he was influential with the other shop owners.

Price had been hoping for a pretty little blush from her at the endearment, pushing a little when he didn't get it. 

"What happened to your neck? It looks sore" he said, a picture of concern as he reached a hand over to brush his thumb gently over the larger of the marks. Soap if he had to guess for that one, it was messily done. When he eventually took her, when she got to the point of begging him to, he would bite into that delicate flesh with much more finesse. He didn't need to mark her up or rub his scent against her, his claim on her would be her own desperation to please him. 

"Ah right, my neck" she sighed, probably a little too tipsy to be having this conversation with this well to do probably very conservative gentleman. "To be honest with you, it's just bad taste in men John."

There wasn't a lie she could think of that wouldn't sound like one, so she opted to just tell the truth of things in as tame a manner as she could and hope that he wasn't about to start lecturing her on pre-marital sex being a sin. It would be a shame if he turned out to be like that, she got decent vibes from him. Protective, kind.

Still no pretty little blush. Arrogant thing wasn't she, admitting what she had been doing the night before to him without any shame. It made his blood run hot, thinking of all the ways he could get her there, how hard he would have to push to have her flushed and ashamed. He lost himself in the thought for a moment, only realising when she gave the faintest whimper at his thumb now pressing into the bruise. That little noise of pain and the way her eyes went liquid staring up at him had him hard. Control John, control. 

"They treat you like that again you come find me sweetheart, I'll fix you up. Been told I give a mean massage" he said, swiping his thumb past the bruise again before taking his hand away.

Oh God this absolute dilf was flirting with her. He was offering her a future massage. If Preacher was connected to any sort of God she thought They must be a very good one to send her this absolute treat. Come on, get it together girl, no soaking through your underwear over a bloody thumb brushing against a bruise. What was wrong with her today? She wasn't usually this restless.

Price knew she was going to be fighting against the residual venom in her system from the way she was reacting to him. He'd have to remind Simon and Soap to properly fuck that out of her next time, make sure she wasn't still feeling that extra little bit pliant that had her allowing someone who didn't own her rubbing their scent up against her. He shouldn't fault them really, they weren't used to keeping someone around after feeding from them and by the way she wobbled a bit they had certainly given it their best effort.

"Noted, although I'm not sure I intend for there to be a next time."

"Atta girl. C'mon Riley, I'm sure Miss...?"

"Oh, I just go by Preacher."

"I'm sure Miss Preacher will visit the shop again soon."

It was only when she tasted blood that she realised she was biting her lip hard watching him go. My God she needed a very cold shower and at this point possibly a fucking muzzle.  

[notmuchtoconceal]

The Mandrake, Pt. 1 of None

The girl’s skin is green with the softness of battered flesh.

If she were brown, her innards would be tart and firm, but she’s mostly tasteless mush. What remains of her face is a wrinkled depression implying the outline of eyes and nose. A slanting molar column mars the slope where her body tapers from stem to base.

A faint gurgle bubbles from her insides. The skin beside the teeth flaps in and out, spewing what sounds like “kill me.”

Bulges of necrotic tissue, still shaped like breasts, shoulder blades and fingers, slicken against the latex suit of her dermis. The name she had as a human is classified. Lost among an avalanche of file folders in a mountainous region of dusty filing cabinets.

She sits in a field outside a plastic pseudo-suburb and smog’s gushing from the mortar lungs of cutout factories mid in the near-distance. With midday resurging, the black veil recedes and decaying radiation shines in a vast tanning bed of yellow dawn. Crows gather on the tops of power lines and radio towers, hunger gleaming in pebbles black and shining with acid rain. Within minutes, the flock could descend as a hurricane of feather and sinew and pick apart the girl to a slimy pit of black bone.

The birds are set dressing placed here to inform me that this is a wet operation. Or, due to the impairment of the target, a thankless execution.

Sickle Cell’s dressed all in white, looking a bit like a barn owl resting on top of a ceramic mall mannequin. Under a wide umbrella, in a beach chair, she’s lounging in a matching sundress and hat with oversized circular sunglasses, the rims of which gleam impeccably. She crosses her legs, squeaking leather boots that she can’t possibly afford, and enters into a staring contest with the girl’s eyeless visage. It is one not one which is unfamiliar to the eye which trains itself on remaining untrained. The subtle curvature of her apricot lips and the tautness of her cheeks display mutual sadness and repulsion. She gives this look to herself in the mirror after coming home from dinner. Behind those opacified lenses, her eyes are running down the curvature of the girl and she’s laying that impression like tracing paper over the memory of her own body.

“Do you pity it?” Sickle asks.

Sweat’s soaking through my new shirt. My jeans are shit, but my back’s held up rigidly straight to draw attention to my upper body.

Certain details are not clear to me. As the hot sun beats down on my head and the long walk simmers in my legs, it’s best to put-off dwelling on them until the last possible second.

“Can’t feel much of anything, sorry. Slept through breakfast and skipped lunch.”

“I know; I’m a bit peckish, too. I still can’t help but feel something for her. It, I mean.”

Kneeling down next to her, my fingers run through her expertly mussed hair.

“Are you planning to meet somebody later?”

Her shoulders retract as she looks at the horizon. She slips off her sunglasses and sunlight strikes her eyes in a golden censor bar as she lingers with a dignified melancholy—a look that you can’t help but dismiss as a display of holier-than-thou mock-sentiment.

With a deep breath and the smells of ash, burning fat and dry dirt fill my lungs. Plastic glove on my hand, my legs swagger toward the girl.

“What’re you doing?” Sickle asks.

“We were tasked with this case for a reason, love.”

The scarecrow standing ten feet away is a hanged-man with a noose made of straw intestine. A burning hot pole enters his rectum and pierces the cap of his skull. This tells me the girl committed a crime worthy of two deaths. The fingers of his right hand cover his lips while the fingers of his left hand cross behind his back. This outs the girl as an informant or snitch. The cosmetics caked on his face tell me the girl had an active nightlife, possibly moonlighting as a hair metal singer or party clown.

I linger on the scarecrow’s bright yellow sundress and the string of doll-heads hanging from fishhooks in the straw rope.

Kneeling beside the girl, dry grass scratches my knees through frayed denim knotholes. My fingers run delicately over her exposed teeth, which have the soft smoothness of porcelain. The textures of her flesh alternate between the weave of canvas and the chunky ripples of papier-mâché. Living animal warmth radiates from her skin. Her body muffles the audible machinery of digestion and blood circulation.

She reeks of lilac perfume and red wine. The latter could be either a leftover from her last night as a human, or the onset of fermentation. On her back is an unspoiled patch of milky white skin emblazoned with a tramp-stamp depicting two worms wrapped around an oar.

I snap my fingers and weakly mumble “totally called it” and it’s only a few seconds later, after a few crows caw like they’re congratulating me, that I wish I’d made more of a show of things.

“Did you check for STDs?” Sickle asks.

“Hell no. I’m not reaching into those fetid depths unless my life depends on it. I bet she has more crabs than a Red Lobster.”

She moans softly to herself. “I could go for some crabs right now.”

“This bitch has the mark, dearest. She was definitely one of CHERRIE’s. From the detail in the tattoo, I’m going to say she was classy enough to be more than a fuck-toy, but from the location, too slutty to be in his harem of silk-clad vampire wives.”

“You think he ever wined and dined it? Candles, violins, clam chowder. Everything.”

“He’s totally the kind of asshole who deludes himself into thinking he’s sophisticated. We’re going to interrogate the vegetable to our heart’s content before commencing with the execution.”

“Are you positive that it’s no longer a person? I mean, it still has teeth!”

“Flytraps have teeth.”

“Not human teeth, dear.”

“What differences does it really make?” I shrug my shoulders and only realize now how heavy my upper body really feels. “We’ve got calcified husks specialized for tearing and grinding. They’ve got thin sensory prongs. It’s the difference between a meat-grinder and a steak knife.”

“Is feeling up an empty bra as fun as groping a full breast?”

“That depends on how lacy it is, now stop changing the subject. This woman, dear Sickle, is going to die because she deserves to die. That decision was made by people smarter than you, who are more willing to assess reality by hoisting their responsibilities on me, a capable agent.”

“What reality is that?” She slides her sunglasses back on. “That all life is equally worthless, but the law carries weight to a degree that it’s pointless to question it, though you'll question everything else?”

“Sickle, you need to lose that tone. It’s simple pragmatism, come now. If we wanted to determine if she was more human or vegetable, we’d need to perform a dissection, so she’s fucked either way. We could kill her, leave her here, rip out her guts and throw them at geese. It’s all going to accomplish the same amount of nothing, so it’s sensible to drain the last remnants of her miserable life pursuing information.”

That shuts Sickle up for a bit.

The crows caw like they’re laughing at her. Now that she’s drained her capacity for rational argument, she attempts to implore my emotions in a passive-aggressive manner without seeming at all obvious about it.

“It’s different, you know. Wishing harm on something and witnessing it. I knew it a bit. We weren’t friends or anything. In fact I frequently found it irritable on good days and obnoxious on bad days, but I’d never wish this on anything, not even my worst enemy or my best friend.”

I’m not paying much attention to her.

My body stinks of sweat and rotting fruit salad. My hands finger the cap of a bottle of cologne in my pocket and I’m pretending to stretch and yawn so I can discreetly spritz myself.

“Dearest, you wouldn’t have the imagination to wish this on her.”

She’s rummaging through a white leather purse. “I used to think it was a convenience to hang out with someone who felt so little. It was nice to not be expected to fake tears when I had none to shed.”

“Always a pain, isn’t it, love?” I ask. “Doesn’t it diminish the worth of empathy to falsify it so regularly? They blow soldiers to bits in deserts, cork children with assault weapons, and I’m expected to fake tears for a fruitcup like a thunderous orgasm in the great porno theater of life.”

Sickle opens an eggshell compact from her purse. She can’t see her own eyes. “Cruelty is understandable when it’s either anonymous or personal. I weep for the dead children. Really, I do. I’m only human after all. They’re so young, so unsure of everything. The girls I watch after look at me with such warm smiles that it crushes my heart whenever they so much as frown. I suppose there’s a sort of lull in the spectrum of human empathy. I simply cannot be bothered to care for someone I barely know. Nothing needs to be said about the raw nerve of a loved one in pain, but with strangers, there’s a sort of purity in aimless victimization.”

Crouching over Sickle’s lap, the prongs of the umbrella poke my scalp. My hands fall upon her shoulders and my face slides inches from her nose. She has to smell the cologne. In the reflection of her sunglasses is the first haircut I’ve had in months.

I lick my lips and whisper in her ear. “What I’m taking from that stirring oratory is that I’ve got carte blanche to torture the veggie.”

Her lacquered gaze glides along the barren earth. She pushes me off, takes two steps toward the girl and stops as if lost in thought.

I smell my forearm and spritz myself some more.

The crows look like they’re nudging and shushing each other. When I walk up beside her, she’s giggling.

“Maybe instead of an interrogation,” she says, “we can perform a firsthand investigation of certain, uh… dineries in the area to see if we can find any… um, physical evidence of occupation by hostile forces. You said yourself that this mystery man might take his prospects out for dinner.”

“Why do I bring you out on field work? You’re a useless combination of hungry, lazy and female.”

She whines so suddenly her glasses fall off.

“I want crab legs.”

“Crab legs do sound nice.”

“Fried shrimp.”

“Oh fuck, fried shrimp…”

“Lobster.”

My stomach rumbles. “Maybe we can just nibble on the vegetable?”

“You’re not even sure if it’s still human. That could be cannibalism.”

“Jesus Christ, can you go five seconds without pointing out another ethical ambiguity?”

“Why? I was planning to make a game of it.”

“I bet she would taste good with applesauce.”

I had anticipated she would moan the word “applesauce” in the throes of muted orgasm, but her mind is elsewhere else and she’s probing the girl with squinting eyes and not a hint of appetite.

“Can it hear us?” she asks.

“Does she have ears?”

“I don’t think so? What’s that thing on its side?”

“The beginnings of an asexual budding?”

“Throw a rock at it.”

I hoist a chunk of broken granite from the base of a pile of stones. The edges scratch my naked palms. I whirl and toss it through the air and watch it rip through the soft flesh of her growth. A glistening bright red wound, like overripe watermelon in the harsh sunlight gushes a rivulet of blood and fluorescent mucus with the viscosity of corn syrup.

The girl lets out a horrible shriek that rips through my ears and forces the perched crows to take off and block out the sun.

I can’t even hear my own obscenity over the ringing in my ears.

‘I’m going to fucking kick that thing, I swear!” yells Sickle.

“She’ll scream again, you bimbo! Don’t fucking touch her!”

Sickle reaches up to her ears and watches blood run down her palm.

“I won’t,” she says, “but only because I’m thinking of the glop it’ll get on my new boots”

“Can you repeat that darling, I fear I’m a wee bit deaf in one ear.”

“Huh? What did you just say? Try talking into the ear that isn’t bleeding.”

“She’s developed the perfect defense mechanism to endure any interrogation. How could she have started evolving so soon after transmogrification?”

“Nope, still can’t hear you,” shouts Sickle.

“No method of polite coercion will get her to talk if she can scream that fucking loud.”

“I’m still trying to figure out how you expect it to talk when it doesn’t have a mouth.”

“Our only hope is to forsake the threat of pain and force upon her the fear of an instant death.”

“I like that you’re not answering my questions.”

“She’ll talk if we drag her up someplace high and suspend her on the edge of vertigo. There’s no way she’ll be stupid enough to scream and risk us letting her go, as that will set into motion her rapid descent to a delectable splat on the pavement.”

“It really is the only way,” she’s twirling her sunglasses on her finger. “There’s no way it would talk if I sat down and tried to ask it questions. We are, of course, one-hundred percent positive that it wants to withhold information. Poor dear would never think to buy protection.”

I reach under my shirt and spritz my chest. “You really need to learn how to mix business with pleasure, you know that?”

The girl mumbles something again. It sounds like “For fuck’s sake, will you shut up and kill me already!”

Sickle walks up to the girl. “Hey sweetie, how are you feeling?”

The girl screams something unflattering about Sickle’s figure.

“Oh fuck you, fat ass!” she says. “You’re one to talk. That’s not an apple bottom, it’s a bean-bag bottom, bitch!”

“Sickle, stop while you’re ahead,” I implore lucidly, so sick of saying. “The interrogation is a delicate art and frankly I’m Bosch at a triptych and you’re a kindergartener with finger-paints.” I walk up to the girl and calmly ask, “Well, fat ass, what’s your relationship with CHERRIE?”

She says, “Eat a dick, faggot.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” I rub my chin. “Sickle, darling, cover your ears.”

Yanking the penknife I always carry in my pocket, I stab her with dozens of vigorous jerks until she screams so loudly, my blind furor slows to a wobbly stutter. White circles flash against my collapsed eyelids and I fall back into the sun-drenched dirt. Red sticky heat fills my ears and runs down my cheeks. When I open my eyes, Sickle’s face is hovering over me, out of focus, her mouth flapping with hysteric jaw contortions, but no words are coming out. When I push her aside and try to stand up, my head throbs with a pulsating buzz and a static whine fills the silent vacuum of the world. My arm is numb and my elbow is on fire with a peroxide burn. The girl’s twitching like she’s in the onset of an epileptic fit. An assortment of fluids, all some shade of green, red or brown, pours down her corkboard flesh as it succumbs to black splotches of rot.

I sit down on the dirt completely of my own volition. I don’t stumble backwards and land on my ass. Sickle pulls a cluster of movie theater napkins from her purse and clutches two wads to my ears. The cheap pulp scratches at the swollen cartilage and bloats with blood so quickly that after a minute it’s not soaking in anything.

Ten minutes later, after standing hunched over a particularly eroded bit of soil sutured by railroad spikes, blood pouring ontp the ground and not my clothes, my hearing comes back.

Sickle’s mumbling to herself about how I either don’ t think things through or over-think everything for so long that I end up not doing anything and that I should really pick one or the other already.

I turn to her and say “I can hear you clearly now.”

She smiles and says, “Well, thanks for that brilliant display of your interrogation skills.”

“Do you have any bright ideas, love? I’m ready to chuck this bitch off a building regardless of how much she talks.”

She puts her sunglasses back on. “I propose we retire the old phrase ‘draining blood from a stone’ and from now on use the far more topical ‘stabbing information out of a vegetable’.”

‘You were a fool for ever questioning my blood-lust, dearest” I turn to the girl, and with the solemn voice of an executioner ask “What say you, veggie? If you speak now, we will grant you entrance to immortality on your own terms. If not, we, who are now death incarnate, will make you suffer to your last breath.”

The girl does not answer.

She continues to twitch and bleed and I can’t tell if she’s purposefully biting her tongue or vocally impaired due to the severing of a vital nerve.

Frankly, I don’t care much and mournfully intone, “Then suffering you shall have.”

Sickle pauses. “You should light it on fire,” she says. “It might explode.”

“I’d rather crush it under something heavy,” I say. “There’s something immensely satisfying about the splatter of cracking bones.”

“These are all pie-in-the-sky ideas, dear. You don’t have anything that can burn or crush. You’ll need to be more down to earth and I don’t think you can do that on an empty stomach.”

There’s a gnawing rumble in my guts. I say, “Let’s leave her on the train tracks and call it a day.”

“Who knows how long we’ll be waiting for a train to pass by? It could take hours. I don’t want to sit here all day. I’m hungry now.”

“You’re right. Who wants to be a passive observer when it comes to murder? I want blood on my hands, goddamn it.”

“Did you ever think about witnesses,” Sickle says, “who’s to say whether or not this is murder?”

“Darling, you can’t expect the common man to decide for themselves what deaths are justified. Their sense of right and wrong are as shapeless as puddings left out overnight. There’s no objective measurement for the value of a human life. When a soldier is shot, we mourn. When a gangbanger is shot, we sing praises and thank Christ that thug is off the streets. Really, though, they’re both thugs; but time and money goes into a soldier, while a gangbanger becomes what he is because he comes from a home with neither, but some people even the government don't fuckin wanna buy, praise the fuckin secondhand market!”

She flutters her eyelashes. “It’s like when I was five and you let Gabrielle eat the neighbor woman’s cockatoo and the old lady spanked you with a cane. Then you cried because nobody cared that I let her tear a bunch of ‘filthy, disease-ridden’ pigeons to bits of pillow stuffing?”

I stop talking for a while. She’s smiling. How can she be smiling? I stare at Sickle’s face and see only obsidian self-portraits. My own eyes stare back at me; eyes that see my own slumped shoulders and wonder how someone who loves me can be so cruel and why, as time keeps moving and I don’t say anything, the smile settles into practiced apathy. Her cheeks slacken into silk bed sheets unruffled by sleeping bodies and my teeth are pressing together so hard that my jaw aches, and she’s about to speak, but I open my mouth and talk like nothing happened.

“It’s polite to say that human beings are irreplaceable,” there’s a tension on my vocal cords, “but they’re an infinitely renewable resource. The only value inherent in a human life lies in the whole of their collective experiences. Why do you think we take pity when celebrities or geniuses are on death row? The problem is we extend that sympathy to those who don’t deserve it. It’s all right to kill a senile old man because his brain has atrophied into a viscous mixture of dust and mucus liable to confused with aforementioned overnight pudding, left out on the same counter as the catfood, not at all east to conflate at two in the Am. It’s all right to kill a child in the womb because they have worthless brains made of undifferentiated jelly, and hardly have much flavor without the fear of death. There is always a correct amount of drama to indulge, my dear”

Sickle stands in silence. What I can see of her face shows the collision of guilt with composure. I raise my hands and invite her to stumble into my arms where I’ll coo her and tell her that she’s not guilty; that she’s not a predatory hawk, but a sweet canary whose love warms the frozen cockles of my heart like some kind of nasty microwaveable meal.

She doesn’t move.

She says, “I’ve seen septic tanks less full of shit than you.”

I move forward. “But none have smelled so nice, have they? Did you notice my new cologne? I got it yesterday. Here, come smell me. I used like half the bottle.”

“The only things I’ve done today are smell you and listen to you, and frankly, I’m a bit tired of both. Let’s get this thing out of here. If you’re gonna kill it, stop talking about it and do it already, because it won’t be daytime forever.”

“Do you think she’s going to be heavy?”

“I never imagined you carrying it, dear. I assumed you’d have no qualms about kicking it on its side and rolling it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

“I know. You’re always sorry.”

“You’re not the only one who can dress up like a high-class whore, you know,” I spritz myself until the skin on my neck is irritated. “This shit cost me like five dollars.”

The girl screams when I push her onto the hot pavement.

She rolls a few feet before she seems to jump and wobble back onto her base. A leathery punching bag is sweating olive oil. With my still gloved hand attached to my still numb arm, I inspect her stab wounds to find the landmine field of punctures exploding into lumpy clusters of fluid-filled sacks. I continue to push and roll the girl. When the weight of her body pushes down on the growths, they act like a spring.

It takes careful diligence to hear the watery boing sound, as each one’s eclipsed by a perfectly timed scream. By the end of the block, she’s either exhausted or too overwhelmed with pain to let out anything more than a tired yelp and frankly, I’m tired of pushing her.

I collapse on the curb and languish in the oppressive sun. The concrete grain’s cutting into the thin layer of flesh around my pelvic bone.

“All right, Sickle,” I say, “I’ve done my part, now you kick her the rest of the way.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she asks, panting as if walking beside me was already too much work for her. She fans herself diligently. Looking around, as if it must be here. “You don’t even know where you’re going!”

“Then it’s hopeless. I guess I’m going to sit here all day and stare at your massive thunder-thighs.”

She takes the bait and gives me a look that says, “It’s on now, bitch.”

Her eyes run up and down the girl’s body. There’s two dents in her flesh: a footprint on the left bottom and a handprint on the right top. Sickle rips off her sunglasses in a way that I think she thinks is dramatic.

Practiced shit-talk is running through her mind. Inches away, she folds her arms and gives the girl a look that says, “What you gonna do, bitch?” Both hands on the girl now, she’s straining for a powerful shove, but dry-heaves, slips down the slope and rubs the pavement with her cheeks.

I’m too embarrassed to laugh.

She starts to cry. “I got dirt on my new dress!”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask, “I regained my breath. I can take back over if you like.”

“No,” she wails. “I’m not being bested by a vegetable.”

I watch until my body aches through osmosis.

She pushes, slips, gets back up. Over and over. Can’t hardly move. The glucose engine that’s my brain’s runnin’ on empty. My bones and fibers rotate the useless analogue coil.

A Coke machine’s beyond a factory gate.

My autonomous body shuffles that way. Can’t read the sign, pull quarters from my pocket, probably enough. Click, click, click, beep, buzz, plop. Oh, it’s cold. Blood’s pouring back into my brain. My throat’s massaged internally with a glycerin clam.

I walk back over to Sickle and ask, “Making progress?”

“Of course,” she says, “I’d managed to shove it at least two inches this way.”

“Good work. Now how many inches in a city block? At this incredible momentum, it’ll only take us however many minutes that is.”

Sickle dashes at the girl with her elbow as hard as a battering ram. There’s a wet plop and warm droplets of sticky gunk splash my face.

I back away, but she keeps charging and charging. Sickle stares at a massive brown stain seeping into her dress. It soaks through to the skin, making the material cling to the outline of her tits. Chunks of mushy flesh stick to the dimples in her chest and melt to yogurt between her cleavage.

I wave at her while discreetly rubbing my nipples. She yanks on her neckline, and the dress turns from shrink-wrap to garbage bag.

I ask, “Do you want to find a sprinkler or something?”

She screams and tugs at her hair. Pointing at the girl, she yells “Die, bitch, die!” Sprinting in place with her squat legs, she’s throwing out all the weight her little body has, but the growths swell up into speed bumps.

Now Sickle’s barely standing, hunched over with her hands on her knees and sucking in air harder than a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner. Throttling my hands around her waist, I lift her up, give the girl a good kick and we’re halfway down the block before I dry-heave and fall over.

We lie in the grass, our lungs contracting and Sickle lets out a cry with the staccato vibration of a cough.

“Why are we so out of shape!” she cries. “You said you were going to start lifting weights!”

“I did start,” I say. “The hard part was continuing.”

The girl’s toppled over in the shade beneath a tree. She’s laughing and rolling from side to side. Laughing really isn’t the most accurate word to describe it, but I think it’s what she’s going for. It’s a sort of guttural bubbling from the intestines buzzing through pussy lips.

A sound that makes your asshole clench.

Sickle sits up. “If I was that ugly, I don’t think I’d find much of anything funny.”

“I’m sure she meant to cry. She’s so stupid, she screwed up a reflex.”

With each laugh, the flap of skin on her mouth balloons out, sucks in and clings to her throat lining.

“Shove it, fish tits!” I kick her teeth and what starts as a scream breaks down into dry hacking.

“Hey, move aside!” Sickle runs up and spin-kicks the girl’s soft flank. “You ruined my outfit, fatty!”

Juice splashes my pant legs and Sickle’s white boots. My foot breaks through the girl’s skin, into some kind of warm pothole and with a loud shlorp I’m sucked in up to the ankle. Burning petroleum jelly seeps between my toes. Pricks crawl up and down my foot. The hole clenches tighter around my ankle as white plumes of steam whisk from the girl’s pores. Sickle runs to my back and gives me the Heimlich as the tendons in my jerking leg tighten into a hemp rope. I plop loose and fall on top of Sickle. The scorched wrinkles of my red foot are tender in the sun.

My shoe is still inside.

I wiggle my toes, peel off the other shoe and shove it in the hole.

Sickle stares at me with wide eyes and flat eyebrows.

“Really?”

“This makes it even,” I say.

An old woman no doubt owns the house we’re squatting in front of. White siding sags and grey shingles on the roof thin into the gutters and walkway, exposing patches of rotted plywood. Angel statues swallowed up by shrubbery, flowerpots shaped like nesting fawns asphyxiated by vines, plywood dogs clawed by twisting branches.

Sickle heaves a stone garden gnome holding a sign saying “Welcome” and drops it on the girl’s teeth. My shoe shoots out of the hole with a wet plop and the other inches out in slow contractions. They’re both coated with yellow mucus and reek of burning rubber.

“Thanks,” I say, and drop the shoes down an open sewer drain.

“Listen,” she says. “I am very, very hungry.”

“Are you still on that? Now that fish tits isn’t screaming, we can probably take another stab at interrogating her.”

She slides her sunglasses back on. With a breathy giggle that comes off more like a bitter sigh she says, “Listen, I’ve got a dinner date. I need to be leaving soon. Do you understand?”

I scratch my neck.

“Well, you look like shit now, so you might as well ditch it.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. You’re going to have to find some way of getting me there, or find someone else to help you move this thing.”

My fists clench.

“I should have left your ass at home and forced Key Lime out here instead,” I say. “He’d whine a fraction as much, then do twice the work, and he’s the laziest guy I know.”

“Oh, but I work so hard at being lazy!”

“He can help you push the damn thing and I can stroll behind and whack your ass with a newspaper. Tell him he owes you for staying over in your room the last few days.”

“He hasn’t been staying in my room; I haven’t seen him since last week.”

At this, I sit up. “What do you mean you haven’t seen him? I haven’t seen him.”

“Why would he be with me?”

“He’s your best gal-pal. Why wouldn’t he be with you?”

“I have a life outside of him.”

“Does he have a life outside of you?”

Her pleading eyes tell me she knows I’m right, but she’s going to pretend I’m not.

“I don’t have any idea where he could be,” she says.

She dials his number, I crouch down beside her, and we press our ears together into two funnels of cartilage tuned into the digitized ring of the dial tone. “Hey…” comes a groggy voice.

I say, “Key Lime, where the fuck—”

“I’m not here right now. But if you’d like, you can leave a message and I can get back to you… Except, I probably won’t, so don’t be angry next time I see you and ask why I didn’t call back. I don’t understand phones, okay? Now how do I get out of here? … Push what button? Hurry up, I think it’s still recording…No. No, I think it’s still on … Don’t yell at me. Okay, fine, if you know how to do it just take it!”

She sighs. “My poor boy,” and the beep flares out. “Hello Key Lime, it’s me. We’re near the train tracks down by 69th and K—”

“He doesn’t understand streets.”

“We’re across the street from the Baskin Robbins! We’re trying to move something. Come help us.”

“You couldn’t mention a different landmark?”

She glares at me. “If you come we’ll get you a smoothie, you don’t have to ask. Good-bye.”

“Ask him where he’s been for the last few days.”

“We’ll ask him when he calls back.”

“He’s not going to call back, we’re wasting our time.”

“It was your idea to call him!”

“What, you do everything I say now? Flash the next car that drives by.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that with a dry t-shirt.”

I pat her on the head. We somehow roll the girl out to a busy street and this is where we need to make things count if we want anyone to help us haul the fat skank away. I collapse against her rough, leathery hide and the smell of fermentation is so strong my first instinct is to pull away, but I think I’m getting drunk just sniffing her, so I lay still in a stupor.

My shirt’s soaked through with sweat and my eyes fall straight across the street. Sickle steps up to the corner, pointing at the girl, and then waving at passing cars. A guy stops, asks if she’s a hooker and drives off.

Her face puffs up in a cantankerous balloon and I laugh for a good minute before realizing I’m part of the punch line.

I turn to Sickle. “We can run with the hooker thing.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sickle and I stand on the side of the road, my jeans rolled up to my knee and my long, pretty legs nestled between her thighs, sticking out through her dress, her two legs wrapped around my hips and joining into a stump wiggling behind my ass. My back hunches into an arch under her linen dinner jacket and the effect was that we look like a single woman with a lumpy hunchback, two disproportionately long legs and a mysterious fifth limb that could be a tail or the gaster of a giant ant. We are an entity that nobody but the vilest degenerate would find doable. It’s at this moment that a thin Chinese man in his fifties, whose eyes flutter with a pronounced effeminacy, gilded and regal as a celluloid closet star, pokes his head out of one of those organ-harvesting execution buses that go from prison to prison, then out to the cobbler fields.

“Hello pretty girl,” he says. “Do you need lift?”

Sickle flaps her mouth in such a manner that nothing matches the high-pitched whine squealing half-muffled from beneath her jacket.

“Oh kind sir! I am but a lowly street performer who seeks fame and fortune in Las Vegas or Fown, but I’m so, so hungry. I would do anything and I mean anything for a quick bite to eat.”

“How hung are you?” he asks.

“Not too young for you, stud.”

“What do you do in act?”

“I give this here vegetable a lap dance. I get as nude as indecent exposure laws will permit me. And then some.”

“Oooh. I like and then some. You get naked as duck in butcher window?”

“Honey, please, I make duck in window look like virginal school-girl.”

“I am intrigued and perhaps possibly aroused. All right. You get in back of van now.”

“You are simply too kind, sir. I have always benefited tremendously from the sexual neediness of strangers.”

“Do you need help with vegetable?” asks the Chinese man as he opens the driver side door.

I grab Sickle’s arm and pull it back against her head and we fall back so the only thing keeping the two of us upright is my other arm planted against the warm pavement, and Sickle now looks like a melodramatic plantation whore in some life-threatening woe, like perhaps she dropped a handkerchief, or will perhaps be encroached upon by a solar body.

“Oh please sir!” I moan. “This sun has become intolerable! I’m hotter’n a cross at a Klan rally!”

The Chinese man lets out a prolapsed evil laugh as he sashays contemptuously from the driver’s seat.

The doors at the back of the bus fly open and out walks a cute girl, probably about nineteen, flashing a toothy smile with both her mouth and her long necklace of human teeth. The driver hauls the girl in both arms and throws her to the girl. She stumbles backwards into darkness.

The driver turns to us and says, “Please get in.”

[bear-cubs-art-things]

OKI OKI YOUNG ZECHARIAH AU FANFIC GOO-

part 1 yeeeee!!!

★~🐸~★

It was a beautiful morning in Wartwood. The sun glowed warmly in the pale blue sky, clouds of shimmery white glided along wind currents seemingly so calm. The soil smelled of dew and previous rainfall, plants along every water-body edge they could find. Or really any patch of dirt. Along with the earthy warm smell of dirt, wildflowers and bakery goods filled the air. It truly smelled like home.

His home. Zechariah Nettles.

Zechariah Phineas Nettles. 11 years old. 5 feet 4 inches. Lives with his grandmother Gretchen Basil Nettles and mother Juniper Autumn Yggdrasil. Has no siblings. Loves to read, listen to music, on occasion draw on scraplets of paper. Does chores more frequently than he thinks necessary. Works on his household farm (who didn't have a farm in Wartwood?). Green-grey with dark brown eyes, with a pale blue tongue. Kind and often shy, doesn't talk much.

You get the idea.

Often Zechariah would sit on the garden wall, looking off into the vague and unknown distance. Staring at the summer clouds, lost in daydream thought. He was a nice kid, they said. Soft spoken and well mannered.

And, some might say, a perfect target.

Wartwood, though a kind small town a ways from the capital, had its fair share of pricks and assholes. Unfortunately, older teens had it good with picking on poor 'Riah. Everyday it was the same.

"Staring off at the stars, huh, dreamerboy?"

"He doesn't have any friends, so he talks to the plants!"

"More working less dreaming farmerboy!!"

"I bet his mom hates him so he has to do all the farmwork."

"What's so interesting about the damn sky, huh?!"

"I bet his thoughts are his only company, and that isn't much company is it now?"

And everyday, Zechariah continues on. So deep in thought their sneers fly right between his ears (whatever passes as his ears). But even now and then, it gets bad.

Really bad.

Zechariah was just walking home from the market one day; a bag of assorted groceries for his grandma in one arm, a loaf of bread in the other. He was just a kid running another errand, minding his own business. Three big kids walked up to him.

"Whatcha got there?" asked the biggest one. A newt of dark fuchsia and slit eyes. At least that's what they looked like.

"Hm?" Zechariah responded softly, quietly, being brought back to reality from his daydream.

"I said," the fuchsia newt raised his voice, "whatcha got there."

"Groceries," once again Zechariah responded softly. Light words in the wind. Faint.

"What kind of groceries?" another sneered. A blue frog, high-pitched voice, short and stocky. Wore a newsboys cap. Kinda silly looking.

"Dunno" 'Riah shrugged. "Gramma gave me a list."

"Y'know young tadpoles like you shouldn't really wander alone without an adult," the newt chimed back in. "It can be dangerous."

"How so?"

"You never know," the newt swaggered closer to Zechariah, malice glittering in his eyes, "who might want to hurt you."

Almost as if it were rehearsed, the third one - a big burly red toad with no neck and a wide build - slugged a punch at Zechariah. Sent him straight to the mud.

And his groceries, which he was more upset about than his own physical wellbeing.

The frog joined in, kicking at Zechariah's face. The toad was still throwing punches, but at his sides. The newt stood there, arms folded, smiling and watching.

Zechariah merely trying to cover his head with his sticks-for-arms. Which, must be mentioned, was another part of him that Amphibians made fun of him of.

And when they were done with him, after Zechariah was beaten to a froggy pulp, the newt finally bent down to talk to him.

"Listen closely, little runt," he hissed.

Zechariah uncovered his eyes, looked up to meet the newt's.

Glittering with malice. Hatred. The need to hurt.

"You aren't welcomed here. This is OUR territory."

"Hnnnggh-"

The newt snapped (in a sense) and threw Zechariah up by the collar, so that he was dangling a good 6 inches off the ground. Battered and bruised, lips swollen and bleeding. He looked terrible, awfully terrible. He shouldn't even be in this situation right now... how have things escalated so quickly?

"If I see your dingy ass walking these streets again I WILL kill you." the newt hissed, foaming at the mouth. Insane. Bloodthirsty.

"Hnnngggghh" was the only thing to escape Zechariah's numb face.

The newt then delivered the final blow.

A merciless throwdown into the mud. Face first, if you will. And he laughed. So did the other two.

And they walked away, still laughing.

Zechariah, unable to feel much through the pain coursing through his veins and muscles, laid there in the mud. Groceries spoiled, his Gramma's copper wasted, his body battered in a lifeless heap.

He sighed. Didn't cry. Sighed.

He wasn't much of a crier. And for his age, he should've been crying at that first punch.

He just laid there. Still and breathing. Coping with the immense pain those teens had inflicted on him.

"They're jerks, huh?" an unfamiliar voice spoke.

"Mm hm..." was his muffled reply, quiet.

"I'm sorry they did that to you," the voice said again. "Really."

Zechariah felt his body being turned on his side and brought up to a sitting-up position. It wasn't hard because he was so light and thin.

What he was faced with was a royal purple newt with chin-length black hair curly at the ends, with a apologetic grin on his face. His eyes will filled with innocent brightness, hiding the apparent knowledge that he knew something about those teens that beat up Zechariah.

"My brother can be a pain sometimes, and I always have to clean his mess," he sighed. Sat in front of 'Riah. "I'm truly sorry he did this to you. Wrong place wrong time I guess."

"Mm hm..."

Purple Newt stuck out his hand. "I'm Brocky by the way. Brocky Fronds. That pink newt was my older bro Rasphy. He's always been a no-good."

"Hmm..."

Brocky glanced a long glance in the direction where Rasphy last went. He snapped his head back to Zechariah.

"So anyways, moving on from that, what's your name?"

"Hmh?"

"I introduced myself, and you have yet to do the same," Brocky pointed out. "In case you didn't hear me the first time, I said my name was Brocky."

"I heard that-" Zechariah replied.

"Woah he does speak!" Brocky snarked almost immediately, sarcastically. Zechariah chuckled a bit.

Zechariah stuck his hand out to meet Brocky's, and shook it. "I'm Zechariah Nettles."

" 'The Skinny-Legged Frog' they call you," Brocky jerked his head in Rasphy's direction. "My bro and his friends, I mean."

"They call me lots of things," Zechariah shrugged. "I never paid any attention to that much."

"Well, I know what I'm gonna call you, if you're alright with it," Brocky declared, standing up.

"What?" Zechariah looked up at him, bracing for whatever horrible nickname Brocky was going to give him. Not like he cared much.

Instead, Brocky gave him a goofy grin, ear-to-ear (whatever passed as ears) all-tooth smile, and offered his hand to help Zechariah up.

"My friend."

[itsyaboibananaboi]

"Imagine if you will, that there was a world where a based white boy who has that black teen swagger and is goated with the sauce lost his rizz. Can this jit say that his drip is bussin when he can't rizz up the local gyatt, no cap fr? Can this mid simp get the glowup and slay once more? Find out on this episode of, The Twilight Zone."

[tryst-art-archive]

April 2010: "Capture the Flag"

One of the final assignments for the creative writing class I was in at this time was to revise one of the pieces we'd done earlier in the semester, so this is the revised version of this short story.

Capture the Flag

            Jason inspected his troops from dirt-smudged face to bandaged knee. “Listen up!” he said. “The red team ain’t gonna lose to no stinkin’ blue team, y’hear? Not this time! This time we’re gonna get my brother’s flag and bring it back here, and we’re gonna kick his butt! Marlene, you’re gonna have to set up some traps. Make it hard for them to get our flag.”

Marlene, wearing pigtails and overalls, had cluttered her pockets with various tools and miscellaneous useful-seeming objects, such as several lengths of rope, that she had scavenged from her family’s garage. She nodded and burst into giggles, her eyes already seeking out ideal locations for traps.

“Chris,” Jason continued, “I want you to find a good spot to hide in. Y’gotta slingshot anyone who gets too close to our base.”

“You got it, boss,” Chris said, grinning mischievously. He had recently fashioned a slingshot out of a particularly ideal Y-shaped stick and the elastic off an old pair of underwear. Armed with small rocks, plastic bottle caps, and some especially stale marshmallow Peeps, he was prepared to bruise his enemy, preferably from the safety of a tree.

  Jason nodded. “Alex, you’re with me. We’re gonna go get the flag, and I want you to take down anyone who gets in our way.”

Alex, armed with a brand new, rapid-fire Nerf gun and a hefty, fully loaded Super Soaker, let out a hearty laugh, taking the Nerf gun in his pudgy hands and shaking it above his head.

            Jason pushed his baseball cap farther back on his head. “Alright boys – and girl – we’re gonna capture us a flag!” He whooped, leaping and waving his hat over his head. The others followed suit, letting their excitement fly off their tongues. A mocking response to their hollering cut over the roof of Jason’s house, and the group fell silent. Jason curled his lip, sneering at the sound of his rivals’ enthusiasm.

            “We’re gonna beat them,” Jason muttered. “Once and for all!”

            The group nodded excitedly, shouting various affirmatives and sharing cocky smiles.

            Jason grinned. “Alright, let’s do this thing!”

            The red team dispersed. Marlene shot off to turn the backyard into an obstacle course as Chris climbed into a tree that would allow him a full view of the backyard and the underside of the porch where they had stashed their flag. Jason and Alex ran around to the house’s side yard where Chad, Jason’s older brother, waited.

            Jason approached his blue counterpart with a swagger. He eyeballed the preteen and barked a laugh. So what if his brother and his team were older? Jason’s team was better. They had made a careful plan of attack, working on it for days ahead of time, trying to find the best way to beat Chad and his friends. This would be the day that Jason finally won in a battle against Chad. He had failed in almost every other competition, whether it was putting the dishes away faster or winning a game of Monopoly. He and his friends lost to Chad and his friends at kickball and manhunt, soccer and football, and nearly every other game the two groups had played against each other. Pride would not allow them to lose to Chad at capture the flag. Today they would win, and Jason would show himself as worthy of his brother’s respect.

            Alex lowered his Nerf gun. “You ready to lose, Chad?”

            Chad shook his head, laughing. “Not a chance in hell. Don’t cry when you lose again, ladies.” He darted between Jason and Alex, rushing toward their flag.

            Startled, Alex pulled out the Nerf gun and fired the foam darts at Chad’s back. Jason shook off his surprise and sped around to the enemy side of the house, plunging into the unknown, thinking only that he must capture and secure the blue flag before his brother could obtain the red flag. In his distraction, he immediately tripped over a strategically placed skateboard. Stunned, he flew up into the air and landed on his back, becoming temporarily winded. A girl with a pixie cut and a blue sweatshirt sauntered over.

            “Real smooth,” Ellen said, pointing a water gun in Jason’s face.

            Jason squeezed his eyes shut against the water, only to reopen them as he heard the girl yelp. Alex had whipped back around after Jason’s fall and now fired the Nerf gun at Ellen. “Run, Jason!”

            Jason scrambled to his feet and began to sprint, heading for the driveway where he hid himself behind one of his parents’ cars, frantically scanning for the blue team’s remaining member while trying to locate the blue flag.

There were numerous possibilities. His house and the surrounding area were rife with hiding places. The back and left side of the house, from which he had just come, were bordered by woods while a large lichen- and moss-covered rocky mass rose on its right side. The front of the house saw a view of the street, but a large portion of yard stood between the front door and sidewalk. This segment was primarily bare with only the half-circle driveway and a large pine tree in its grassy middle to decorate it. Even so, the borders of the yard were not off-limits and there were plenty of hiding places for the blue flag if Chad had been clever about it.

Looking over the decidedly flagless front yard, Jason was not so sure that his plan was half as solid as he had believed.

            As Jason contemplated his next move, Marlene finished her traps. She had littered the grass with marbles and strung rope between trees and the posts supporting the porch. Now, she tied the flag down where it stood, inventing knots as she bound it to nearby protruding objects. When she and Jason had concocted this plan, he’d said that if Chad’s team got by her traps, they’d at least be stuck trying to pull the flag from its place while Chris pelted them with pebbles.

            Presently, Chad came around the corner. He ran toward the porch, leaping over Marlene’s ropes only to stumble on the marbles and fall to the ground face-first. Marlene jumped into the air, pleased with her success. “Yes!”

            Her glee was short-lived, however, as Chad elected to obtain greater stability by forsaking bipedal movement in favor of crawling on all fours. In this fashion, he crossed the field of marbles and made it to the flag. Marlene briefly attempted to fend him off, only to have Chad shove her to the side with a derisive grunt. The fact that the flag had been tied to the porch’s supports in a nonsensical web of rope seemed to startle him. This pause gave Chris enough time to shoot a pebble into his arm

            Chris cackled to himself. “Yeah, that’s it. Just stay right where I can see you.” He fired another pebble at Chad who glared in his direction then reached for Marlene, wrapping one arm around her and attempting to use her struggling body as a shield while he grappled with the knots binding the red flag in place. Chris hesitated, then pulled out the kinder of his three ammunitions, the stale marshmallow Peeps, and began to fire them at Chad, wincing whenever he hit Marlene.

            Jason had left his hiding place behind his parents’ cars and headed for the rocks bordering the yard. They were fairly easy to climb, and, he reasoned, a pretty good place to hide a flag. He glanced toward Alex’s continuing struggle with Ellen; the two were locked in hand-to-hand combat, each trying to wrestle the other’s weapon away. Ellen appeared to be winning. With a frown, Jason picked up his pace.

            The climb up the rocks was surprisingly trap-free, and their absence caused him to second guess his belief that the flag was hidden there. A thorough search of the brush atop the rock revealed no flag, though it did turn up another of Chad’s friends, a boy named Matt. He was armed with a suction cup bow and arrow set, probably stolen from Jason’s room, and clearly had intended to protect the true location of the flag from afar. Jason yelped when he stumbled across him by tripping over his legs, and the other boy gasped, swinging around and blindly firing his one arrow at Jason. The suction cup failed to stick to Jason’s T-shirt, and, weaponless, the would-be sniper stared blankly at Jason who, after a moment, jumped atop him, shouting, “Where’s the flag?”

            “Get off me, you little twerp!”

            “Tell me where it is!”

            The older boy threw Jason to a mossy patch some feet away before bolting down the rock’s face. Jason got to his feet, not bothering to brush himself off, and followed Matt, only to meet with Ellen’s determined frown. She had, apparently, defeated Alex.

 “Gotcha now,” she said, leering. She squirted water in his eyes, distracting him sufficiently to get him in a headlock. Rubbing her knuckles in his hair, she laughed, saying, “How do you like that, huh?”

            Jason attempted throw her off of him, pushing against her arms with all that was in him only to find, much to his embarrassment, that he was weaker than a girl. In spite of his shame, he called for help.

            Alex, winded from his struggle with Ellen, began to head toward Jason, only to be stopped by Matt who simply tackled him to the ground and sat on him.

            Jason’s call did not go completely unanswered, however. The sound carried over the house to the backyard for his two remaining teammates to hear. It provided enough distraction for Marlene to blunder out of Chad’s grasp and dash away from him. She ran to Jason’s aid, calling his name.

            Chad snarled. Refusing to lose to mere kids, he pulled at Marlene’s knots as Chris rained bottle caps on his shoulders.

Ellen’s back was to Marlene as she came around to the front yard. She had the element of surprise. Matt saw her coming and attempted to yell a warning to Ellen, but his call was cut short by a sudden thrashing from Alex, whose attempts to escape Matt and help Jason hadn’t ceased.

            With a running start and a bit of inspiration from kung-fu movies, Marlene leapt and kicked Ellen in the rear clumsily. Ellen’s grip on Jason loosened, and he, breaking from her arms, ran toward the pine tree, guessing that to be the flag’s true location. Ellen started after him, but Marlene threw herself at the backs of the girl’s knees and brought her down to the ground, forcing her to deal with the tiny pig-tailed tomboy who, while not strong, was certainly persistent.

            With Marlene and Alex buying him time, Jason sped to the tree and began to scale its heights, climbing from one branch to the next as quickly as he could. The tree was littered with traps; the net from an old home soccer goal had been drawn across some of the branches, preventing an easy climb up to the top of the tree where, Jason could now see, the flag resided. Alternate routes had been coated with grape jelly, and Jason was ultimately forced to choose between potentially slipping and falling down the rather tall pine or losing time by attempting to remove the net.

            The image of his brother running back into the front yard, the red flag in hand and a triumphant smile on his lips flashed through his mind. The thought of losing sent a throb of nausea through Jason. He chose to risk injury by taking the jelly route, and, sticky-handed, he climbed breathlessly. He could hear Alex and Marlene struggling and slowly losing to their older counterparts as he neared the top. His hand closed around the flag’s shaft, bringing it to his chest. He caught a yelp from Marlene; she had been cast aside, unable to contain Ellen any longer.

            His pulse quickened, shaking him so that he could hear the faint rustle of the blood pounding in his ears. Full of adrenaline, he half slid down the tree, accepting scrapes and bruises in exchange for speed. With a quarter of the tree left for Jason to descend, Ellen appeared below and began to clamber up to apprehend him. Rather than face her another time, Jason took a breath and leapt from the tree, pushing off its trunk and out into the open air. His descent seemed curiously slow and allowed him time to observe that, though Alex still occupied Matt, he would not be able to hold him off for much longer, that Marlene lay crumpled against the rocks to the right of the house, and that Chris’s voice came over the roof: “Hurry, Jason!”

            Jason allowed instinct to take over as he neared the ground. He rolled when he reached it which enabled him to run immediately rather than struggle to get up. This made all the difference as a mere moment later and Matt would have broken from Alex in time to stop Jason’s flight; all would have been lost, and Jason would have been proven, definitively, as the lesser brother. As it stood, Matt barely missed his chance, and Jason sped by, through the left side yard and into the backyard where he passed his brother, recently victorious over the ropes. Their eyes met as they passed, both frantic to be the victor in this brothers’ feud. Then Chad was gone toward the front yard, fighting to reach the tree before Jason could reach the porch.

            Jason forced his legs to stretch farther and move faster. Rather than fight the traps he could see Marlene had laid, he leapt up from the grass to the porch’s stairs, ran up them to the spot directly above where his flag had been located, and forced a syllable from his heaving lungs: “SAFE!”

            He knew he had won when, a moment later, he heard Chad’s not-so-quiet curse. Faintly, he could hear his mother opening the front door and beginning to chastise her eldest for this profanity. Jason grinned, catching Chris’s eye.

“Safe,” he panted.

[natjennie]

ther'es something about the way cap is so loose in his whole body when he takes the coat off after his and kitty's day out like specifically the way he tosses around the swagger stick like it;s the most self-assured and comfortable captain has ever been and it's when he's not gripping the object of his lost love with white knuckles but allowing himself to drop the persona and grow for a moment but im too high to explain it and mostly im just horny about his arms. send twete.

[furrbbyx]

I’m missing spoopy season

So here’s a throwback to the writing prompt: Dare. A young group of friends ends up daring one member too far.

SFW violence and gore. Mention of being eaten alive. Talk about cannabis use.

About 2k words

Isn't this how every horror movie starts? I think to myself before pushing my heavy deadlocks back from my sweating face.

I'm pretty sure there's an unspoken rule among Black people that we don't do stupid dares that end us up in the cemetery at night!

Yet here I was huffing in the suddenly cool and misty air. I was trying not to let the frantic beat of my heart and the sweat sticking my shirt to my back distract me from the object of my dare.

It was hard though.

Just 30 minutes before I had been out with my unruly group of friends sitting on some fallen over logs around a very illegal fire in the woods behind Timnit Jackson's house. Jacelyn, Avery and 'Quan were there too. After our first year in college we'd come back home fore the summer and met up at our usual haunts. For weeks we'd been stalking through the town lamenting the boredom and how we'd outgrown our little town.

So tonight we'd been reckless. Avery had stolen some alcoholic seltzers from the corner store and I had brought a little cannabis. We rolled, smoked, drank, and complained. And then the dares started.

At first it was little things like guzzling the seltzers. That had been a terrible idea but at least we'd all laughed as a gush of fizzy vomit spilled out of Timnit and tears streamed down their eyes as they coughed.

Then the boys had gotten into a contest of strength and athleticism that had me Jacelyn and Timnit hyping them up way too much. They'd actually gotten into a fight over pushups!

After they'd calmed down and we'd all grabbed another drink Jacelyn looked to me.

"I know you got more tree right Chioma?"

I scoffed. "Nah. I only swiped a little before Mike got home. I don't want no smoke. I said holding my hands up to my chest"

"Yeah but we do" Avery laughed.

"Well then you go get it" I sneered

"Fuck it." 'Quan burped then tossed his empty into the fire pit. "We got drinks at least. And I'm high as hell anyway. That's the only reason I lost the push-up dare." He slurred and sent a belligerent look toward Avery.

We all hollered

"Stop the cap, man"

"Aint no way"

"Bruhhhh"

"shiii"

"What?!" he stamped a foot. He ripped up the sleeve of his shirt to show us his thickly muscled arm. "You try me when I'm sober man, you know you ain't got nothin on me" 'Quan slapped his arm for emphasis.

"Whatever Bruh. Sit down with all that!" said Avery.

Timnit rose to their feet taking off their soaked shirt to hang it on a stick jammed into in the ground next to the fire. 'Quan watched them and weaved a bit on his feet.

"Uh here" He untied the flannel around his waist and handed it to Timnit.

Jacelyn and I exchanged looks as Timnit pulled the shirt on over their modest chest binding.

Both of them sat back down and 'Quan watched them roll the sleeves up their slender arms

"Thanks man" Timnit said with a half smile.

"it's cool" "Quan said unable to look away. 'Quan was a really sweet person. The type that always did nice things, and acted like people mattered even if he'd just met them. He was sensitive and empathetic even if he could be bullish and swaggered too much. I blamed his parents who were firm but also worshiped the ground he walked on because he was their only child. He looked like a total dick in a backwards cap college tshirt and jeans with fucking flip flops like a white person, though.

Jacelyn's clear voice rung out in the night

"Well who's gonna dare me? Or are we over this baby game"

With the attention on her the awkward crushy-ness of the night dissipated.

"Girl, this aint no baby game" Timnit said. "You just mad we can't smoke more. So I dare you to go get some more from Mike!"

"Aww no way!" Jacelyn booed. "Mike is an asshole. How that junior even get the tree anyway Chioma? He pushin' now?"

I shrugged "I don't ask him nuthin, that's his business. I just take a little off the top now and then. Sister tax." I giggled.

"Well that's the dare." Timnit said smugly. "Don't be a baby"

"I'm not!" Jacelyn whined "Their house is like two blocks away. What? You want me to walk there and come back"

We all murmured and shrugged. It was kind of a bad dare

"sounds like sumthin a baby would say" Timnit dug in. I admired their boldness and guessed maybe they wanted to smoke a bit more too. Or maybe they were just a bit insulted because the game had been their idea.

We were all drunk and hyped enough to do just about anything that night. Anything to make the mundane suburbs feel like the intense days and nights at our universities. The constant stimulus had us feeling some type of way about the place we'd grown up.

We made a plan to go with Jacelyn as she raided my house for Mike's stash. Honestly I don't know why I was going to watch my friend do this dare, it was my house so I probably should have volunteered.

We kicked dirt over the fire until a few embers remained, each of us grabbed another seltzer out of the box before Avery yeeted it into the woods behind us as we left.

'Quan was carrying Timnit's dirty shirt. Jacelyn and I giggled and sent meaningful looks to 'Quan who dragged a hand across his neck in warning. That boy had it bad and Timnit was in their own world.

I wondered if 'Quan was going to make a move as we walked out of the woods and into the sidewalk. We were way too loud for midnight in the suburbs but thankfully in this mostly Black neighborhood no one was going to call the cops on a bunch or rowdy neighborhood kids.

I looked back at him following Tinmit like a puppy and thought he was probably way too shy despite the drinks and herb.

Jacelyn was on her phone no doubt trying to keep up with her socials. She snapped a few pics and videos then moved on to scrolling instagram stories which blared out harsh noises. She laughed and leaned over to share one with Avery. Jacelyn and Avery were the tallest in the group. Jacelyn always knew the trends and dressed like it. She had a bone straight sew-in with dramatic baby hairs and definitely could fit in with the mean girls, but she was also very addicted to gaming.

As was Avery. He played sports on and off their field. He'd actually gotten a scholarship that way and now played soccer almost as seriously as a major league athlete. His tall frame didn't seem powerful until you watched his explosive power during a game. Usually though he was just another brownish face dressed like all the other kids in a plain tee, joggers, vans and a gold necklace.

Tinmit and I were the weird ones in the group. We'd been very close in high  school, writing terrible fanfiction about our favorite KPOP stans or marvel characters, reading too much fanfiction and dressing in each other's thrifted clothes. But of course things changed. Timnit applied to a different school entirely. It had broken our friendship a little bit. I think it was harder for them to imagine going to a regular university after they came out. I hadn't been able to really see past my feelings of betrayal. But I was glad we were still hanging out, and I think they were relieved that I wasn't still furiously angry. I was actually happy because they seemed to have really blossomed in the year at her liberal university. The sported the cutest mustache and dressed like a total art hoe in baggy cargo pants belted with a crocheted length of yarn.

Then there was me in all black. The goth of the group. Every group needs one.

We kept walking and laughing loudly until someone stopped and we all looked around. Across the street was the town cemetery. The huge iron gate usually stood closed at this time of night but they were wide open with pale mist shimmering and floating over the graves and the dark shadowed mausoleum on a hill.

"Eyyy" Jacelyn crooned. "I think I have the perfect dare for Chioma"

I barked a laugh "No way"

"Whaaat" she whined "I haven't even said what it is. I was just gonna say you should go up there in that mausoleum."

"NO way" I said again and started walking.

"Her scary ass ought to go up there." Avery chimed in "That's where your people are." He wiggled his fingers trying to be spooky.

I wasn't amused.

"I mean, they right. You can't be afraid of ghosts right? Since you always dress like you're going to a funeral"

"Fuck you!" I spat at 'Quan and stomped across the street in my huge black platfom boots.

I wasn't really afraid...well I mean I probably didn't need to be afraid right? Whoever was in that big limestone building was probably long dead and all I would find would be darkness and quiet and maybe some old flowers. And the sooner I finished this stupid dare the sooner we'd watch Jacelyn try to steal some herb off of my little brother.

But after I stepped through the open gate the summer air started to cool down and the mist seemed to thicken around my feet. I glanced back at my friends to flip them off before marching up the hill past other graves.

Was it getting a little darker too? I started to sweat but it was just because the hill was so steep and I was drunk, I told myself.

There were no lights in the cemetery and truly it got darker and seemed more claustrophobic the further away from the road I got. I caught the whiff of something burning as I raised my head. to look at the monument to death. A candle? Maybe I actually wouldn't find a dark room, maybe I'd stumble onto some dark ritual I thought with a bit of bravado that was belied by the goose flesh that suddenly rand down my arms and stomach.

As I walked closer I definitely felt that something wasn't right. But I was close. I just had to walk inside and my friends would be satisfied. And if I saw some satanists sacrificing an animal and writing runes in blood I could turn tail and run!

I could smell melted candle wax now as I slowly approached the door. I didn't want to hear the jeers from my friends so I didn't look back down the hill. I crept the to doorway. rubbing my cold arms. It was so dark inside it took a second for my eyes to adjust from the moonlight. The small room looked normal until I was finally able to make out the huge stone coffin pushed to the back.

As if something had pushed it. Because there were gouges in the floor just outside of the moonlight leaking in, and the top of the coffin was angled off  laying partially on the ground I saw remnants of a candle with wax and burn marks and then over the sound of my beating heart I heard a gurgle.

A fleshy riiiip.

A loud popping snap.

To my left in the shadows immediately inside the door lay a body in a shimmering black puddle of blood. It was only a puddle because nearly all of the blood was splashed on the wall beside it.

"What the fuck!?" I hissed

Teal green, glowing eyes snapped up to me out of the darkness. A hunched figure over the bloodied maimed body only a foot away.

I turn to run with a gasp and inescapably strong claws grasped my ankle bringing me to the ground before I could even run two steps. I screamed and clutched the door frame while kicking out at the creature's head. It yanked me viciously into the dark mausoleum braking nails and dislodging and arm from its socket.

I screamed again! Someone was coming right?! My friends wouldn't leave me to die!?

I cried and tried to fight the thing off as it struck at my arms and face with it's claws

"NO!"

"NO!" My flesh was torn by its claws becoming useless as bright bone glistened through on nasty gash. I still struggled until I caught the sight of its face in the dim light.

Sunken ashy skin stretched tightly over a the bones of its head showing the nose holes where the nose had fallen away and gnashing grotesque lip-less mouth. The eyes only cold light in the empty sockets of the face. I tried to breath to scream again in the same moment the creature reached down and ripped open my belly.

I nearly passed out at the pain and the feeling of its hand digging through my organs. I watched gasping mutely as it stuffed a length of my intestine into its maw already stained with ichor from the first body.

My head lolled to the side and my eyes rolled back.

This was a nightmare right?

My body jerked as it eviscerated another organ. I was slipping away quickly but I tried to open my mouth and call out for help. The gurgling sound of voice, like the gurgle I had heard early only alerted the beast  and it scrambled up my body. Took hold of my neck in its teeth and ripped out my throat meat.

As my vision faded I watched the horrible ghoul chewing and swallowing messily before it went after the skin on my cheeks and carved out an eyeball.

I twitched as my brain and body tried to fulfill the last commands of my panic, still tried to runaway from the my fate.

What a stupid dare.

NOTES on this prompt:

I pushed myself to write a lot more than usual and I think it was a good exercise even though I don't usually write horror or gore. So I hope it reads in a very creepy scary way.

[kittybear-jellycat]

Still waiting for the day when Teen Top will perform Rocking with the same vigor they did when it first came out

[thatgordongirl]

I love how everyone watched Cap pretending to shoot with his swagger stick, somethings he’s done multiple times, and immediately assume he’s lost it.

[weatheredleatherhat]

i saw your request box was open again so i wanna make a request. i don’t have anything specific in mind other than it being a fic, but with Heisenberg meeting someone who’s badass has the same abilities as him. Heisenberg just has heart eyes the entire time and is a flustered boi

((Yessss I adore this! Honestly badass readers make me WEAK! Here ya go, hope I met your specifications!))

Heisenberg hated having to do the patrols outside his grounds. If he had his way, he would just bully Moreau into sending the lycans to do the grunt work, but Miranda had specifically requested her favourite son to do it. Having to swallow his pride and bow to her still left a bitter taste, but at least he could take out his frustrations on the occasional outsider that somehow manage to stumble past the borders. Sure, he technically should tell Miranda about those. But where’s the fun in that?

Though the walk wasn’t exactly arduous, he’d been walking around for a couple of hours and a smoke break in the clearing he usually relaxed in sounded tempting. Trees parted to a carpet of moss, wildflowers and grass, with a felled tree nearby to relax on and listen to the sounds of nature. Granted, not much wildlife was around to appreciate given that lycans were constantly on the hunt around these parts, but at least birds were too wily for those dumb fuckers.

With a cigar clamped between his teeth as he flicked open his zippo, he keyed in on the soft tune being whistled somewhere nearby. Odd. Usually villagers never wondered this far out, and those running for their lives didn’t have the luxury of making that much noise when they were being chased. A cursory look around the glade didn’t help find the source, and so it was left to using his abilities to try and figure it out. It was most likely this phantom whistler would have something metal on them, and as he puffed on his cigar in contemplation while he concentrated, he waited patiently as he kept himself looking nonchalant. If he could hear them, it was possible they could see him. And he needed to give the right impression.

Gotcha.

If he had to guess, considering size and thickness of the metal, it would be a canteen in somebody’s pockets. Strange that it was a bit of a distance away and up in the treeline though. Eyes cast upwards, he took in the form of somebody clad in jeans and a leather jacket, relaxing on a tree branch a good twenty foot in the air. From the fact that their eyes were closed as they enjoyed the sunshine and the breeze, it was very likely that they hadn’t noticed his presence. A twisted grin spread across his features as he begun sauntering towards them, a swagger in his step and an air of arrogance plain to see.

“You seem lost,” he called out, watching as they opened their eyes and stared down at them. The slow grin on their features caught him off guard, but there was a stubborn refusal to back down as he dropped his hammer off his shoulder to lean on the handle. “You know there’s a lot of dangerous creatures in these woods, right?”

“Oh, I’m aware my friend,” they drawled, making no effort to look threatened as they made themselves more comfortable on the branch. The act of being so dismissive grated on Heisenberg’s nerves instinctively. Didn’t they know who he was? Didn’t they know he could crush them like a bug? Then again, it was refreshing not to have his ass kissed in fear.

The source of the metal he’d located to find them – a leather bound hip flask, as it turns out – appeared from their pockets as they unscrewed the cap as they stared down at him. Resisting the urge to grind his teeth, he instead chewed on the end of his cigar as he smirked. “And you’re not worried about that?”

“Why should I be?” they countered with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re clearly not from around here,” he chuckled, raising a hand and waiting until they raised the hip flask to their lips again. With a small flick of his wrist the flask shot out of their hands, liquid spilling over the rim and onto their shirt as it sped towards his grasp. Sniffing the contents, the acrid and familiar smell of moonshine stung his nostrils. But still, a point needed to be made, and he took a swig of his own and kept his poker face as the liquor stung his throat. He couldn’t help but revel in the stunned look they gave him. That show of power was nothing, but it was enough to prove a point. Besides, the flask was well made. Would be a nice one for his collection.

The shock on his face came too quickly to disguise when the flask was wrenched out of his grip, soaring back to it’s owner’s hands. Heisenberg’s mind seemed to take a few seconds to reboot, in order to figure out what the fuck just happened. Looking down to his hand, and back up to the shit eating grin of the stranger, his brow furrowed as he tilted his head.

“Huh.”

The intruder openly laughed at his confusion, sitting up and leaning forward to face him as they tilted their head. “Electric organs are a neat party trick, huh? I can’t lie, I’m surprised to meet someone like me too.”

In any other circumstances, he might be pissed off about these events. To throw his toys out of the pram and throw a tantrum. But what would be the point? If he played this smart, he could have an ally in this. One that could prove quite useful in his plans to burn this shit to the ground. He made sure to change his demeanour, from confusion and slight anger to one of confidence.

“Now, where are my manners?” With a jovial tone and a smirk, he used the brim of his hat to take it off, making a grand bow and lowing his head. “Lord Heisenberg, at your service.” Looking up at the stranger and flashing a dazzling smile, he tilted his head. “And you?”

Pushing themselves off the branch, they started to drop fast, only to gently float to the ground when they were about two foot from the ground. With a quick glance, he noticed the metal surrounding the heels of their boots, which probably aided their descent. Huh. Smart choice. They were a little shorter than him, but the way they looked at him like he was an equal was something he found both frustrating and a little… Hot. “Lord Heisenberg,” they drawled, as if tasting his name on their tongue. “I like the sound of that.”

As much as he tried to fight it, he could feel himself getting a little warm. He prayed that the cadou meant he was incapable of blushing, and he fought hard to keep a poker face. Something about them being so confident, so sure of themselves and the refusal to bend to him… Yeah, he could get used to this. Fuck, even their scent was pleasant, and they were so close to him… Clearing his throat, he raised an eyebrow as he looked over his shades at them. “The Lord part, I’m assuming?”

“If that’s what you want to assume,” they shrugged with a playful look in their eyes. “You still holed up in that factory of yours?”

“Usually.”

“Well, if you’re ever wanting visitors, I’ll be sure to swing by. But for now, I got places to be.” Two fingers gently stroked from the back of his jaw to the front in a beckoning motion, and he forced himself not to shiver. Turning on their heel with a final wink, they started to make their way towards the East. “See you around, Lord Heisenberg?” they called behind them, not looking back.

He licked his teeth as he released a low growl, watching them like a wolf tracking a rabbit. This stranger was giving more questions than they were answers. And his whole life was dedicated to finding the answers to whatever his put his mind to. If the answers just so happened to be found in a pretty little thing like this curious stranger? Even better. He’d definitely enjoy this.

“Yeah, darlin’. See you around.”