#city rats have thicker skin

[theweeviler]

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

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

[Alcohol Consumption, Mentions of Chem Use, Blood and Injury] [5.5k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 11 "The Polaroid"

They say people’s tastes in attire change with their character developing. In a normal world, you would have willingly picked out a new pair of clothes, but in the wasteland, such luxuries didn’t exist.

Still, after a particularly rowdy encounter with a group of cannibals, you’d been left with a torn dress and blood-soaked tights. The memories of those deranged individuals made a shiver slither up your spine and your stomach twist even now, months later. But what defiled your sense of good and bad, even more, was the fact that you had to strip one of the now-dead women, a victim who still had somewhat preserved clothes on, and take them as your makeshift attire until you got to a pawn shop and found something that hung off you less.

Of course, Cooper saw nothing wrong with that. The man was busy making ass jerky out of one of the cannibals while you’d gagged by just wearing a corpse’s clothes.

Thankfully, you’d stopped by a settlement a few days later and what were rags are now nicely fitting leggings and a tank top, you’d even managed to bargain for a pair of knee protectors. You were on your knees so frequently while delving through heaps of rubble in search of a treasure – a stimpak, RadAway, a stick of deodorant. It was only fair you had something to protect the soft skin there. Unfortunately, a more conservative top had not been available and most nights, you trembled in Cooper’s arms while he stoked your campfire and tucked you under his chin.

Colder months were approaching and you needed to find better attire, but so far no luck. Every article of clothing you’d ended up finding was almost always a hastily stitched together sack that was both itchy and didn’t isolate you from the chill that befell every night and stayed a little longer each morning.

“Told ya’ y’ should’a worn the stupid vault suit.”

Yes, yes, he had, but you were a stubborn fashionista. Even in the wasteland you had standards as to how to look, if your lips were chapped, if your hair was too disheveled.

In truth, you liked your current clothes; you were almost presentable. You just needed a coat or a thicker jacket to get through the winter months, and then you’d be good.

That was your mission at present, to survive the nuclear winter that by Cooper’s words was much worse up north. There wouldn’t be snow, much to your disappointment, but the temperatures would continue to drop until even a fire wouldn’t be enough unless you were indoors.

This is why you were currently elbows deep into an old closet, inside a run-down apartment complex in the middle of an abandoned city. The broken-down sign at the outskirt of the once-metropolis had read “Fresno”, or “Fresco”, it was hard to read after years of rust and decay. Your cowboy mentor had blabbered on about the place having had settlements before, which had been deserted due to a high number of feral ghoul activity. You’d treaded the streets together on high alert, but so far no hostiles had crossed your path, except the occasional starving rat that was probably blistering with rabies.

The hangers inside the wardrobe don’t offer you much positivity, it’s all moth-eaten old dresses and moldy shirts. With a disappointed scoff, you kneel down to inspect the litany of cardboard boxes stashed next to the empty shoe rack.

God only knows where Cooper’s run off to. Most likely scouring the kitchens for any leftover booze or sifting through the bathroom drawers for any pill bottles with a smidge of content left inside them. He’d ushered you to be a good scout and find something useful while he was tending to the “adult things” and “looking out for bad guys”. In truth, he was just looking for cheap alternatives to get high since his inhaler was running on fumes.

You hear a ruckus down the hallway and stick your head out from underneath the piles of clothes, blinking away the dust from your eyes as you stare at the ajar door. You half expect to hear a string of cusses lathered in a thick Southern accent, but nothing comes.

After a minute of staring, you shrug and return to digging for treasure. Not your circus, not your monkeys; the wrinkly addict can find his next hit by himself.

A glint at the bottom of one of the boxes catches your eye and you shuffle past old newspaper clippings and torn stockings to find a Polaroid camera lying neatly tucked into a black velvet box.

Bingo.

You take out the box and pry the camera out of it before rolling it around in your hands to inspect it. Not a single scratch anywhere, the lens was brand new and aside from a few dust bunnies, it was spotless. Your finger glides over a button while you maneuver it. It clicks and flashes in your face and you reel back, stunned and disoriented.

“Jesus Christ!”

Losing your balance, you end up on your ass on the dingy floor, rubbing the cushion of your palm over one eye while trying to blink away the white spots out of your vision.

Well, at least now you know it works.

Childish glee bubbles in your chest at the endless opportunities popping up in your head. You could document your journey, take photos of every settlement you visited, of wildlife. You could take pictures together with Cooper. You’re regretful for not having found a camera earlier, or having not thought of looking for one to begin with. Who knows how many you might have passed and simply not noticed while on your journey?

This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

Another clamber of noise comes from the far end of the hallway and echoes throughout the whole floor. You unwillingly flinch, then shudder at the thunderous sounds before averting your attention from examining the camera back to the door.

“Cooper?” You call out hesitantly, then stand up and tuck the camera in your pack before slinging it over your shoulder.

There’s no answer except the sharp and uncoordinated shuffling of feet. Your first thought is that he might have found relief from his withdrawal and was high out of his boots trying to get to a somewhat soft surface to slump onto. But he always answers your call, it’s a rule of his, it’s for your safety and he’s done well to teach you in the past that if he doesn’t shout back either a curse or a lewd comment then something must be up.

You quirk your ears and even out your breaths as the steady beat of your pulse starts to quicken.

“Coop?”

For a moment you believe he’s trying to play a prank on you, but that’s not like him. He’s an asshole, not a trickster.

It’s difficult to be silent when the floor is littered with shrapnel, you do your best, avoiding rubble and garbage while you slowly walk to the door. You open it carefully, just enough to slip out of the room and into the hallway where nothing awaits you.

The setting sun is cascading through the broken windows on the left wall, it basks everything in a reddish pink. It’s cold, and the wind wafting through the cracked glass makes the skin on your arms erupt in goosebumps. You step around the shards on the floor, cringing at the constant crinkling under your feet. It’s just not possible to stealth with this much rubble.

The ruckus is coming from behind one of the doors, a beat-up slab of wood that used to be painted green until the color both faded and chipped away.

“Cooper?”

Still no answer.

You worry your bottom lip and give your arms a few rough rubs to fend off the cold and lessen your jitters.

The feint sound of labored breaths reaches your ears and your first instinct is to bolt, but then the image of the ghoul simply having fallen asleep flashes past your eyes and you’re less scared. But he’s never sounded like this before…not even when he’s been so high he forgot you existed that one time.

After swallowing a lump in your throat and willing yourself brave, you reach for the doorknob. It squeaks softly due to years of unuse and you hear stirring beyond the door as if caused by your noisy intrusion. You stick your nose inside slowly, peek at what’s beyond half-expecting to see Cooper sprawled on an old mattress and staring at the ceiling, cozied up in his little world while the drugs lull him to a peaceful snooze.

Maybe you were interrupting and would get an earful for it.

But what lies beyond the door isn’t Cooper.

It’s a fucking feral.

The thing is crouched down, the bones of its spine, protruding and sharp, are poking beneath its torn-up polo. It’s rustling through the debris, looking for something, food you presume, its back is turned to you. Bony, skinless hands and yellowed, broken claws that almost make you wince at the thought that they could tear your flesh as easily as paper. Patches of hair litter the top of its head, you can’t discern the color under so many layers of dirt. It hasn’t noticed you yet, too busy in its mindless mission to sniff out your presence.

You stop breathing altogether, afraid to blink even as you slowly and silently step back outside and try to close the door behind you. However, the door handle betrays you and makes a sharp screech when you let it bounce back in position.

The labored breathing stops and so does your heart.

You turn halfway, about to take off for your life depends on it, but you’re stopped before you can make it to safety or even call out to Cooper. Scuttling, rushed footsteps and menacing growls make your skin crawl because you know now it’s heard you, the thing bursts through the door, nearly knocking it off its hinges. It tackles you before you can put any distance between the two of you.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

You’re thrown off your feed, flying through the air and the breath is knocked out of your lungs as you’re forced onto the floor with an audible gasp.

“Get. Off!” You growl through clenched teeth, eating dust and crushed concrete with every word.

Radioactive drool dribbles out of its mouth and drizzles onto the side of your neck as the feral tries to still your flailing arms. The cacophony of desperate, vicious roars chill you to the bone and make your stomach twist painfully. 

Despite how frail the feral is, its weight and strength keep you flat on your stomach, kicking and struggling desperately as you try to take in a deep breath and call for help. Tears are beginning to gather at the back of your eyes at the thought of what this thing might do to you if you didn’t manage to crawl out of its clutches.

“Cooper!” You manage to shriek in between pants and kick furiously at its knees, forcing it off balance long enough to twist around and clutch at its neck as it lurches forward, trying to sink its teeth into you.

Your free hand is trembling so badly that you barely manage to unclasp the hunting knife strapped to your thigh. The feral succeeds in freeing itself from your grip and nearly bites into your shoulder before you’re repeatedly sinking your blade into its throat, praying that the damage makes it retreat.

But it doesn’t matter much to the ghoul, it’s too deranged and blood-starved to care for any long-lasting injuries when its prey is in its grimy paws. Blood oozes between the hilt and your palm, no doubt radioactive, and makes your weapon slippery and nearly impossible to hold.

Where the hell was the cowboy when you needed him?!

You keep calling out to him in a strained voice, every now and again between struggling grunts and whines of frustration.

The feral doesn’t budge no matter how many stab wounds it receives and that makes your faith that you’ll get out of this alive start dwindling. It snaps its jaws at you like a rabid dog as you clumsily avoid it biting your face off. You’d gag at the sight of it on top of you, from the copious amounts of blood and spit that smelled like cheese running down your wrists, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins had turned your stomach to iron.

Over the symphony of gargling snarls and grunts, you hear footsteps, stomping up stairs and leaping over piles of debris.

Fucking finally.

They’re hastily approaching, becoming louder and you choke out Cooper’s name again to guide him to your location.

“Darlin’?!”

You can’t twist your head to see him, fearing that breaking eye contact with those milky white, clouded orbs bulging above you might just cause your death.

“I’m here! Please!” Your voice echoes through the hallway and you’re ready to cry tears of joy.

Soon enough the feral is being roughly ripped off of you and you recognize the click of a gun before the shot rings in your ears. It falls dead next to you, mercilessly put down, and you lie there for a moment trying to process what had just happened, that you’d been a hair away from being eaten alive.

You’re unceremoniously gathered up in a pair of arms before being dragged into a lap you’re all too familiar with.

“You okay? Did it getchu anywhere?” Cooper is skimming over your neck and arms, looking you up and down while grazing his calloused palms against your skin, feeling for injuries his eyes might have missed. When he sees nothing but a few minor scratches he releases the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding and gives you a sharp glare. “What the hell you doin’ all the way up ‘ere? Ah told you, check the second story, not the fourth.”

“ ‘m sorry.” You mumble out and stuff your face in the safety of his neck, breathing him in as you slowly start to come down from your adrenaline high. Then you wince, finally registering the sharp sting in your palm and you turn your face and press your cheek into the ghoul’s collarbone as you look down to your hand.

Somewhere during your tussle, apparently, the knife had slipped and you’d been too preoccupied to notice. You weren’t holding the handle anymore, you were clutching the blade. It was slowly sinking further into your flesh the longer you held it.

A whistle slips past the cowboy’s pursed lips when he follows your gaze and sees the bloodied blade.

You felt nauseous from just the thought of looking at the damage you’d done to yourself. Instead, you let Cooper gently take the hunting knife away and wrap his fingers around your wrist before lifting your palm closer to his face to inspect.

“Is it bad?”

“Gonna need a few stitches, Baby girl.” He muses and you shiver at his words but keep your protests sealed behind your teeth.

He guides your hand away until your arm is extended to its limit and fetches his flask out of his pouch.

“Gonna sting a lil’, okay?” He soothes and just in case squeezes your wrist so you can’t escape before pouring the alcohol over your open wound.

You hiss, fighting against him weakly as instinct takes over cognitive thinking, but his grip is solemn and you’re left with no choice but to endure. Not soon enough it’s over and the flask is pressed to your lips instead. You take a courageous swig and your face blooms with wrinkles as you cringe at the taste.

“How can you drink this stuff?”

“I don’ judge you f’ bein’ stupid all the time, ‘n you don’ judge me f’ drinking.” He scoffs and gives you a side glance, a smirk is tugging on his lips, the rim of his hat shadowing his eyes dramatically. “How ‘bout it?”

He’s satisfied when you simply nod with an unimpressed expression and tenderly pushes you off his lap before standing and dusting off the back of his thighs. He cracks his back, pushing down on the back of his hips before rolling his wrists in preparation for the load he’s about to pick up.

You watch him from the floor, your poor legs are still shaking too much to support your rise, with your hand limply hanging off one of your knees, a thin trail of blood and whiskey trickling from your fingertips.

“Let’s getcha downstairs. Found an old TV, seemed to be workin’ proper. Woulda been certain if ya didn’t interrupt me by thinkin’ lip lockin’ with a feral was a good idea.” He gathers you in his arms like a small kitten, stuffs you inside his coat, and lets you rest against his shoulder as he slowly begins walking down the corridor and away from the massacre.

“I wasn’t…” You begin, but your self-defense against the slander is shushed harshly so instead you resume staring at the world past the broken windows you’re being carried by.

The sun is still a way from setting fully, you have plenty of time to settle down for the night. You try not to think about the wound you’ll have taped up when you get to the ground floor. Instead, you daydream about the mentioned TV, wondering if there are any movie cassettes you could play, you’d always craved to watch an old-school projection.

Your room back in the vault hadn’t had such luxuries, your father had thought the static might cause you some sort of harm, or maybe there just hadn’t been enough for every living cell.

You bounce gently in Cooper’s arms as he carefully descends the stairs while shouldering one of the walls for extra balance.

Then you see them.

A handful of feral ghouls plastered on the dirty floor, around corners, on the stairs, all of them with a vital stab wound visible somewhere. The cowboy had been silently cleaning them out, always with his knife to not alert more of them. So he’d taken a risk firing his gun for you earlier, he’d been worried enough to decide to hell with it. To wake up a whole horde of these things to save your life was a gamble he was willing to take if it meant you’d come out alive.

You cling to him harder, now less unaware of the potential sacrifice he’d made for you.

When you’re brought to the first floor, you see he’s already pulled up a couch in front of the TV and piled up a few movies he’d been able to scavenge. There’s a few half-full scotch bottles at the foot of the sofa, some empty, two cans of cram seem to have been hastily thrown next to them and his pack of cigarettes lay discarded on one of the cushions.

He sets you there among his treasures and after pulling the needle and thread out of his pack, washes his hands out with a generous amount of alcohol.

The mortified expression you bear makes him snort.

“Don’ worry yer pretty lil’ ass, Sweet Pea.” He coos and it doesn’t suit him in the slightest because he’s not being sincere, he’s simply doing it to keep you from running. “I got plen’ny of experience from sewing myself in the past. Two hundred years of experience, to be exact.”

“That’s what worries me.” It slips past your lips before you can stop it, then wince at the venomous look you’re shot down with.

He’s about to rest a hand on his hip but stops himself when he remembers he’d just disinfected them. Instead, he fetches his lighter and scalds the needle over the flame until it’s molten.

“You wanna die of gangrene, be my guest.”

“No…” You sigh and extend your bleeding palm to him, which he delicately encases with his own. “Please. Help. I’m just scared is all.”

“I know, Darlin’.” He kneels before you and rests your hand on your knee, palm up so he can properly see the damage while you look away in disgust and chew on the inside of your cheek anxiously. “ ‘s gonna be okay. I gotcha.”

When the needle presses into your skin you flinch and nearly jump off the couch, you earn yourself a cuss and the tender hold over your wrist becomes steel-like.

“Stand still!”

You whine in protest and Cooper eases his tone.

“Is gonna hurt, okay?” He says mildly, then cranes his neck, bearing it for you like an offering. “If is too much you just bite down on me as hard as ya can. Don’ worry bout me, yeah?”

“No.” You shake your head frivolously and sniffle back tears. “It’s fine, I’m sorry. Please continue.” Then you pause to think of how to avoid jumping every time the needle touches you and messing up his progress. You swallow thickly and decide to focus on your breathing instead of the pain that is to come. “Just…warn me before you prickle, please. Tap the needle first or something.”

“Sure, ya big wuss.”

And so he begins.

You feel the needle sinking in your skin, bite down hard on your lip at the sensation, and begin to sweat profusely. After that, the alien feeling of the thread pulling your flesh together makes you nearly gag, and it’s not painful or unpleasant, it’s the damned images that your brain keeps coming up with that make you sick.

The ghoul works excruciatingly slow, too caring for the mark the wound will leave, making sure the stitches are tight and secure before continuing. You’ll be forever grateful, but as soon as he’s done, because right now you hate him for it.

And he sees you struggling, fighting to be brave despite your weak nature, he’s not indifferent, not anymore, not after everything. So instead of making fun of you or cussing you still and silent because your whimpers are tearing at him like a Deathclaw, he decides to be soft again, treat you for soldiering another serious injury.

“Y’know…” He hesitates for a second, the memories that surge forward bring with them a drop of melancholy. “I used to be an actor back in the day. Was one of the best.”

You deserve to know more about him after all you’ve done to preserve the small spec of humanity still left in him. It’s a painful thing to recall, it’s damn right agonizing because he sees himself now and he can no longer feel his past self, only remember.

Maybe it’s better if he does not talk about it at all and lets it get buried all over again.

But your whimpers have stopped and you’re looking down at him with so much child-like intrigue and astonishment that he can’t bring himself to stop. The bitter-sweetness is like a drug shot straight into his bloodstream. Your lips are parted, eyes twinkling, and you’ve all but forgotten about the fact that he’s sewing your palm shut. Damn you and your stupid fascination with him, your love that he didn’t ask for, and your tender caresses and affectionate words that he knows have only ever left your lips for him.

“Really?”

“Yep.” He nudges his chin back towards the painted wall behind him. “Das me right there. Used to be a cowboy even then.”

“Wait.” You eye the familiar man painted grandiosely over the plaster, then your breath hitches and you nearly bolt upright. “You’re Cooper Howard? The Cooper Howard?”

Your eyes are zipping between him and the painting and he snorts at the starstruck expression plastered on your face.

“Now don’ get ya pan’nies in a twist.” He scoffs, regrets that he’s shared because he knows what’s coming next. “Was a long, long time ago.”

“You’re my hero!” You exclaim with a wide smile and he cringes. “I’ve read so much about you. I loved the comics. I’m a fan!”

And there it was – the admiration for a man who’s been long dead. Nothing but a husk of his former self, it felt wrong to take any sort of praise for his past. That wasn’t him. Not anymore…

But you’re so ecstatic that he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that, so instead he lets you ramble on his behalf, have your fill of fangirling over him while he finishes up your palm.

“You were such a big shot, I can’t believe it’s actually you! – ”

He’s done so many atrocities, it feels like he killed past Cooper with his bare hands. Now he was just the bloodthirsty bounty hunter who nobody dares cross paths with. Funnily enough on the outside, the only difference was that at present his sidekick, you, was human. Back in the olden days, it used to be a dog. He doesn’t mind the change though, even if you do tend to talk a little bit too much for his liking. Like right now.

“– I read your autobiography as well! –”

Your words salve over his crumpled ego and self-righteousness the more you blabber on. You’ve spent enough time with him to know how he is and his ways and you’re still speaking of him as if he’s the same old Cooper but just on a different career path. It does something to him, seeing you gushing so much.

He keeps stitching, keeps listening to you swoon with a ghost of a smile on his chapped lips.

For once he’s not enraged that someone has found out, it’s not painful. Instead, he’s basking in the delight of your enthusiasm, silent and at peace with himself for the first time in a long while.

“– But now that you mention it, Coop, I do see the resemblance. How didn’t I recognize you sooner… –”

He shivers at the cute little nickname you’ve given him, enjoys it secretly, but berates you for it verbally. It’s nice, it’s cozy, it feels like home.

You feel like home.

“You used to be so handsome…” You gawk and hear him choke.

“The hell’s that s’pposed to mean?” He peeks at you from beneath the rim of his hat, a daring edge to his whiskey eyes. “Ain’t I handsome now?”

You blink at him a few times as if his joke was the stupidest thing that’s ever come out of his mouth. When it becomes awkward and he stops chuckling as you lean in and tilt your head to dodge his hat. Your lips press against his forehead and he feels weightless all over again.

Because why the hell did you have to be so sweet with him? It was just a fucking joke. You didn’t have to make his chest burst into flames like a nuclear reactor.

“I don’t fall in love with ugly men.”

“I’m the only man you’ve fallen in love with, Sweetheart.” He combats weakly, his voice raspy and mild because a touch from you is like a caress from an angel against his ugly skin.

“My point stands.” You hum back.

He wants to slap that self-satisfied smile off your face, but instead, he lowers his eyes obediently and continues his work.

The quiet does wonders for his aching heart as you’re both left to just breathe and focus on your own thoughts. He shakes away your love like it’s a disease, months after your blatant confession he still refuses to believe you, refuses to let himself feel the same.

Why would you love him? How could you after all that he’s done to you?

He’ll never understand, and by your words, he doesn’t need to. He’s done as much good as he has bad. He’s not a villain in your eyes. He’s just a man, the man you fell in love with because he was the only one to show you kindness in this decrepit world.

He thinks you’re delusional and stupid and careless and a fucking bother to be around.

And he loves you too… in his own way. Maybe not the same, maybe not as much, or maybe he doesn’t and he’s lying to himself to make you happy.

But isn’t the need to make you happy a sign of love itself?

“Yer done.” He murmurs and after inspecting your hand one last time, lets it go. “Got anymore gauze we can use ta secure it, my lil’ hoarder?”

“In my backpack, left pocket.” You reply nonchalantly while looking over the stitches. It hurts more now that your eyes are on the wound, feels more tender than when you were looking away, but you don’t mind.

As long as you get to keep your limb in the end, nothing else matters.

Cooper sifts through the mountain of provisions in your bag before his fingers brush over a certain softness and he pulls out the bandages. He wraps them delicately over your wound, then pats your thigh roughly.

“Thank you.” You mewl out and relax back on the couch with a relieved sigh.

Fucking finally the torture was over, now all you had to do was look after it and pray it healed quickly.

“Ye, ye.” He waves you off before setting your bag aside and instead delving through his own. “Found somethin’ that might be of use t’ ya.”

“Yeah?” You perk up at the supposed gift and see him tugging a charcoal gray cloth from the bowels of his pack. When you can’t quite make out what it is you ask. “What is it, though?”

“Think is s’pposed to be a poncho.” The ghoul says, turning it in his hands this way and that to try and figure it out. Ultimately he gives up and tosses it in your lap.

You’re over the moon as usual, having completely forgotten about the pain in your hand within a blink. You hurriedly stand and throw it over yourself, struggling for a bit to find the proper hole for your head.

It’s marvelous! Thick, preserved, you can already feel it’ll keep you warm and the color is just perfect. You’ve no doubt it’ll be covered with all kinds of stains in a week’s notice, but who the hell cares? You’ve got your means to survive the winter and it looks amazing.

“Cooper…” You begin but are sharply cut off.

“Nah.” He spits out, his back turned to you as he fiddles with the TV. “No tears or Imma take it back, ya hear?”

“Yes, sir.” You giggle and stuff yourself back into the couch, chirping happily like a little bird.

The TV comes to life and you nearly cry out in joy. The white static screen illuminates the windowless foyer and you snuggle up in your new poncho as the ghoul casually lists through the cassettes he’s salvaged. He stops at a particular one, freezes completely as his eye bore into it.

You already know the movie he’s holding.

You reach out and lay your good hand against the middle of his back, feel him stiffen even more because he’s been caught.

“Put it on, Coop. I want to see.”

He grumbles to himself but concedes to your wishes and slips the cassette in before slowly standing and slumping onto the couch beside you with a bottle of scotch in his grasp. The movie starts playing, your eyes are glued to the screen and you almost miss the subtle tug on your wrist.

You turn to him, see he’s preparing to lie down, and get the hint. He stretches out on the couch fully, his feet dangling off the opposite end, and you nestle on top of him quietly. Despite your poncho, he still covers both of you with his coat and his smell is pleasantly overwhelming. Between the buzz of the TV and the even sloshes of the alcohol inside its bottle, the pain you’ve had to endure, and the adrenaline rush from earlier, your eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion.

“Feo fuerte y formal…” Cooper mumbles in tune with the movie, you feel it reverberate against your ear and make a meek noise to let him know you’re still listening.

You’re about ready to doze off when the memory of the camera surfaces and you perk up. You reach for your backpack, shuffling inside until you feel its smooth surface and pull it out.

“Look what I found.” You hum and turn in your spot so that now your back is pressed to his chest and the top of your head is rubbing against his cheek.

“Does it work?”

“Yes.” You answer before lifting the camera high enough to encompass the both of you, half-asleep, warm and basked in the white glare of the TV. “Say cheese.”

“Take two.” He says softly and wraps his free arm around your tummy, tugging you even closer.

“Why?” you look up at him in question and see him glance down at you, staring at your pouty lips in particular.

“One f’ me. One f’ you.”

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As per usual, please tell if you'd like to be removed from the tag list, okay? Don't worry about it. <3

Hey, lovelies! It's been a while. I'm sorry I'm sad to say my life is a sitcom and there's always something happening. I just didn't have the mental to write more heavy stuff for a while.

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[ollifree]

Once again these are bite sized. Get it? Because vampires...and werewolves....

Context: Hyun and my Blood Moon self-insert exist in the same play through. Dr Dan doesn't have werewolves to contend with in canon so I'm shoving him in Mahim's alpha verse get along you two. Ash and Alice both need child leashes and should never come within city limits of each other.

Blood Moon and Thicker Than are both written by @barbwritesstuff and the greatest pieces of literature I've had the pleasure to read.

~

"Just a minute, leech."

Hyun only doesn't flinch because they're dead. They meet Minjo's eyes, and she gives a little shrug. Great. Well, it probably is. She looked a lot worse when she thought Hyun was getting decapitated.

"Alpha has a question for you."

"Okay?"

Then, there's a foot on the back of Hyun's chair, tilting them until they're looking up into golden eyes. "I want to know if your kid enjoyed the movie."

~

Eventually, one of Nathan's students approaches the bleachers. "So...what are you?"

The werewolf looks up from her phone. Apparently Dan getting shot point-blank convinced her she doesn't need to keep as close an eye on him as her boss-man--her words--instructed.

She grins at the kid, eyes hazel and teeth all human-teeth-size. "What do you think I am?"

After a bit of shuffling they finally answer, "Well, you're...not a vampire."

"I'm not." She sticks out her hand and the human gives a small flinch. "See? Pulse and everything."

The veins are blue and visible against her pale skin, soon covered by the human's bronze fingers as they give her a feel. Something deep in the recesses of Dan's mind stirs. Werewolf blood....

"So, what can you do?" the human asks.

She reaches down to one of Dan's discarded bottles and gives it a sniff. "Squirrel."

She sets it down and picks up another one. "Raccoon."

Again. "Mmm...mostly rat, some mice."

She stills when she smells the next one. A flicker of gold enters her eyes, and a chill runs down Dan's spine.

"Rabbit," she mutters, tossing the bottle aside.

~

Ash learned soon after moving in with Roe: he loves baking. Loves it. He's good at it, to boot. He's considered more than once sending Alpha Addie a batch of cookies after he finally got the recipe down. Though, the logistics of sending enough for the entire pack through the mail makes him think he should wait for the next clambake.

Speak of the devil, he thinks when his phone vibrates the tone of the pack in the city. His pack a small part of him still thinks.

He opens the text immediately when he sees it's from Ed. Someone's graffiti'd a rabbit on the husk of a burnt-out building, surrounded by the words LONG LIVE THE QUEEN. Ash reads the message Ed sent with it. He reads it again.

what do u mean *vampire turf war*

~

Hyun grits their teeth and steps forward. "You can't stop me from seeing--"

Chris stumbles back. Hyun realizes they haven't grit their teeth: they've bared them. Like they're correcting someone in the Court who thinks fledglings can't bite.

They step back, twice, and feel death steal back over their features. It makes Chris look more scared than when they had their fangs out.

Hyun moves their body into an expression he knows: head to the side, eyes down, like when Hyun caved whenever they argued, when he took everything when they divorced. Hyun's home. Hyun's car. Hyun's son. Hyun's dog. "You're right. I shouldn't see him."

[saratogaroadwrites]

For King and Country (90/122)

For King and Country | saratogaroad rating: T total wordcount:  280,466 characters: Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum, Roland Crane, Aranella, Batu, Tani, Lofty, Leander Aristidies, Bracken Meadows relationships: Roland Crane & Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum, Aranella & Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum, Roland Crane & Aranella, Batu & Tani, Batu & Evan, Tani & Evan, Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum & Lofty, Rolander other tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Mother-Son Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Place Slowly Becomes Home People Slowly Become Family, Found Family, For Want of A Nail warnings: none

Pulled from his world by mysterious powers, former president Roland Crane finds himself caught in the middle of a coup meant to take the life of the young King Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum. Joining forces with Aranella, the pair of them set out to aid Evan in making his dream of a kingdom where everyone can live happily ever after a reality.

But the road to peace is a long and treacherous one and there is no promise of success in a world where darkness spreads ever thicker with each passing day. If they are to stand a chance, they must stand together, for king and for country.

(A retelling.)

=

The castle was quiet as Roland slipped back inside. Night had long since fallen, his stomach grumbling at his having missed dinner due to his trek back through the sewers. Brushing snow off his shoulders and arms as he walked, he made his way back towards his assigned quarters in the northern wing of the castle. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be able to warm up and clean up a little before anybody needed him again.

“Ah, Roland!”

No such luck. Schooling his face into something calm, he turned around to see Vermine waddling his way up the corridor.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” the chancellor said, “You are needed in his Majesty’s study, and—” He paused, looking Roland from top to bottom. His lip curled at all the snow that must have still been clinging to him. Roland hoped he hadn't tracked sewer muck or goo into the carpet, too. “Goodness. You look a fright. Where have you been this evening, hm?”

“Oh, you know,” Roland smiled easily, “Taking a look around town, checking out the sights. I might have gotten a little turned around, that’s all.”

“Yes…” Vermine considered him through narrowed eyes. “You’ve a gift for understatement, it seems. Well,” He clicked his tongue. “No matter. Come—his Majesty has need of you.”

With a nod, Roland silently fell into step behind Vermine. Unease prickled across his skin as they walked, though that may have just been because Tove was growling against his neck. Mausinger’s office was in the south wing, not far from the royal quarters. He had probably taken over the rooms that had once belonged to King Leonhard, Roland thought, and he found himself wondering if anything yet remained of Evan’s biological father.

It would have been nice to take a memento back for the boy.

A knock pulled Roland from his thoughts. They had reached Mausinger’s study, and after the rat-king called for them to enter, the pair slipped inside. Mausinger looked up from his desk and smiled.

“Ah, Roland! Good evening to you. I trust your night has been going well?”

“Nothing to complain about,” Roland said, “His Excellency said you needed to speak with me?”

“Straight to the point as always,” Mausinger said with a nod, “I wished to let you know that Vermine and I will be leaving the city tomorrow. As we are to begin our assault upon Evermore within the next few days, I must consult with Oakenhart before such a thing can occur.”

Next few days? Oh, no. No no no no.

“So soon?” He asked, managing to keep a lid on his panicked kneejerk reaction. “Are you sure everything’s ready?”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be,” Mausinger said, “You have given us valuable information, and if we are to make our date, we must leave as soon as possible.” He contemplated the map spread before him. “It wouldn’t do to be late to such an occasion.”

This was happening now. Dammit. Roland grit his teeth, breathing quietly through his nose before he relaxed his jaw.

“I suppose not. But what does leaving the city have to do with talking to Oakenhart? Why not just call him here?”

Mausinger’s eye twitched. He couldn’t come out and admit that he couldn’t call Oakenhart without a Kingsbond, Roland knew, because to do so would be to admit that he wasn’t the rightful King he called himself. He had to hand it to the rat; he was good at covering up his failings.

“I do not know how Tildrum does it, but the true Rulers of Ding Dong Dell have always communed with Oakenhart in his Cradle. I must go there to speak with him.”

“I see.” Roland crossed his arms over his chest. “Then I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you that there’s a man going around stealing Kingsbonds. It could be dangerous to head out there even with guards.”

"Stealing them?" Vermine snorted. "Such fantasy. The bond between King and Kingmaker is sacred. It cannot be severed any more than a Lover's Knot or bond between Souls."

Roland's grimace was only half an act. "I would believe that, your Excellency, if I hadn't seen Doloran steal three Kingsbond from their ruler's chests." He looked at Mausinger and added, "He'll be after Oakenhart's bond next. I can’t say it’s the safest idea to go out there."

“Perhaps not,” Mausinger hummed quietly. “I shall add an additional squad of guards to the retinue then. Tell me,” He looked to Roland, “How does such a theft occur?”

“Through the use of some sort of magic,” Roland said, “I’m a little sketchy on those details. But I do know that the ruler in question has to be found wanting in some way or another first.”

“Nonsense!" Vermine exclaimed. Roland kept watching as the concern in Mausinger's eyes faded away while his right hand spoke, "The bond between Oakenhart and his Majesty is the strongest any Dellian ruler has had in generations! Stronger than even King Leonhard!"

"Now now, Vermine," Mausinger soothed with a proud smile, "I am certain that Roland was simply concerned. To see such a thing three times…well,” He chuckled, “One must wonder how much power it is that Tildrum truly seeks if he was willing to allow such a thing to happen three times!”

Anger rushed hotly through Roland’s veins. This despot had no right to talk about Evan like that. Wishing he could wipe that smug smirk off of his face, Roland settled for the barest hint of a nod.

“I suppose you’re right.” He said, “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

Mausinger hummed pensively. “Well, we will leave tomorrow morning. It is perhaps just under a day’s travel to the Cradle, so that will account for tomorrow. Time to speak with Oakenhart and the journey back…” He inclined his head. “Two days. Perhaps three, if the weather is unfavorable.”

“Why do you ask?” Vermine tilted his head. “Surely you are not that concerned?”

“No, I’m sure you can handle yourselves. I was just wondering if you two would like me to do anything in your absence.” Roland smiled politely, already spinning plans in his mind. This would be his best chance. “Besides keep planning the assault on Evermore, I mean.”

“Well, Grimm has been a bit out of sorts lately,” Vermine said, “See to him and see if there is anything he needs. Oh, and tell Guardmaster Buck to station extra patrols on the eastern wall.” He pulled a horrid face. “We’ve seen signs of those blasted pirates running amuck. Wouldn’t do to let them get lucky.”

A wave of fondness for Batu’s rough-shod men and women turned Roland's polite smile a hair or two more genuine. He bowed his head in a nod.

“Of course. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get right on that.”

“Diligent as ever,” Mausinger said. “Very well, you are dismissed. Have a pleasant night, Roland.”

“Safe travels, your Majesty, your Excellence.”

Quickly slipping out of the room, Roland shut the door behind him. He waited until he was halfway down the hall before he finally let the curse slip between his teeth. Of all the rotten luck! Things were moving too quickly. He needed to get the Mark as soon as he could, but if he went for it now he knew he’d be trapped.

He would have to wait until Mausinger and Vermine were out of the castle, and that meant playing along for just a little while longer.

So much for things going according to plan. At least Grimm was easy enough to find; a tall, broad-shouldered mouse, he was one of Mausinger’s handful of Generals. Roland had nearly mistaken him for the Black Knight the first time they had crossed paths, but Grimm was no monster. He was well skilled, and paused in his sword form in the indoor training arena as Roland walked up to him.

“Good evening, Master Roland,” He said, “Care to join me?”

“Maybe next time,” Roland said, “But I am here to talk to you. Chancellor Vermine said you’ve been out of sorts lately.” He tilted his head as Grimm grimaced and looked away. “Is everything alright?”

“Well enough, I suppose. I have just been…thinking, lately. Perhaps a bit too much, but.” He stopped himself and looked up. “Actually…would you be willing to help me with something?”

“Depends on what it is.” Roland crossed his arms over his chest, subtly moving towards his arms band. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, though maybe that was just the cold getting to him. “Could you explain?”

“What—oh, of course.” Grimm sheathed his sword and turned around. His red-brown eyes were dark, saddened and tired. “You see, I have been searching for someone for several months now, and it sort of ties back in to when you and the Prince made your escape. Miss Aranella took you through the old sewer exit, yes?”

“That’s right.” Roland said. Was this going where he thought it was going? “I’ll take it not everyone made it back out after we left.”

“I’m afraid not,” Grimm confirmed grimly. “The last time anyone saw the Black Knight was when he was sent after the two of you. We couldn’t find him afterwards, and since you’re the only one here I can ask…” He spread his hands helplessly. “You see my predicament, I’m sure.”

Oh, he saw it alright. He’d seen the Black Knight topple clean over the edge and straight down into the abyss. He’d seen the Darkness do some pretty impressive stuff since then, but could it have helped such a creature survive that kind of fall? He doubted it. Roland grimaced.

“Grimm, a lot of things happened down there. The Black Knight, he…”

“I know his odds are pretty terrible, Master Roland,” Grimm nodded, “But he was my friend, and I need to be sure. I know it’s a lot to ask, but…”

“But you need the closure.” Roland sighed. He knew that feeling all too well. He didn’t want to go back down there until he had to, and chasing after the Black Knight’s ghost felt like a recipe for disaster, but… “Alright. The last place I saw him was near the Hills exit. It’s about a half day’s walk east of here.”

“I know the place.” Grimm said. His fingers tapped the hilt of his sword as he nodded. “We’ll leave after breakfast. Dress warmly—well.” He eyed Roland’s coat. A smile flickered across his muzzle. “I suppose you have that matter well in hand.”

Roland couldn’t help but laugh. It was the one thing he had in hand!

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He took a breath. "Tomorrow, then. We'll see if there's anything we can find down there."

Gods, he hoped they lived to regret this.

[thetravelerwrites]

Rupert and Sanoh (Lemon)

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Female Kobold/Male Human, Female Half-Elf/Male Tielfling Additional Tags: Exophilia, Tiefling, Elf, D&D, Dungeons & Dragons, Kobold, Half-Elf Content Warning: Sex, Rough Sex, Biting, Marking, Group Sex, Dom/Sub, Breath Play Words: 3349

A story with DuMont’s friends, Rupert and Sanoh! Rupert and Sanoh are having sexy fun in a bath when Kharis and DuMont enter the room. Not willing to stop, they try to be stealthy. It doesn't work. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler’s Masterlist

“Why do wererats always have to live in sewers?” Kharis grumped. “Every time we get contracted to kill rodents of any kind, I just know we’re going to have to go somewhere gross.”

Kharis, DuMont, Rupert, Sanoh, and Norman all pulled themselves out of the sewers of one of the larger towns west of the capitol. People had been going missing, and the mayor of the town realized that the rats in town were multiplying at an incredible rate, even with preventative measures. It was a clear indication that wererats were responsible.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Sanoh said. “The humidity down there was good for my scales. They’re so itchy.”

“It may have been good for your scales, but it definitely wasn’t good for your clothes,” Kharis remarked. “That stink isn’t coming out. You might as well burn that shit.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Sanoh said with a sigh. Her dancer’s outfit, which she always wore regardless of the situation, was torn and it’s bright red hue was now dark brown. “I really liked this one, too.”

Rupert seemed even more miserable that Kharis. “Can we please find a bathhouse? I haven’t been this filthy in years.”

“You’re one to talk, look at poor DuMont!” Kharis said, pointing at her giant lover. DuMont, the mountain of a tiefling that he was, was splattered head to toe in muck and grime and rat guts. His large church-bell bludgeon that he had slung over his shoulder was absolutely caked in blood and gore. “He’s not even complaining!”

“That’s because he doesn’t know how to complain,” Sanoh said. “He takes the phrase ‘roll with the punches’ far too literally.”

“Is that wrong?” DuMont asked, his cavernously deep voice echoing through the city streets, causing many who weren’t already staring at the group to spin in surprise.

“Of course not, love,” Kharis said, patting his arm as he walked on all fours. “I much prefer silent temperance to someone who does nothing but complain.” She looked pointedly at Rupert.

“Norman complains more than I do!” Rupert retorted.

“I haven’t said a word!” Norman protested. “Don’t pick on me because you’re a whiner.”

“Oh, my god, everyone shut up!” Sanoh said, rubbing her forehead. “There’s a bathhouse one block over, so will you all just please stop bitching.”

“I’m not bitching,” DuMont said in an undertone. “But I am hungry.”

“I’ll order you a rack of lamb and a sack of potatoes when we get to the inn, hon,” Kharis said. “Get cleaned up first. You don’t want to eat when you’re that dirty or you’ll get sick.”

“I’ve never been sick.” DuMont countered.

“Even still, you should be clean…er. And I don’t want you to drop pieces of food in the bath, either. It’ll feel like we’re all sitting in a stew.”

“You weirdos can sit in the stew, I’m getting a private bath,” Norman said.

“Why do you do that?” Rupert asked. “You always get your own instead of bathing with us, even though private baths are so much more expensive. It’s no wonder why you never have any money.”

“I’m not trying to get head by a paid companion in front of you lot,” He said sniffily.

“Suit yourself, but I bet that’d be fun to watch,” Kharis said playfully.

Norman snorted. “You would think that, you pervert.”

“You’ve become so shy since we started traveling, Norman,” Kharis said. “You used to be a nice, relatable pervert, just like the rest of us.”

“Maybe being with you people has made me see the error in my ways,” Norman remarked.

“Pssh, there isn’t anything wrong with being a pervert. Besides, I think DuMont balances me out. He can be such a prude sometimes.”

“I imagine being raised by a priest in a church will have that effect on a person,” Sanoh said.

“You are a pervert, Kharis,” DuMont said, as if in agreement with Norman.

“Does me being a pervert bother you?” Kharis asked him, grinning.

He looked at her and cocked his head as he walked, considering her, looking like a massively oversized dog, as he always did when thinking.

“No,” He said eventually.

“See? He likes it.”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” He said. His face wasn’t built to smile, but Rupert thought he could hear laughter in his voice, and Rupert grinned.

“We would be the ones to pick brazen, sex-crazed women, wouldn’t be, big guy?” Rupert said, smacking DuMont’s broad shoulder in solidarity.

DuMont grunted in a way that could have been mistaken for a chuckle.

DuMont had been very taciturn since they had met him nearly a year ago, but his personality was slowly beginning to emerge as the five of them spent more time together on the road, doing jobs. Rupert was glad he finally felt comfortable enough with the group to try joking with them.

The bathhouse came into view shortly afterward. It catered to adventuring sorts, so it wasn’t necessarily a high-end place, and the five of them tended to frequent it often. The staff there barely batted an eye at DuMont anymore. The laundresses despised the sight of them, however, since they always arrived splattered with all manner of filth, much of which was hard to wash out.

“Hey, can we get the big tub, please?” Sanoh called out as soon as they entered the place. “We’ll pay extra to reserve the whole thing, though I doubt many people will want to come in after us.”

The woman at the front desk curled up her lip at them as they entered, but said, “Yes, of course. You’re usual packages?”

“Yes,” Norman said. “Private room for me, please. Do you have any companions available?”

“Derek is available.”

“Ugh, no, not him. What about Vincent?”

“Vincent is away visiting family. Connor?”

Norman nodded. “Connor will do. Just make sure he brings the right massage oils this time.”

“That costs extra,” The woman reminded him.

“I’m aware,” Normal said, starting toward the private baths.

“I’m beginning to think Norman is too fancy for us,” Sanoh said. “We can’t afford him.” She walked up to the counter. “Do you have any scale oil?”

“We don’t have any specifically for scales, but there are plenty for skin and hair.”

“Hmm…” Sanoh said. “Give me the hair oil, then. It tends to be thicker. What scents have you got?”

Kharis snorted. “Come on, let’s get these clothes off before they stick to us. She may be at this for a while.”

Dumont and Rupert followed her to one of the larger public baths, one with a door, and closed it behind them. Now that they had been together for a long time, they were less shy about bathing together as they had been. Even DuMont had stopped blushing when he saw them all nude in the same bath.

“Kharis, I’m hungry,” DuMont said insistently. The only time DuMont ever seemed to get grumpy was when he needed a meal.

“Let me at least scrub you down once and we’ll go get some food,” She told him, pushing him into the bath still wearing his loincloth. The robes and towels weren’t nearly large enough to cover him, so they just had taken to washing him in the bath, clothes and all. They usually did him first, drained the bath, and refilled it for the rest of them.

Once Rupert helped Kharis give DuMont a once over, getting him clean enough to go into the tavern, they left to get something to eat and Rupert and Sanoh waited for the tub to be refilled. When that was done, the fresh water was nice and hot, and Sanoh arrived with her purchased oils. They both stripped down and got in with a satisfied sigh.

“Oh, gods, this is nice,” Sanoh said.

“Mmm,” Rupert agreed. “I think this is the first time in a month that my shoulders have relaxed.”

“My scales were starting to get so brittle. Will you get my scale brush and scrub the oils into my back? I can feel them flaking.”

“Sure, just a second,” He said, getting out with a splash and grabbing her back. She had a special boars-hair brush she used to clean and sharpen her scales and horns. Her favorite thing in the world was laying out and letting him groom her tiny body all over. It often got her in a frisky mood.

Sure enough, after only scrubbing her back for fifteen minutes, she started to wiggle in his lap, rutting her hips backward into him. He began to harden immediately. Sanoh seemed to revel in getting him aroused in dangerously public places, but it always caused Rupert anxiety.

“What are you doing?” Rupert said. “Kharis and DuMont will be back any minute.”

“Then let’s be quick,” She said, looking back at him over her shoulder.

She lifted up in the water and slowly sank her swollen lips down onto him. He gripped her hips and groaned, his head falling back, trying to keep his voice down. There really was no arguing when she was in a mood like this. He began to thrust up into her, sloshing the water around them.

She laughed breathlessly. “Good boy.” She thrust back into him as he moved inside her. Before long, he picked her up and lay her over the side of the bath, slamming himself into her hard enough to make her thighs ripple. She began to moan loudly.

“Shh!” He hissed. “You’re going to get us thrown out.”

“But it feels so good,” She whimpered. “Norman has sex in the baths all the time, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t make me gag you,” He said, panting.

“You can try,” She said, laughing, before crying out against the tile. He put his hand over her mouth, but she bit him. He let go, inspecting his hand, and when he found she hadn’t broken the skin, he instead grabbed her throat, squeezing.

“Oh, fuck,” She wheezed, her eyes going glassy. As bossy as she was, she loved it when he was rough and took charge.

“Shut up!” He snarled in her ear. “You started it. Be quiet and take it.”

“I will,” She simpered, and he squeezed harder.

“I said, shut up!” He slammed hard into her, and she squeaked against his grip on her neck, her body trembling in excitement. She came suddenly, gushing down her legs, but he didn’t relent, crushing his body against hers, breathing down her neck and spine, moving at a frenzied pace.

“Fuck, I’m going to cum,” He said through his gritted teeth. “Stand still, don’t fucking move.”

Before he got the chance, however, he heard the far door open and Kharis’s voice drift through.

“Shit!” He exclaimed, pulling out suddenly and ducking under the water to hide himself. His cock was throbbing with the unfulfilled promise of climax, but there was little he could do about it now. He was just going to have to sit there and suffer in silence.

Until Sanoh sat back down onto him, spearing him inside her, her inner walls still quivering from the orgasm.

“Now what are you doing?!” He asked frantically.

“Just act natural,” She replied in an undertone.

“They’re going to know!”

“Not if you don’t make a big deal about it! Lay your head back and pretend you’re sleeping!

“Sanoh!”

“Just do it!”

Rupert lay his head back against the tile on the edge of the bath with Sanoh in his lap just as Kharis and DuMont re-entered the bathing area, stripping down to join them.

“Well, DuMont cleaned out the tavern, so if you want food, you’re going to have to find a vendor somewhere,” Kharis said.

“Not surprising,” Sanoh said, stealthily riding Rupert’s cock under the water, pretending to be washing her arms to cover the movement.

“What’s with him?” Kharis asked, nodding at Rupert.

“He conked out almost immediately after you left. I’m just keeping his lap warm,” She said smoothly.

Kharis snorted and said, “I wish I could fall asleep as easily as he can. DuMont’s like that too,” She reclined on the large red tiefling. “He can fall asleep mid-sentence.”

“A gift and a curse,” Sanoh said in agreement. She squeezed Rupert’s length with her inner muscles, and it took all his effort not to grunt or move. He dug his fingers into the skin of her hips as a warning. Sanoh snorted. She moved under the pretense of adjusting herself and nearly made Rupert jump out of his skin with how deep she’d push him into her. He couldn’t help but make a small sound.

Kharis noticed. “What are you doing?” She asked Sanoh, her eyes narrowing.

“What are you talking about?” Sanoh asked innocently.

Kharis gave Sanoh a sardonic look. “You don’t have to pretend to be asleep anymore, Rupert, I know what’s going on. I’m a pervert, after all.”

Rupert sighed and lifted his head. “The jig is up, I guess. Sanoh, hop off.”

“I didn’t say you had to stop,” Kharis said. “Far be it from me to interrupt your fun.”

“What about DuMont?” Rupert asked skeptically.

“What about him?” Kharis replied, reaching over in the water and placing her hand in DuMont’s lap.

“Wha…” DuMont said, startled. “What are you doing?”

“Having fun,” Kharis said. “Don’t you want to have fun?”

“But…” He looked at Sanoh and Rupert.

“They’re already having fun,” Kharis said. “They started before us.”

“They are?” DuMont asked in surprise, squinting at the pair.

As if to answer, Sanoh let Rupert’s organ fall out of her and spun in Rupert’s lap. Now that she didn’t have to worry about stealthing, she rocked on him and moaned.

“Oh,” DuMont replied, and then sucked in his breath when Kharis squeezed him.

“Are you okay with this, buddy?” Rupert asked over Sanoh’s shoulder, though he was beginning to lose speech. “We’ll stop if you aren’t comfortable with it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sanoh said with a snort.

“We’ll stop if you aren’t comfortable, DuMont,” Rupert repeated, giving Sanoh a warning look. Sanoh rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“I’m fine, it’s okay,” DuMont replied, playing with Kharis’s hair and she fondled him under the water.

“See? He’s fine, don’t be such a baby,” Sanoh said, pushing him into her deeper. He grunted and stopped speaking.

Kharis held her breath and ducked her head under water, and DuMont tensed and groaned, his hands balling into fists on the side of the tub. From then on, there was little talk, just moans, grunts, groans, and breathy whimpering.

Kharis came up and went to the edge of the bath, bending over and presenting her rear. DuMont followed her and knelt down, pressing his cock into her and thrusting in hard, pushing her forward and down onto the tile. She laughed breathlessly.

“That looks like fun,” Sanoh said, going over to bend over next to Kharis, wiggling her butt at Rupert and moving her tail out of the way, so he could see her dripping between her legs. Rupert followed DuMont and rammed back into her, thrusting fast and hard.

“Wanna see something really fun?” Sanoh said to Kharis. Kharis nodded, and Sanoh leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

The reaction was instantaneous. Rupert grabbed Sanoh by the throat again and pulled her up against his body.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, his voice hard and angry. He sped up, fucking her roughly as he held her in place. “You belong to me. Don’t you dare do that again without my permission.”

Sanoh’s face went slack and she nodded, whimpering, completely at his mercy.

DuMont’s reaction was also immediate. He grabbed Kharis up and vaulted out of the bath, throwing her to the floor. He pinned down her arms and legs and put his face inches from hers. He didn’t say anything, but a low, guttural snarl issued from his throat, his brows furrowed as he stared at her with the intensity of a predator looking at prey.

“What’s the matter, big guy?” She said with a grin. “Are you jealous?”

“Mine,” He growled lowly, almost indistinguishable from the threatening, thunderous rumble of his voice.

“Prove it,” She challenged.

He opened his mouth and sank his front canine teeth into her shoulder, drawing blood. He thrust himself back into her without letting go, his jaws locked, and he lifted her off the ground and just railed her.

There was no hope of keeping their voices down now. If they got kicked out, they got kicked out. Sanoh and Kharis screamed, shouted, howled, and swore in pleasure as their lovers used their bodies to climax.

At some point, there was a knock on the door.

“Is everything okay?”

“Go away!” Sanoh and Kharis shouted in unison.

Kharis and Sanoh came several times before the boys were done with them. While Kharis had as much stamina as DuMont did and was just as active, at some point Sanoh’s legs gave out and she simply lay there on the floor in a perpetual orgasm trance as Rupert pumped her full of his warmth and kept going like a machine, finally collapsing on top of her, breathing as if he’d run five miles in a minute.

DuMont was the last to reach his peak, gushing into Kharis, his seed pooching her stomach and dripping out of her, down his legs, and splattering onto the floor. For a solid minute, the room was quiet, safe for a lot of heavy breathing.

Finally, as they all caught their breath, the re-entered the bath to wash each other.

“Kharis, you’re bleeding,” Sanoh said, pointing. There was a very large bite in her shoulder, and it was rather deep.

“Oh,” DuMont said, flustered by worry. “I… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, big guy,” She reassured him. “I wanted you to do it. It’s proof.”

“Proof?” He echoed, his brow furrowed.

“That I belong to you,” She said simply. “Help me wash it.”

As rough as DuMont had been, his gentleness in tending the wound was a mirror opposite. Rupert and Sanoh sat cuddled together and watched fondly as DuMont lovingly treated and bandaged Kharis’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, DuMont,” Rupert said. “Sanoh marked me, too.” He turned and showed DuMont a bite on his left shoulder blade. “And Sanoh’s bites can be venomous. I was sick for a week.”

“I said I was sorry,” She said reproachfully. “It was the heat of the moment, I couldn’t help it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He said, hugging her in close and kissing her forehead.

“Does it hurt?” DuMont asked Kharis.

“Not really,” She said. “I’m sure it will tomorrow when the sex high has worn off, but I feel great right now. And it’ll scar up nicely, I think.”

“I’m sorry!” DuMont said, hiding his face.

“Honey, it’s okay!” She said, pulling his hands down. “I like it! It lets everyone who sees it know that I’m yours. Don’t you want people to know that you and I are in love?”

“Well… yes…” He said, frowning.

“There, see? It’s all fine.” She went up and hugged his neck. “Don’t fuss so much. I’m fine.”

He pulled her back and fixed her with a glare. “No kissing other people.”

She grinned at him. “I won’t, I promise. It was just an experiment.” She winked at Sanoh, who stuck her tongue between her teeth as she smirked. “And I’d say it was successful.”

DuMont grumbled. “I didn’t like it.”

She patted his face and kissed his exposed jaw. “I won’t do it again.”

“Okay,” He said, seemingly satisfied, and he pulled her into an embrace, careful of her shoulder.

The wound healed up really quickly, and Kharis took to wearing asymmetrical shirts, so that she could show it off. Most assumed that it was a grievous injury from a wild beast, and Kharis would laugh and say that was partly right.

Sanoh and Rupert didn’t engage in sex around the two of them again, but it was definitely something they kept in the back of their mind. For a rainy day, maybe.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience!To help me continue creating, please consider buying me a Kofi, becoming a Patron, or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[inscuciant]

*    †    [  karl urban ,  he/him  +  cis male  ]  :  is  that  walter weber  wandering  around  ?  under  these  neon  lights  i  swore  they  looked  like  a  saint,  but  in  actuality  they  are  an  owner of hotel 677.  the ageless / fifty year old  is  known  to  be  obstinate  and  self-centered,  albeit  crafty and  intuitive.  after  spending  five years  in  sin  city,  their  favourite  song  to  hum  is  setting sun  by  lord huron,  though  people  often  associate  them  with  don’t shoot the messanger or the sender or anyone — just don’t shoot, coffee stains on a splintered / warped coffin, world’s worst whodunnit nominee.  

— STATS .

sexuality & status: biromantic / demisexual & single 4ever

hobbies: minding his own fucking business, long rambunctious naps ( his snoring’s been mistaken as the pipes settling on more than one occasion )

pets: closest he’s ever gotten to one is this one mangy rat at motel 677 — considers it an acquaintance for all the times it’s scared off prissy customers

relatives: everyone bit the dust — one bit him literally ( younger sister, kid was a biter growing up and not a saint )

— ‘DOSSIER’ .

for as loud and crass as someone like walter webber is, there isn’t a lot known about the man. nothing of actual importance, that is. he’s one to keep his nose firmly out of anyone’s business and ( foolishly ) expects everyone to do the same unto him. spoiler alert: it never works out — either someone drags him into some unneeded knowledge or tries to nose their way into his. 

walter’s no stranger vegas prior his ‘permanent’ residence, even if he’s always hated the place. everything reeks of bullshit and the million neon lights always pummeled him with migraines. and yet, he’s here. been here for five years and counting. 

strange, isn’t it? 

how such a flighty, belligerently insensitive brute like him hasn’t upped and left just yet. then again, it’s kind of fitting that he resides in a business that matches his visage perfectly. peeling wallpaper in almost every room, singed burnt orange carpet in the eyesore of a lobby, no — the curtains don’t match any of the drapes ( there’s an uneven number of them, some are even missing a panel ). 

unkempt, eerily ambianced, barely functionable. 

perhaps that’s why his friend had him inherit the damn place ( against ‘his will’ )... oops, sorry — that’s too much information seeing the light of day. All you need to know is that any serious complains ( aka all of them ) should go up to the big boss of the rundown motel — which totally isn’t him, and don’t try to clean up any.. messes made. You’ll probably just make the staining worse.

— ACTUAL DOSSIER .

walter webber hails from a piss poor family of four nestled in the dirt rich countryside. mother and father never saw eye to eye on anything, even when death came tolling for their ticket in life. his younger sister, quite the maverick she was, hardly cared for the happenings on home turf. she barely stayed put until some grand adventure called her away. now, you might be wondering how in the world walter let her go so early. wasn’t he worried about her safety? the world’s a harsh place and he’s already had his fair share of horrible treatment by her birth. and the answer is, yes, of course he was worried sick about her departure, but there was literally nothing he could do about it. well, except chase trails gone cold over and over and over again until they all... stopped for good.

family aside, he’s always been hard-headed with even thicker skin. not once did he have a goal in life other than to survive it. death would come for him whenever it’s time — he made peace with that fact early on ( perhaps concerningly so ). except.. one particular asshole made it his life’s mission to fuck the only constant in walter’s miserable life. 

.. and so the story about how walter strayed from mortality unfurls.. it’s dumb. stupid, really, because people usually regard immortality as something gained for power, wealth, or even love. but walter? yeah, no, he’s always seen it as a hoax. and even if it wasn’t just fairytale, he wanted nothing to do with it. the idea of living forever sounded like the shittiest win at an even shittier lottery.  so imagine his hate-filled surprise when his nemesis ( full on most loathed person to ever exist in his life ) comes by this nifty ‘gift’. now quadruple that rage when that rat bastard bites and changes him solely to riff and neg walter for eternity. what kind of idiotic reasoning was that?

to make matters even worse ( yes, it’s always possible ), that shithead was still green to the whole saint thing. so the two of them had to figure it out together; something walter clearly despised with every single fiber of his being. how they didn’t kill each other remains a mystery, but that fucker’s still out there and walter’s done everything to hide away time and time again — aka the main reason for his location hopping. 

then, as luck would have it, the only friend he’s ever really had ( he still uses that term very loosely ) dies out of the blue and leaves his name on the motel’s deed. him, of all people. him. he had half the mind to just close the business from the get-go. never wanted to be boss of anything — let alone some barely maintained motel off of some shitty highway. but some odd sense of comfort, of — dare he say it — home finds its way into his dead heart. pictures of him and his friend stay up in the one room he occupies at the end of the establishment ( always heavily locked — no one’s allowed in ). regulars ( the bad and the worse ) start to.. grow on him even if the majority get on his last damn nerve. 

and so, he’s come to an agreement with things. where he is in life, who he’s ( barely ) around, how long he’s been ‘settled down’... for now. 

— CONNECTIONS .

TENants because there’s only 10 rooms (0/?) — made the choice to shack up  at motel 677? well, there’s 100% chance you’ve come by walter. either it’s at the front desk ( while asleep ), swearing up a storm as a room’s being changed out, giving that one shitty vending machine situated outside a piece of his mind, etc. he acts as the overworked manager of the shitty joint — just a voice for the mysterious boss of the place, he swears it.

the ones that won’t go away ( 1/? ) — reasons be damned, walter does not like to keep close tabs on people nor does he like people to think or involve him in anything. so whether it’s an attempt to recruit him into the saints organization, do one solid favor about the dead body bodies in room 1, 3, 5, or 7 ( it’s always the odd numbers for some reason ), or just to befriend him ( can’t fathom why )... walter will always shoot down each and every chance. even if there’s a select few that he might have grown ‘fond’ over.

crime, shcrime ( 1/? ) — been there, done that.. one too many times over his exhaustively extensive life. crime’s boring and so not worth the trouble. he knows he’s value in the sense of finding things that should never be found, but please — leave him out of the illegal shenanigans. 

romance should be dead ( 0/1 ) — as a self-proclaimed miser, walter’s always wanted to be left the fuck alone. but maybe someone wows him. really throws a hook, line, and sinker over the years somehow. no, this doesn’t mean he’ll change for the better or worse. but maybe.. he’ll make up for it in his own way after being an incredible asshole. maybe. 

i’ll add more whenever i think of them!

[nukyster-blog]

Changing course chapter 15) Revenge is Best Served in a Silver Bowl

.-.-.

Ivar’s restricted life inside the castle walls caused him to lose grip on time. His arrival had been in late summer, but the endless routine of waking, working and sleeping all seemed to morph into one infinite cycle. 

In Kattegat, autumn always dressed herself in the most vibrant hues, her beauty always as surprising as it was bold. Leaves would scatter the woodlands, roam the streets and bless their city with her splendour. Ivar thought back with fondness at how the autumn flooring would crisp and dance underneath his hands. Autumn’s colors would be a red-flag, a warning for winter nearing, but her beauty was always breathtaking. 

In castle de Haar, autumn’s only sign was her coldness; and the deterioration of fresh and nutritious food. Of course Ivar’s lower range would be the first to suffer; as always the richest stayed fat and warm, due to the hard work and suffering of the common folk. 

Besides the cold, there was another change in the atmosphere. Ivar hadn’t been able to place his finger on it, but something was happening inside the castle. In the courtyard, the linen maidens would whisper more cautiously and subdued, the beehive of peasants running amok seemed to have doubled. The Giant’s short fuse had vanished completely and the brute could explode for no reason, making everyone lower in rank, tiptoe on eggshells. 

Piglet knew what was going on and it affected her greatly. She’d skitter over the courtyard like a frightened doe, dark eyes always hastily scanning the crowd. No longer did she allow herself a nap during the Sunday service, in fact, Ivar wondered if the maiden even slept at all. 

On a few occasions, Ivar tried to ask Piglet about her obvious dread, but lacked the proper words. She would meet his stutters with a dull look on her face and stiffened lips, playing the simpleton again. It bothered Ivar, boiled up his frustrations, because he knew she knew that he was trying to be civil by showing her some form of consideration. Instead of being grateful for his efforts, she ignored him, no even worse, made him feel like a fool. 

So after a few attempts, Ivar grew tired and figured out that the source of everyone’s dread would soon reveal itself. 

It did, actually he did. The only fruit from the loins of the Master of de Haar. Their royal blooded son came back home for the winter. 

Of course, this all passed over Ivar’s head, his world was no bigger than the shed, the pigsty and the well. He had missed the arrival of his master's son, but was aware of the major chaos erupting within his small world. 

All of a sudden, his main tasks were swept aside, quite literally. The Giant slapped the bucket out of his hands and before Ivar knew what was happening, his dim world enlarged. Dragged through the side gate, up a few stone steps, kicked through a narrow hall, he was eventually shoved into a chamber; the castle’s kitchen. 

The place was a beehive, maids and servants squirmed around like rats, all dead-set upon fulfilling their duty and tasks. Grease splattered pots and pans were taken and set onto stained counters. Utensils and dried herbs were stored on hooks that hung upon the walls, rows of matching cups lined perfectly on wooden shelves. Unwashed dishes were stacked up high in the corner; where the mice were having a field day. An ancient kettle boiled above a bright fire, filling the room with the mouth-watering smell of pottage stew. 

The Giant smacked Ivar across the face to get his attention. The brute pointed at an imposing bag bursting with potatoes and then got down to his knees in order to chain Ivar to the wall. For a few minutes, Ivar was left unattended and he used that little time to take in his new surroundings. 

Two maidens ruled the kitchens. Ivar named them Big Cunt and Little Cut, because both women had nasty mean streaks. Although Big Cunt was the tallest of the two, it was Little Cunt who was the dominator, as there could not be two captains on a ship.  

Big Cunt was Ivar’s age, a few years older perhaps and a burden on the eye. Her thin petulant face was forced into an ever growing frown which matched well with her whiny voice.

Little Cunt ruled her kitchen with a scepter. Every mistake made by servants, would be punished with a harsh whack of her wooden walking stick. Don’t let her bony arthritic hands fool you, despite her old age, she could hit like a grown man. And with every excuse, her face would prune up like an over ripe apple, bitter and sour. 

For now, both women weren't paying much attention to Ivar, there was enough chaos in the beehive and apparently a lot at stake. 

Through the mass of people, Piglet suddenly stepped into view and took her place next to him, giving him a sympathetic smile before giving him an even greater gift. 

A knife, the foolish girl handed him a knife. It was snapped at the tip, but the rest was sharp. Deadly. After receiving the weapon, Ivar turned into stone, for he could not believe his eyes and Piglet’s stupidity. The girl hummed and started peeling potatoes, oblivious to the natural born killer next to her. Ivar’s eyes focussed on her throat, watching how the young woman’s heartbeat jittered right underneath the skin of her neck. 

If he was to plunge the knife in Piglet’s throat, she’d bleed out within a couple heartbeats. It would make him feel good, there was no denying of that. Since Ivar could not please a woman, he’d fixated his pleasure onto something else; bloodlust. 

Drawing someone’s blood; his pain escaped through theirs. Seeping from their wounds, his rage fled within their hollow screams. In their agony, he’d find his salvation, meeting their pain, it temporarily freed him from the bonds of his useless body. 

Ivar studied Piglet with a predator’s unwavering attention while he held the knife tightly in his fist. It took Piglet four potatoes in to notice Ivar’s cold dead-pan stare and she yelped softly. 

“Ivar?!” She resolutely dropped all her work and clasped her hand over his; bloody and sticky. For a moment, Ivar neither believed his eyes nor mind. Had he wounded someone?

It took him a moment longer to connect the dots, that yes, he’d wounded someone and that someone was himself. As he had clutched the knife, the sharp edge had embedded into his palm.

The possible murder weapon fell onto the floor as a hiss escaped his mouth and Ivar stared at his hand. The crimson fluid ran down his wrist, as a small pool had formed in the palm of his hand. 

“Ivar dumb-dumb,” Piglet sighed shaking her head and dragging his hand slightly to get a closer look. 

As his breath caught in his throat, Ivar allowed her to fix his mistake; she pressed a clean rag on his palm and squeezed his hands shut with her own. Although her skin color was contrasting, her hands matched his roughness.  Like his, her skin told her story of labour and hardships, yet the way she held him was soft and reassuring. 

As if touched by fire, Ivar loosened his grip; the last thing he wanted was to be perceived as weak, and a small cut was no reason to weep or allow consolation over. 

Piglet’s eyes flickered with amusement: “dumd-dumb,” she mumbled and wiped her bloody hands clean on the hem of her underskirt. The congealed red-brown substance, had become caught in the webbing of her fingers. She wore his blood as she continued to pick up her work and started humming; unbothered and unfazed. 

Ivar wondered if her blood was red too, or would it be darker, thicker? He decided that today wasn’t the day he’d find out, and as the pain in his palm lessened, he picked up the knife and started peeling potatoes. 

.-.-.

For the next couple of days, Ivar’s quality of life had changed for the good. Although an undetectable sense of tension lingered in the castle, Ivar considered the overall silent stress as something positive. He no longer had time to tend to the pigs because his new tasks were time consuming. He and Piglet were to be present in the kitchen for various odd-jobs spat by Little Cunt. 

Although Ivar still had no knowledge of Dietsc, Piglet was keen on keeping him well informed of their tasks, not wanting to screw anything up. She enjoyed the change of work too and although both were still outcast and shunned by the rest of the maids, they treasured every moment. 

The time in between courses, the most.

Because in that fraction, the kitchen would be deserted; which meant easier access to proper food.

The first time such a moment occurred, Piglet had bolted through the kitchen to scavenge for a decent meal for two. Ivar was still chained up from the moment he’d entered the kitchen until he left and he’d been over the moon to sink his teeth into a slice of roast beef. Piglet knew her way around, she never picked too much of anything, or misplaced any of the cutlery. She was a proper thief. 

And a dirty avenger, but Ivar had to say he admired her relentlessness. During one of the ‘in between moments’, Piglet motioned for Ivar to watch the door and skillfully reached for a jug from one of the higher shelves. Without a trace of shame, she pulled her skirts up and sank to her knees; pissing into the makeshift chamberpot. 

She then emptied the content in the massive soup kettle and placed the jug back in its place, to then hurry back to her spot next to Ivar.

“You disgusting woman,” Ivar whispered in a mixture of disgust and admiration, then scrunched up his nose and glared at her, “don’t tell me you ever pulled such a trick on me!” 

Although not all the words were comprehensible to Piglet, his disgusted face revealed the essence. A grin spread over her face, wide and open, showing her perfect white teeth. Smug and satisfied, she slumped against the wall and watched how the maidens filled silver bowls with soup. 

“Sköl,” she whispered wickedly and made a humble bow with her head towards the second course meal being served. 

.-.-.

A/N: Ah, they held hands and Piglet might have/might haven’t pissed in Ivar’s food, now if that’s not companionship I don’t know what is! I really like Piglet, she’s definitely in my top 3 OC’s I’ve written. Oh and Ivar is such an interesting character to write about, I really love that I’ve placed him in this terrible situation because it’s a total treat to write about. What do you guys think of ‘my Ivar’ as he’s being thrown into this position of a slave, is he still in character? Love to hear from ya’ll

Xoxoxox Nukyster 

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[commorsicoclub]

The First Beat (When Red met Penny)

Prequel to The Good Chase.  

(G/T soft vore. M/F. Human Prey, Giant Pred. Fearplay. Mouthplay. Belly rubs. Magic tricks. Snarky prey. Non-fatal. )

“You’ll be on your own starting tomorrow,” said the portly fellow in the driver seat. Maynard was thirty something years Red’s senior and was mere days away from his retirement. He’d been shoved onto the man last minute with vague orders to show the newbie his beat and aquatint him with the idiosyncrasies of the department. “I’ve got a few things still to wrap up before the end of it. It’s not a hard assignment. Boring really. You’ll be glad of it at first, but believe me. It gets old fast.”  

Eldridge Park was a middle class neighborhood on the west end of the city metro with its white marble apartment buildings and brownstone townhouses and tree lines streets. It was a nice place and crime was shockingly low so Red was more than a little disappointed to learn he’d been assigned to this particular precinct. He had hoped to be placed somewhere closer to the city center where they had actual crimes. Murders, arson, and armed robbery. Not petty larceny and littering. But he supposed it would look good on his record to have a year or two before jumping to another precinct.

“So, all I do is walk around the park in the middle of the night?” he asked flatly, looking out the window and then to Maynard.

“Not just the park, but that’s the better part of it,” Maynard replied. “It’s a big place, but don’t expect much real action. Worst I ever came across was a homeless fucker feeling up a girl on her way home from a late shift. Other then that, it’s just you and the humans.”

That got Red’s attention. “Humans?”

Maynard’s expression for the entirety of their shift thus far had been a placid neutrality leaning into boredom. But with this exchange, he looked at Red and grinned wickedly. “Oh yeah. Eldridge park is a hot spot.”

Red was no less enlightened. “So I’m going to be keeping hobos in check and arresting vermin.”

“You don’t arrest humans, kid,” Maynard said with a laugh. “Well, on the books we do. But there’s a lot of paperwork that goes with it, so none of us on this beat ever bother.”

“So, what do you do then?”

Maynard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal case. He flicked it open with one fat finger and pulled a cigarette out. Holding it between his teeth, he struck a match and lit it. Only after taking a long draw from it did he looked back at Red to answer him. “You eat them.”

………………………………………….

The night was cool and crisp against his face as Red followed Maynard through the traipsing paths of the park. It was dark, but the moon was full and they had no difficulty seeing their way. He watched Maynard’s movements, noting the way the older officer walked and where his head turned to look at certain areas of the park. Old habits he’d developed over an entire career and he as eager to know them.

“They’re not too dissimilar to dwarf, but not as sweet tastin’ as elves,” he was saying. “And not as fast either.”

“And the Chief's okay with us just...eatin’ up suspects like that?”

“Humans are an invasive species, kid,” he said. “They pop through these…cripes, what the hell are they called again. Black hole kind of things. The just pop out of nowhere from some other dimension or something. Rivers can explain the science to you if you really want, but for my purposes tonight, we just gotta catch one.”

“How many do you normally find?”

“As little as one a week to as much as eight. You probably won’t see more than two a shift at most. And you better be real hungry if you get three in one night or you’ll have to file the paperwork for the one when the other two are in your belly. And they make a racket too.”

Red wasn’t unfamiliar with eating creatures smaller than himself whole and alive. He was quite partial to Elf, but the wild ones were so expensive and the farm raised just didn’t taste as good. Dwarf was all well and good, but they tended to give him indigestion. Goblins were tolerable, but they always needed a good wash before being anywhere near edible and their skin was an odd texture. They were a bit of an acquired taste and one he never really developed, even if they were the cheapest of all live prey available on the market. But he would treat himself to wild Elf on his birthday or special occasions when he could justify the hit to his wallet.  

He normally just stuck to sandwiches.

“If they’re so delicious, I wonder why no one’s tried to farm them,” Red wondered.

“Oh they’ve tried,” Maynard replied. “But they don’t reproduce as quick as other prey so the price of them once they reached eating size would be three times the price of top shelf wild Elf. That and most folks just see them as rats on two legs.”

Rev grinned. “More for us then.”

Maynard laughed and slapped the junior officer on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s see if we’ve got any biters.”

Red obligingly followed his senior officer as he left the main path walked towards a cloister of bushes. Settled inside the thicker portions of the shrubbery, he saw a metal cage. It was empty and had not been tripped. The metal was dark and blended amazingly well within the bushes. He’d only seen it when Maynard pushed aside the leaves and the metal had caught the moonlight.

“I’ve got a good many of these all set up in the park. I’ve got a map in the car of where each of them are. Most human pop through confused and disorientated and try to find small hidey-holes to rest in. Most mistake these cages for a safe little place to stow away.” He looked up and grinned at Red. “Easy lunch.”

Red only nodded, feeling rather curious now. He’d had a good breakfast and he wasn’t particularly hungry, he wouldn’t refuse a little treat. The checked seventeen more traps over the course of the next five hours and none of them had been tripped. Maynard was begging to get a little impatient.

“It’s the perfect night for one to pop through,” he was muttering bitterly. “Cold clear nights are a good sign you’re gonna find one. I still have three more traps to check. Come one, rookie.”

They hit pay-dirt at second to the last trap. Even from a good distance away. Maynard spotted the his trap had caught something and he gave a gleeful hoot and waddled excitedly over. Red jogged to keep pace and could not help but privately ponder to himself that if Maynard hadn’t spent so much of his shifts stuffing himself full of humans, maybe he would be so darn fat.

His attention was abruptly pulled back when there came a shrill cry. There was a small creature inside the metal contraption and he tried to get a good look at it, but Maynard’s fat hand was pawing at it as he tried to open it up. Red was about to offer his assistance when the fat officer let out a “Ha ha!” and he wretched the little metal door open and drew out the prize from inside. The human was a pale pink color and was wearing clothing that looked much the same as an ordinary person would and it looked almost silly to behold it. But he didn’t get much of a chance to study it before Maynard held it up to him.

“Consider it a ‘welcome to the team’ treat,” he said with an oily smile. “She’s a fighter, so probably best to get her down as quick as you can.”

“Let me go, fucking piece of shit, giant ass fuck!” The human was very unhappy and was thrashing against Maynard militant hold on her, but Red was able to smell the distinct scent of fear and her and despite his curiosity to look at her more, to study her, he was all at once rather peckish. Maynard chuckled and pressed the little body into Red’s hands. “Down the hatch, rookie.”

Red laughed, swallowing the excess saliva and tipped his head back as he brought the little human up in the same gesture.

“You can’t be fucking serious right now, dude. No way. No! Holy shit, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...don’t you fucking dare!”

He ignore the panicking mantra from his lunch and slipped her feet onto his tongue. There was a sweet burst of flavor very reminiscent of elf, but it quickly faded into the more deep savory flavor more along the lines of dwarf. Oh, humans were delicious! Complex in their taste and her skin was so smooth. No where near the leathery lumpy affair that was goblin. He hummed in pleasure as he fed her upper thighs into his mouth and gave his first swallow.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, PLEASE DON’T!” Her shrill voice brought him back to reality and his eyes focused in on her face. She trembled in abject terror and struggled as much as she could given her lower half was in his gullet and her top half was firmly being held by his large fingers. He found himself smiling. It was a cruel gesture, but it was instinctual and he relished in the letting the true predator side of himself lose. He wasn’t in a fancy restaurant or a cafe where he needed to mind his manners. This was wild and free and without rules. The true manifestation of what it meant to be the top of the food chain. And Gods did he love the feeling...

He swallowed again and brought the girl’s torso into his mouth. He closed his lips around her neck and let go of her, letting her hang inside him and wiggle as much as she might. She was thicker bodied than an elf, but taller than a dwarf. A perfect middle ground of the two. He felt her little hands pressing against his lips and he almost laughed when one of her hands slipped and ended up slapping his gums. He supposed he’d tortured her enough and gulped hard twice in quick succession, sucking her down into his gullet and sending her on her way down to his belly. 

He breathed deeply now that his airways weren’t blocked and he looked to Maynard with an almost fanatical grin.

“Told you,” he said simply. “Tasty little fuckers, huh?”

“Fuck,” was all Red could manage. The human had spilled out into his belly and was now making all her complaints and protestations known by kicking and punching his insides. Such treatment was usually why he did not often partake in dwarf, but the human was no where near as strong and her strikes tickled more than anything. They were actually rather pleasant and he found himself licking his lips, trying to get one last taste of her.

Maynard laughed loudly, watching his junior partner’s sagging belly bounce and wiggle with his lunch’s frantic movements. He reached out and slapped it playfully. “How’d you like your first human, Red?”

“I think I’m a convert,” he replied, wiping the drool off the corners of his mouth.

………………………..

The human did not stop her squirming for the remainder of his shift. But by the time he slipped through his apartment door, roughly an hour later, she had gone quite and he figured she had finally succumbed to his stomach and would soon digest away like his other live meals. Though, he had to admit she had lasted a good while in there. He was almost impressed.

He pulled off his coat and shirt and sat down on his bed to pull off his boots. The maneuver required him to lean down over his own bulging belly and as he pulled off his first boot he heard it. A soft whimpering. And a voice. “..fucking stupid way to die...so fucking hot in here...can’t breathe for shit...smells like ass...”

Red started to laugh and that seemed to offend his lunch enough to spur her into one last kicking fit accompanied by a cry of, “YOU’RE A FAT FUCKING ASS HAT!”

He sat back up and looked down at his belly. “Well if I’m fat, you’re to blame.”

He wasn’t sure if her abrupt silence meant she had passed out or was too surprised to that he spoke to her to reply back. But then she did answer him.

“COUGH ME UP YOU FUCKER! YOU CAN’T GO AROUND EATING PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE YOU FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT!”

Red patted his belly, amused. “Funny you say that. Because I’m pretty sure I just did.”

She kicked him, lower than before and he winced. She’s struck a kidney or something.

“Dude!” she yelled again, but her voice had lost the volume. “Please, just...please let me out...”

“Why?” he asked, rubbing his gut in an almost affectionate manner.

“Because I don’t want to be your fucking food!”

“And yet, you are in my belly. Where food normally goes.”

“That was your mistake, not mine!” He was grinning. He’d never even spoken to his food before. More so because he didn’t speak elvish and the dwarf accents were so hard to understand that he just never bothered. And he wasn’t even sure Goblins had a real language. It was a pleasant change of pace.

“Tell you what, morsel,” he said, his voice low and almost growling. “If you can give me one reason why I should swap you out for the cold sandwich in my fridge, I’ll let you out.”

The human was silent for a moment. “...you promise?”

“Sure. I promise.”

“Like...pinkie swear and shit?”

“Well, I can’t exactly do a pinkie swear with you in there so...”

“Symbolic pinkie swear then!”  

“Okay. Symbolic pinkie swear. You just have to convince me you’re worth more alive then as lunch.”

After several moments, he felt the human suddenly shift. “Magic!” she said. “I can do magic!”

That got Red’s attention and eyed his belly dubiously. “Really now?”

“Yup! I can do magic.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I can’t show you from inside your fucking stomach now can I?!”  

Red stood up and walked to the kitchen. He flicked the light on and went to the sink. “OK. I’ll bring you out and you can do your magic, but I warn you now morsel. If you’re lying, I’m gobbling you back up and this time...” he paused. “I might just bite a little.”

It was surprisingly difficult to push his food back up once he’d swallowed it. Putting his fingers down his throat didn’t really do much other than make him wretch and his stomach clench. Which the human really did not appreciate. After the fourth failed attempt, he was ready to say fuck it and just go sit and watch TV until his belly finished her off. But he was genuinely curious now and he was spurred on more by annoyance and stubbornness than anything.

“Should...should I...like...help?” the human asked tentatively.

Red growled. “Might be nice.”

He tried one more time was shocked when he felt the warm lump push up into his esophagus. Once it had a good hold on the human, the rest went much more smoothly and after only a few moments, he felt her push up from the back of his throat and her little hands were grabbing onto his tongue and trying to pry herself out. He opened his mouth and plucked her from inside, pulling her from his jaws and setting her down onto the counter. She wobbled on her feet before falling hard onto her knees, too weak and disorientated to remain standing. Her skin was flushed and red from where his stomach acids had began to burn her and he felt a soft pang of guilt. It looked like it hurt. But he steeled himself and looked down at her with a frown.

“Alright, human. Let’s see this amazing magic of yours.” He knew some Elves could do magic and most fairies, but he had never seen any of it. Maynard hadn’t said anything about humans being able to perform magic, so maybe only some could?

The human held up both her hands, showing him the back and her palms as though to prove she held nothing. She presented the back of one hand, the thumb bent inward and used her other hand to place the tip of her other thumb so it aligned with the profile of its fellow, index finger and middle finger bent over to hide the gap. She slid the hand with the tip of her thumb visible back and forth as though she meant it as an impressive deed and the clapped her hands together and presented them both. Each hand still in possession of their thumbs.  

It was a parlor trick. A silly hand illusion to trick simple minded children that one could sever the tip of the thumb and magically reattach it with a simple wave of their hands. And almost as though to add insult to injury, the human finished their performance with a tired sounding, “Ta da.”

Red starred, expecting more and when the little human only starred back, he realized that he had been had. There was no magic. Just a magic trick, an illusion and it should have angered him. It should have made him furious and he should have devoured the wretched little liar right then and there…

...but instead he started to laugh. Loudly. He leaned back against the opposite counter and covered his face as the laughter turned into a fit of giggles and when he peeked between his fingers at the human, who was now looking at him with a fearful uneasiness, his laughter was renewed. It an absurd bargain she had made with him, betting her very life on the idea he might be impressed by such a paltry little showing. It was stupid and reckless and oddly...brave.

“S-so...” her shivering voice brought him back. “So...are you going to...let me go?”

He composed himself and regarded the little creature for a long moment and then said, “No.”

She scowled at him. “I knew it! You’re a fucking liar!”

He scoffed. “Me? What about you? That wasn’t magic.”

“It was a magic trick,” she replied firmly. “I just omitted a word. I didn’t lie.”

“Well, in any case I didn’t say I’d let you go,” he replied with a smug grin. “I said I would let you out. Never mentioned anything about releasing you or even that I wouldn’t be putting you back in later.”

The human’s scowl was gone and she bite her lip. As she began to scoot back across the counter, she started shaking in fear again. “Fucking liar...”

Red watched her shake and tremble, easily imagining she thought he meant to eat her then and there and he wasn’t in too much of a hurry to assure her of the contrary. He was having fun.

“I didn’t lie,” he purred as he loomed over her.

“You said all I needed to do was convince you I was worth more alive,” she spat, tears falling down her face now.

“And do you feel like you sufficiently did that?”

“I made you laugh,” she retorted. “Like...a lot. That should count for something, right?”

She was bargaining again, Red mused. “It was amusing, but if that’s all...”

“I didn’t say it was all,” the human snapped back. “I have more.”

Red regarded her with a flat, unimpressed look. “Oh do tell...”

“I can stick my tongue out and touch my forehead.”

Red blinked and his confused silence seemed to give the human the impression he was waiting for her display the odd quirk. But all she did was stick her tongue out at him and...touch her forehead with the index finger of her right hand.

Almost involuntarily, Red smiled and started to laugh again. He paced around the kitchen for a moment and then out into the hall before doubling back into the kitchen, laughing all the while. The human had taken his momentary absence as a chance to hide, but his kitchen countered were sparse and there were only two places to hide. Behind the toaster or inside the bread box. He could see the toaster well enough to know she was not there so he flipped open the box to see the human trying to hide under the remaining half loaf of bread. He chuckled at her and reach inside to pull her out.

She fought, but had grown very weak and could not do much of anything but smack his hand and kick her feet. “Please...please don’t kill me...”

He looked at the human and found that he didn’t want to eat her again. Not because she was not appetizing or that he wasn’t hungry, but she had succeeded in her original task; To convince him she was worth more than being his lunch. She was far too amusing a creature to sacrifice to his belly.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he said and watched her study him as though trying to figure out if she should believe him. “You’ve won your bargain, human. Congratulations.”

She sucked in a breath and shuddered, fat tears rolling down her face. “You’re not lying?”

“Nah,” he replied. “You’re a funny little thing. Might be worth keeping you around for a laugh.”

She held out her hand, little pinkie extended. “Pinkie promise.”

He eyed her. “We already did.”

“Real pinkie promise,” she said. “Promise that you aren’t lying and you won’t eat me ever again.”

He rolled his eyes, but obligingly offered his own pinkie of his free hand to her. “Fine, I promise I am not lying to you and I will not eat you ever again.” Their different sizes made it an awkward exchange, but the little human seemed satisfied enough. He sat back down on the counter and once she was standing under her own power, he grinned at her and licked his lips. “I make no such promises about eating any other humans though.”

She gaped at him, horrified. “Dude!”

He laughed and then asked, “Have a name, human? Or should I keep calling your morsel?”

“My name’s Penny,” she replied.

“Okay, Penny. I’m Red.” 

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #328

okay i’m going the fuck to bed now. @_@

Have you ever worn fake eyelashes? No; the only time I ever will will possibly be my wedding, if even then. Could you possibly write a successful novel? I think I'm capable, but I don't believe it will happen. Who’s the last person you video-chatted with? My therapy group via Zoom. Do ski lifts make you nervous or do you like them? Never been in one, but they seem cool. Have you ever had dandruff? I have dandruff AND a dry scalp. Nice combo. Do you think sleeve tattoos look trashy? Please explain to me how ANY tattoo inherently equates to being "trashy." I actually love sleeve tats. Have you ever gone through a phase of crushing on EVERYONE? No. I experienced a few crushes my freshman year of high school, but they weren't just anybody. If you had to get a portrait tattoo, who would it be of? I may or may not get a tattoo of Darkiplier doing his i c o n i c debut smile somewhere, but idk. I already have one tattoo related to Mark and would kill for another with his handwriting, so having three would be a bit... wild, haha. Do you have any stickers on any of your electronic devices? No. Do you like the smell of men’s colognes better than woman’s perfumes? Usually. Can you remember what you last clapped for? Yes; everyone in group clapped for one of the women taking a big step against her agoraphobia. Is your hair damaged? No, it's actually super healthy. Are you in charge of cleaning anything in your household? The litterbox and my room in general. Ever carved/written anything on a park bench? No. Most interesting place you’ve ever visited? Chicago was a big shock to me. I am FAR from used to cities that incredible and stocked. Do you keep your eyebrows more thick or thin? I don't groom them, so they're on the thicker end. Do you always wear a bra? Not at home and if there's no company. Do your shoulder blades protrude? No. Have you ever won on one of those grabber machine things? Yeah, a few times. Are you gonna French kiss your hubby at your wedding? Who says I'm marrying a man? But whatever, no. Keep that behind closed doors. How many bananas have you ever eaten in a row? No more than two. I usually don't even have two. Have you ever had sex outside? No. Have you ever been outside naked? No. Have you ever been in a shrubbery maze? No. You ever like someone who liked you back, but didn’t want a relationship?: That's pretty much where I'm at now. Have you ever fallen for someone who didn’t feel the same? No. Are you financially stable? No. Mom can barely afford rent right now; I had to pay it last month with gifted money. Are you emotionally stable? hunny Do you think kids these days are growing up too quickly? I kinda think so, yeah. It's funny how different kids are now compared to when I was whatever age they are. I try to be open-minded about it, though; times change, and I don't expect my generation to be the only "right" way to have grown up. I just think kids are chasing the power of "maturity" with much more vigor. Are you a rebel? Not really. Do you like when people use proper grammar on the Internet? Yeah. I like conversing with people who type just how they talk, like me. Have you ever driven or been a passenger on a motorcycle? Neither. I don't want to ride one. Do you use standard time, or 24 hour time? Standard time. Do you enjoy NASCAR? "HE'S MAKIN ANOTHER LEFT TURRRRRRN!" Lol no, I really don't. Who is the most fascinating person you’ve met? Probably Sara, honestly. What amazing adventures have you been on? What's this "adventure" you speak of? What would you do if had enough money to not need a job? Lots of traveling with my camera, still selling art anyway. What TV series do you keep coming back to and re-watching? None. What would your perfect vacation look like? Y'know, one of those glass dome ceiling cabin... things in the mountains with Sara would be so, SO cool. So much nature for us to explore. What are some obscure things that you are or were really into? Most of my interests honestly, haha. The strangest is probably "vulture culture," in which the remains (typically the bones) of a naturally deceased wild animal are basically recycled for some sort of artistic purpose. You could consider my roadkill photography an example. What are some things everyone should try at least once? I dunno, man. Depends on what you're into. What would your perfect morning be like? Cuddles with an s/o watching some funny videos or something like that to get in some morning laughter. What are you always game for? Video games, haha. What do you do to unwind? Watch YouTube. What’s your favorite piece of furniture you’ve ever owned? I don't have a fave. What would be the best city to live in? I don't want to live in a city. What would you like to know more about, but haven’t had the time to look into it? Time isn't an issue; I just haven't. There's lots of stuff. I'm a very curious person. How have you changed from when you were in high school? I'm less depressed, but more confused, scared, and much less motivated. Imagine a chicken wandering around with its head chopped off. Where is the most fun place around where you live? Nothing, really... Where would your friends or family be most surprised to find you? Like, a strip club or something. What’s expensive but totally worth it? This depends on what's important to you. For me, a quality DSLR camera. When do you feel most out of place? Whenever I'm some place fancy. What’s the most recent thing you’ve done for the first time? No idea. What small seemingly insignificant decision had a massive impact on your life? Accepting Jason's friend request on Facebook because I thought it was a different Jason I actually knew. What did you do last summer? Nothing, just stayed indoors trying not to melt into a sizzling puddle. What are you most grateful for? My mom. What’s the most essential part of a friendship? Trust, maybe. When was the last time you walked for more than an hour? Many, many years ago when I used to walk outside for hours with my iPod. All modesty aside, what are you better at than 90% of people? It doesn’t have to be useful or serious, it can be something ridiculous. 90% is a lot, man. Maybe bonding with animals? What’s the strangest phone conversation you’ve ever had? I don’t know. What do you like but are kind of embarrassed to admit? If I'm embarrassed by it, I have no interest in sharing it. What skill or ability have you always wanted to learn? Even just a smidge of social skills. What’s the best meal you’ve ever had? Probably the spicy shrimp fritas at Olive Garden. I adore those sooooooooo so much. Where was your favorite place to go when you were a kid? The zoo. We didn't go often at all, but I would frequently nag Mom about going. What’s something that most people haven’t done, but you have? Fed a freshly severed rat to a vulture. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I wanna go back to that bird rescue... What says the most about a person? How they treat others. What machine or appliance in your house aggravates you the most? The dryer. It can take a few rounds to fully dry something. What places have you visited that exceeded your expectations? Chicago, that I actually remember. Disney World probably did, but I was just a little kid and only have faint memories of the trip. What’s the worst advice someone has given you? I don't know. Besides your home and your work, where do you spend most of your time? People leave their houses? What are your top 3 favorite things to talk about? Mark, meerkats, and video games. When you were a kid, what seemed like the best thing about being a grown up? No one could tell me no for "stupid" reasons. What’s the strangest way you’ve become friends with someone? Strange way? I haven't got a clue. What’s your favorite band NAME (not necessarily your favorite band)? Maybe Cradle of Filth. Badass metal name. There are a lot of good ones, though. What’s your favorite thing to do outdoors? Take pictures of flowers or animals. How often do you dance? Silly/ironic dancing counts. Essentially never. Who besides your parents taught you the most about life? Jason, I guess. What’s been the most significant plot twist in your own life? The breakup that I thought was physically impossible, entirely unfathomable. Where did you take family vacations to when you were younger? We didn't really go on vacations. If you could instantly receive a Ph.D. in any discipline including all the knowledge and experience that goes along with it, what would your Ph.D. be in? Biology. What are the top three social situations you try to avoid most? Anywhere where I have to speak publicly; parties/get-togethers involving people I don't know; anywhere that is extremely crowded. Just social situations in general, really... What friendship you’ve had has impacted you the most? My friendship with Sara. What’s something you’re interested in that most people wouldn’t expect? Uhhh I don't know, really. What’s the hardest you’ve worked for something? My recovery from the breakup. What took you way too long to figure out? The only person who had any right to control my happiness and will to live was myself. What nicknames have you had throughout your life? If you include online ones as well, there's Britt, Britt-Britt, Twinkie, Bee, Flower, Ruby, Mozart2, Ozz(y), Alessa, and uhhh... I wanna say that's it? What do you do differently than most people? I deconstruct my breakfast biscuits to eat one part at a time... haha. Where’s the last place you’d ever go? Prison. What fact floored you when you heard it? That my dad did some hard drugs before us kids were born. I was entirely speechless. Have you ever watched a needle go into your own skin? Yeah, it doesn't bother me. Have you ever spent more than two weeks in a wheelchair? No. Does weed smell good? Or no? Ugh, no. It smells awful. Do you blow dry your hair or do you let it air out? Air dry. Do you catch lizards? No; I don't like the idea of catching wild animals just to pick up and check out. That poor critter is terrified. I'd rather just take pictures of it and let it go about its day. Would you rather get a big tattoo or small tattoo? I want my next tattoo to be a big'n. How many pills do you take every morning? I absolutely do not want to count. A whole lot. What was the last parade you went to? /shrug What theme would you choose for a baby’s nursery? If I was hypothetically having kids, let's see. A son, absolutely dinosaurs. A daughter, maybe meadowy with baby animals. My baby blanket was full of baby animals, so it'd be kinda cute, that connection. What color would you paint a baby girl’s nursery? Not because of gender norms, but by personal choice, pastel pink. Does your first crush know that he/she was your first crush? No. What is the last thing you missed out on that you wanted to go to? Hm. Who do you wish were your best friend? I am perfectly happy with who already is my best friend. Who do you wish you could go on another date with? She knows. Who was the last friend of yours to have a baby, and what’s the baby’s name? I'm not sure, but my high school friend Megan is due to have her daughter Persephone soon! She won the naming game. Like damn, how badass would it feel for your name to be Persephone. Do you have a favorite M&M? Just the classic ones. Is it easy to make you cry? OHHHHH YES IT IS. Have you ever snuck out? Nah. Who was the last person to comment you? On Facebook? My friend Lyndsey commented on a photo I shared. What song reminds you of being in middle school? "All Signs Point to Lauderdale" by A Day To Remember is the anthem for going through puberty in school and trying to figure yourself out. What was the first thing you learned how to cook? Scrambled eggs. What’s something really basic that you’re terrible at? Cooking. Are you pale or tan? I'm very pale. When’s the last time you were kissed? On the lips, like two or so years ago. Do you like the movie Grease? Never seen it, actually. What’s your favorite Jim Carrey movie? The Mask, probably. What was the last baby animal you saw in the wild? I think a fawn. Have you been binge-watching any shows lately? If so, what? No. What’s the best physical feeling in the entire universe? I meeeaaan... Do you have bad anxiety? If so, do you take any kind of medication for it? Yes and yes. If you could, would you work from home? Do you think that would make you more or less productive? Well, it's complicated. I don't, but I also want to be a freelance photographer, so I kinda would. I like the idea of having an office in my house purely for productive activities to prevent becoming lazy because I'd be at home. Would you ever be an organ donor? I am one.

[bluepenguinstories]

Intention Headaches Chapter Nine

To Our Crumbling City:

How many dusks, overtaking dawn, have the drones

littered the skies just as the bodies litter the streets

devoid of human spirit, or the spirit in the machine

wishing to devour everything, but falling short

for its gingivitis and inflamed throat; lacking bite

it only leaks information, devoid of context, its

liberating enslavement, braying Cranes (weathered by time) –

Our crusades of laughter, our vicious joviality

slaughtering each other with mugs. Our curse of skin

sagging into itself as we drink ourselves away. Yet these halls

where we age like wine, slow and souring, the grapes

of wrath now forgotten, our hostility tempered

to a refined weapon which has grown rusted;

– (as all things become) Arrested by its final days...

So we, men loving, loving men, all lay in our residences

with our hands tied, to our legs, to our necks, to our lips

just as we find another place to take the whiskey

as if it were a thicker liquid, as if our essences were honey.

I reminisce on our togetherness, although never separated

we would feel ourselves becoming less of each other

and more automatons in Hephaestus’ pornography collections.

Weeping tears of liquid titanium, our craniums feel the bolts

losing their grips on each other. One by one, we slow ourselves

down to the moments where we forget the tides shifting

and not in our favor, but theirs.

We cannot pretend “All is well” when the negotiations

flat on the table, we lean ourselves against, came from the ones

with the wrench, loosening the screws so the table would fall on us.

We fought and we fought our own memories bitten into the dust.

They taste like blood, they are film reels playing the same things:

Cinemas of grotesques parading as “Just another day”.

Of course, we chose the life of one such gang.

So as to relive the memories, but omitting one key detail

that used to bind us all together:

No fault of ours, but a fault of the years. We once fought our everyday.

We once marched against the ones with their names on the tables.

It is both a great amusement and a bitter taste, then, that we act.

Such bravado for such cowardice. Surprised by our surmise, counteract

our love for men, for the love of death. For us, the muscles, the hair,

the beards and the bears, the shaved and the scarred, the bitten.

The sophist, the self-destructive, the slurred and the articulate.

The tortured and the torturer, the smokers and the freshest of breaths.

Those with supple breasts, milk which tastes like ale, hair like cotton

and when I drink from him he tells me to call him Captain.

We gather together, strangers, lovers, cousins, brothers.

Clergymen of our own blunders. Kissing the winds, each other.

Mistakes are acquaintances, even for the antiquated.

I see us all as the spit we lick from each other, our sweat

against the ceiling fans. Hardened buttocks betray

Sideways glances. All our contributions we owe to open secrets –

– If you listen real close, I’ll tell you:

Cranes are who we are, the ones who rest on the water.

Our necks twisted, faith distorted by the Orphic.

Between corners of each district, I see lights that operate.

“Whatever you wish to see at any given time shall be yours.”

Or so they say, the bastards, so holographic.

So courteous as to lie, as we in wait, because out of all the boasts

of technologies, all that were made were means to enslave.

Weaponry cannot baptise us any more than a plague.

For all the so-called advances, we have yet to find a way

to help each other live.

Cranes gather in an unassuming shack, by an unassuming docks.

Our base of operations. Above ground, by mere inches.

It’s a testament to my flair that I do not protest. For all the talk

of atrocities, what better way to live, than to tear through our insides?

We can change our parts for anyone. Our arms, our hearts

Our genitalia. All belong to us at any time, for the price of many lives.

It’s a testament to my amusement that I have played along so long.

So this tribute is for you, broken city, with your watchful eyes.

No, not you. Your uninhabited towers and your houses of horrors.

Those I care not for. This is a tribute to tributaries.

For the seas and the rivers, the ponds and the lakes, the oceans

which divide us all. We are united in the ways in which the currents

drag us under like a siren hungry for its next lover.

Oh, how I wonder who or what this is all for. For the rapids rest

just outside of the city itself. If we could conquer them, no.

If we could fornicate with them, then we may see passage.

For these many bridges will one day collapse.

Thank you, you foul creature. Just as you have thanked us.

Just as we have thanked each other by shaking hands.

Time and time again, I wish to suck your lips.

Beside your bridge.

Part I: Aloe Vera:

Vive la Karen:

Our old friend Karen came a callin’.

During our raucous rancor, our celebratory crowned affair.

No lordships, bishops, lieges, or bison, could stamp away

at our achievements in blissful ignorance.

But one could, our old friend Karen.

Every night, our home served as a tavern. Us, our own servers.

The disc is somewhere, corrupted and overwritten.

Blame it on our laughter, the lack of slumber, the swayed movements.

We couldn’t hear her until the lights were darkened.

We looked around, there was Karen.

“Your next and only mission is to disband.”

The machine’s grand announcement. No uncertainty present.

The panel on the wall with the eyeball, its ocular malice;

Glazed with its sterile gaze. Never more than what was needed.

Lack of subtlety and an unnecessary cruel mercy.

Karen couldn’t make the intent any more crystalline.

But, she decided to lay frosting on our cakes:

“There will be no funds. No rewards for your troubles.

But if your mission proves to be a success, you will not be shot

to death within a twenty-four hour window.”

We all exchanged expressions meant for lovers or distant relatives.

Straits were dire, and not to mention the famine of straights.

Only one was; he was a pale widow, sunken within a ship in a bottle.

I creaked, my bones atrophied, my cane gifting with splinters.

“You heard it, men. Time to pack it up. Our time has come to an end.”

My cyclical smile unwound back below my nostrils.

Everyone cheered, for the truth was an open secret.

Men between men, that was how it was kept.

We were not leaving each other.

We were leaving the city which made us.

I knew that thoughts and words could be heard

But few doubt the resolute.

Forward March:

Outside, still night. Still as it was eternal.

Our collective thoughts: holding hands.

Beef and chicken alike, in a hot pot

Made to be slurped down. That was us.

At least a hundred of us. Foot out in front.

Leg out in back. Each one making their

forward motions in unison to display our union.

We sang a little ditty, a barrage of showtunes.

Our weapons on our backs. Some of us as

Our own weapons, we guided ourselves.

I was eager, yet wary. Weary for the true outside.

So out of reach, the stars were unfocused.

Students left to their own devices.

Rats with shock collars and curds stuck in fur.

I was an all-out war and I am more.

Streets as empty as the night, Patron Saints of paint.

Nary a drive-by in sight. Pardon the mourning

of bloodshed; city wasn’t alive without someone to die.

On cue, a device to electrocute took a man

I loved so dearly that I only ever kissed his hand.

Nary a tear was shed, for the beast was fed at last.

Hunger was a strange thing, wishing for nothing

to fill up the stomach, but we could speak

of all the things we would eat when we escaped.

If only the fates would stop slurping our eyeballs.

I needed them to see, however myopic of me.

Part II: Bridge Out Ahead:

Approach:

As the steel greeted us with its sturdiness

we shook our heads in disgust, our tastebuds distorted.

Stealth was not an option; grasping at straws, we took aim

and attached our mucus membrane gelatin onto the beams.

Smiles and jeers, no time for cheers. Karens, no, turrets.

Torrent of them took aim without firing.

So we stood, forever lost in the absence of Father Time.

“City limits. Turn back now or be prepared to be shot on sight.”

Karen could be a ferocious one, always wanting to empty

the contents of the device inside of several men at once.

Oh, but such a fulfilling release would lead only to an end.

We would not be deterred, so long as my bones ached.

“Mikey, can you go on?”

“– Babe. I’m Logan.”

Only in the early 30s, already losing to the ravages of age.

Our weapons drawn, we took fire at the turrets named Karen.

They took struck at us. Some fell, some put up electric glass

As a means to protect. What we couldn’t protect was the bridge.

We knew our passage would not be a solid one. Not a stone skipped

but a record without any scratches.

Turrets could be intelligent, even within their torrents.

Aimed at the matter which held firm to the bridge’s limbs

we watched the load get blown. Several pieces, several

men hit in the name of revolution. Their concussion wouldn’t

Be in vain. But our means of escape, we were afraid.

Bridge dissipated, too damaged to be a salamander.

Many remain, yet we had to turn back. We saw

the rustic passage as a golden opportunity.

We walked across our fellow’s remains and back

to the home which we abandoned.

Whatever crustacean in the sky would bless us

I would bless in return; hermits, no more.

“Betty, would you do the honors?”

“What about you, Barry?”

Betty and Barry were the same man. Or the two men

were joined together. Their algae arms pawed at the crate

which kept hidden until the very day. I came up

With the idea, myself. I wanted to kiss Betty and Barry.

Betty and Barry were both men, men I could sail with.

Under the crate was our lever, our lover. Such a promise

In the form of a warm and hardened stick.

It had to be kept warm at all times, someone crawling

toward it in secrecy. The lever was powered by our

Equilibrium, no, our affectionate friction.

Part III: Ship of Relations:

Theseus:

Every day since our inception, we supplied ourselves.

Our end was always approaching, and Karen knew it.

Each month after shipment, we took boards.

Our hands were full, planks drawn, quartered. Flanked.

So on that night, or day, we finally deployed.

To test if it would float or sink. Fine testing, it was.

Fine men, we are. Fine enough to squeeze. Like mustard.

No, mayonnaise on a desert day.

Ship did float, and so we installed light

on our boots, so we could walk above water.

Perform miracles, if only for a few seconds.

Then, we watched the docks get shot down.

Karen was a diligent one. If only Karen was a man.

If I could hold a machine like men held me.

Like I’m a baby, and mother brought meat.

Baby Harold, waddling. But this baby was a button:

If I had twenty more years to get my youth back

Then I wouldn’t be so elderly. But in the 30s, you know.

Third decade brought booze and misery.

Booze could serve as a playground, or a death sentence.

One of my men had to help me aboard.

Soon, I and them, all on deck. Out with the city, in

With the forewarning breeze. Passionless in its stirring.

The wind would have to guide us.

My compass was too fogged by malicious software.

Incontinent:

Did we have food?

Yes, we had/have food.

It has expired, it has grown molded.

It tastes of our favourite bourbon.

It smells like a familiar flatulence.

It is food.

Did we have a map?

Yes, it told us where to love and how often.

There were sticks and stones.

In due time, we would break each other’s bones.

Then seal the deal and murder with words.

Later into the night, we would bring a kiss.

Did we have cabins? Yes, just as we had means to sleep.

In each room weren’t beds, but we would keep

Each other warm in each other’s arms.

The body heat would be our thermostat.

The mast had a glow to it.

Did the ship move?

Just as it sails, a ship moves.

There is a wheel, it goes unused.

We move it to get the experience.

It reminds us to spin.

The ship itself, sails itself.

Automation is our lifeblood.

We designed our ship to forego hesitation.

Part IV: To Cutlery Sharks:

Cutlery Shark:

Waters blackened by the murky chemical invasion.

So long past, we almost think to drink it.

Instead, fresh men take purifying solutions within

the laboratories of the chemistry quarters.

I took a look and took a drink.

I became drunk off of it.

Some of us made the mistake of drinking

from the waters we sailed on; sickness set in.

Stumbled overboard, devoured by the sharks

with teeth made of cutlery.

It bit into our planks and turned some of us to rust.

We shot at the shark, but the creature split

into a husk of tapeworms with acidic spit.

I prayed for our continued passage and what answered:

Explosion! One man, a burly burlesque dancer

threw a brigade of explosives into the water.

The tides themselves roared and the tapeworms no more.

In our stead, a whirlpool and the seas quivering.

Skies above rained down cutlery. Messengers from the gods.

From the whirlpool, we washed our clothing.

I went first, taking a drink, then pouring the soap.

Our clothes fished, a mildew scent perforated

And left an imprint. Damp and musty, we lost nakedness.

I drank to that, as did all the rest.

Ol’ Phil Howards:

Phillip Howards was a man, or a shrew.

Hated men, or hated himself as an extension.

Hated me, but valued our friendship.

I loved the way he loved the fetal position.

Always did think of it as poetic.

Smooth sailing so far, I descended.

Down the hatch of madness.

Where in his private cabin, he was crouched.

In the far corners was his whispers.

He always said things not pale didn’t bode well.

I laugh because he was paler than the ghost of my mother.

Bless that woman’s heart, she raised a loving man.

Me, I was wrinkled more than my grandmother;

When I last saw her was on her deathbed. But I digress.

He always talked like he had one foot in the grave

while hoping others would go in instead.

I ask why he cower. His teeth chatters. He speaks in whispers:

“I’ve seen colours, more than black, more than deep purple.

There is smoke on the water and it signifies danger.

We shouldn’t undergo such a folly.

For I’ve seen colours, more than neon, but something brighter.”

“They haunt my dreams, the seas, they speak.

Though I do not understand their language, I know malice.

There is a healing intent, that I do see. The seas sing to me.

But they are not Siren’s Songs, but signs of foreboding.

What we sail will not cleanse our bodies.”

I laugh because he didn’t understand. He doesn’t wish to.

“If there can be any freedom for my men, any indication

that we can live within each other, and outside, that is enough.”

Although we both were former clergy, we resigned;

His distaste for others, yet belief that no one deserves healing.

Me, I loved men a little too freely.

He spoke again, eyes sunken, his face a full 180:

“There is a beast in the sea. The church spoke of one.

Which would heal any who dared enter.

But I am not ready to be healed by it.

I would rather stay inside, plead ignorance to the outside.

Know this: we know nothing. We will soon.”

I took a drink. Truer words never spoken.

The sea was a harsh mistress who seldom display her phallus.

Before I may part, he said one last thing:

“Friend, I am concerned about your drinking.

You appear in poor health.”

Part V: To Virginia:

First Sights:

As the cutlery sharks pacified, back into the depths

Whence, I too, descended. Only for one more sip.

Sips turn into a chug, which turn into grey hairs.

Hairs upon dogs I wish I had brought along, if only to keep warm.

Up above, breeze of the sea poured salt into me.

That was how I came to see the sights of the city:

We passed by endless roads of nothingness, always paved.

By the wayside were the routine machines paving their ways.

Little cars which drove themselves, express purpose of open flame.

And beside them, the skyscrapers, all plain and never-ending.

So too I, my whole face agape, will we ever find sanctuary?

Past the gangs, past each base, I wanted to know

what was past it all.

All our gazes, mine especially, shifted to the forests.

Those haunting woods with their shrill howls abound.

Those hounds which surely lurk, stalk, prey for me.

As I should pray for them, if my hands weren’t for drinking.

Those thickets and bushes, rustling of leaves from them trees.

I believe I could see shadows from the plants, the rabbits.

Deer and bears, then, something glistening:

Behooved horned creature.

They say Hemingway drank from its blood.

An open wound to ease the troubles.

As I partake in a drink of my own. Common cure for the bereavement.

It stood to reason, I stand with my legs bent.

Cane not quite working, leg machine broken.

Forests, woods, pines, all stretched for miles and kilometers.

Other units of measurements. I don’t know them.

Centipentagrams? Terasects? Parallax?

One of those words are  not like the others.

All that matters is the endlessness...the vast.

Undergrowth overtaking, but a crease, it does cease:

Trees line up. Stop.

Stop! Stop it!

Groan. I knew it.

I know, I knew it then.

The alcohol will not, would not, can never keep it at bay.

Oceans, tempest, they all expand. But the forest doesn’t.

Ain’t hear a root a shootin’.

City limits, where you think it ends, it doesn’t.

There is a mountain, next.

Hills, a rocky point. The forest itself a circle.

No, a circle cannot be a square.

Even if the circle be a peg, cannot be a leg.

Let me explain: like a barrier, a veil, a shield.

Preventing or protecting, cannot say.

But at the hills, past the rocky trail, lie a cliff-side.

Where I see their home: the final base.

We sure were sailing away.

To Virginia:

Dear friend, how did you let the years fill you up so fast?

Like the drink in my belly, in my liver, in my gut.

I ask for you gracefully, without a poem or a song to be sung.

No pretense about it, I remember your top aide:

Was it Vera? Or Santa Maria? Flo-Rida? Maybe I don’t remember. Let me partake once more.

Aha!

As you are Ginny, she was Victory.

You and her and Virgil. The three of you in matrimony.

No doubt, you lost her in the hospital. As well as yourself.

Every day I stop being me, becoming an adjacent memory.

One day Heart. Hearth. Earth. Arthur. Hurt.

What do any of those ‘words’ mean?

Anyway, if I make it out, I won’t tell the outside:

That you were mad, wicked, numb, or naive.

I’ll read not only my poetry, but your unspoken words.

Just like the way you must wish for it to be.

Just you and her and him.

Those words you wish you could tell him that he already knows.

Those words you still wish you could tell him, anyway.

Before the hospital made you forget.

Or you chose to go.

I wouldn’t blame you, either way.

Oh! Look! Out on the cliff-side face! It’s your base!

Operations were much smoother when you didn’t have to think.

Wouldn’t you agree? Or is it just through my eyes that see?

See far too many things...right now I see…

Just past your base. To my ship’s side. It is!

I look and see To the Lighthouse, its burning beams.

Searchlights take us all someday. So I hope.

What am I doing? Writing this letter to you?

Who am I kidding? It will never get sent.

Just like you will never say the words to him.

The ones he already knows, but you wish you could say.

That’s OK. Just like Oklahoma, the place.

I read about it when I was a kid.

Millennia and a half, maybe more, ago.

It was said to have existed. Like Agartha.

Like Atlantis.

But those places were fairy tales we told each other as children.

I never met you as a kid. I never much believed in the English.

Your house and its hinges, where you reside, your age untapped.

By madness, it still lies still.

No fear for you, only admiration.

I would have let you criticise me any day, if I could continue.

You may live to see more days, but will you ever escape?

Look! I see your garden! Down by the beaches!

Your little Daisies and Petunias, Pansies and Begonias.

How you would walk with your watering can.

Sing, “I must tend to my Sapphics.”

Hark! On cue, one of those devoted.

Adeline with bear claws, passes by pansies.

Hangs on a laundry line a pair of panties.

I wave, so does she. She asks the crew what we’re doing.

“We’re sailing for freedom!” I make my declaration.

“Yeah! Come get y’all freedom!” She echoes the statement.

Even if I cannot send you this letter when my men escape.

I would like to pretend that you have read it.

If there were any proof of an outside world. Or a “world” at all.

I would like to send this your way, as a form of evidence.

I have to go now, Ginny, for gin is calling me

and the end is approaching, my dear friend.

Whom I’ve never interacted with.

Part VI: The End:

Earth is Both Round and Flat:

We did it.

Thoughts and prayers were answered with cheers.

Clangs of mugs! Hoo-rah!

I take my tiptoes to Phil Howards, he mumbles

about his fiendish friend, from the clergy, St. Eliot:

“The sea is a wasteland...the sea is a wasteland…”

I shake my head. The Wasteland was what I counteract.

For water is not soil. Or so it was, I would have soiled my pants.

Rather than the piss that smelled of bourbon.

Taking to him, I say:

“We made it! Soon we shall live!”

His eyes, first things to turn, I see not.

Instead, clam shells or oyster heads.

Spiral homes for hermit crabs.

His mouth was a starfish.

Words were no longer important.

But so I heard, just as I will hear:

“We have not left, only departed. The true end is the end.”

I leave him. There is an above to this.

There cannot be a Hell with a head above water.

One man in the crowd eyes eyes with I, I eye him.

We kiss. First on the lips, then on the fists.

Fists kiss with fists, knuckles bloody.

How men make love aboard a ship of relations.

One other man sees and comes up to me:

“Something new!”

I look. But I disagree.

“Familiar should not be new.”

Image of our former base of operations, in flames.

How we left it. How we left everything.

I shake, so does my face. My head, for good measure.

“Must be a mistake. Sail faster.”

So we went at it. Pushed around, left to right.

Sway with the night; harder, faster, stronger, better.

Currents in our favor. We didn’t yet notice the ship was lower.

Until we reached the end again and found ourselves

back at the beginning.

Water fills the top decks; our ankles get licked by it.

Its liquid, thicker than my blood long since poisoned.

If there is anything I can do, all our years of plans, and

We remain in the same place for I cannot locate action.

“Captain! We keep going around, and each time we do

We sink further below? What is the meaning behind this?”

“Words too obvious! This is a poem!”

“Ah! You’re right! ‘T’is my testicles caressed by Satan!’”

“Much better.”

So I stew in my saltwater sweat. Tastes like men.

So do I, but I don’t let it become my doppelganger.

I will not have my sweat swallow me.

Not when I can swallow it. Sweat is my pride.

Seagulls ahead, murderous cries.

Part VII: Leviathan:

Rumbling in the water:

Riptides in the muddled pond.

It was bad enough to find that the ocean was a moat.

City is a donut hole. No nutrition, only fat.

Our knees were tickled by seaweed. Or mine, leg hair algae.

Riptides grew louder; ripple effect of defective parapets.

My precept for perception failing me.

At this point we started noticing things:

Crocodiles jumping gangrene and tails wagging.

My men grabbed the nearest pointed weapon.

Fire open! Battle cries like the wild ride we chose for ourselves.

But fire proved to be nothing against the Crocodile’s hardened skin.

Us all, cowering, but I, I saw myself as a Doge, crowning.

Wow! It becomes time to step up! Wow!

With the press of a button, my phallus expands.

With it, I can swordfight Crocodiles.

Even past my prime, I am told I hold it well.

We’ll see, when it’s skin against teeth.

Reptiles have bite, but my blade does slice.

For all those teeth, I was the one who made the creatures bleed.

Bleed and retreat, just as the burden of being on the sea.

Sailors and Maritime sea-shanties sing

of a magnificent phallic fascination.

The battle itself, legendary. Decisive victory.

As the last of the creatures fled, my blade sheathed.

My blood was in my body, but I felt as if I was losing it all.

Forfeiting, for I already knew the truth:

the bridge that collapsed was our only way out.

Through it, we could have reached the tunnel.

But no more.

The tunnel is a sheet.

Over a black hole.

Sucking us in to the idea of freedom.

Suckering us, just as it does, and we fell into it.

My head sinks, no drinks left.

Far too sober, head sick. Head split.

“For those who want to live, leave now.”

Were the words I wished to say to my men.

But just as I addressed my evacuating sea men, ripple effect.

Ears ringing. Before, the creatures with teeth

may have made my fellows depart from me.

With my phallus back in my pants, sea men wouldn’t evacuate.

And, as my past erections, in an instant, from the waters

a great creature did rise!

Some unknown poison flower, a mouth dripping.

Plant with scales like a dragon fruit blooming.

Fins and tails, a face thought to be extinct.

Eyes of pure malice, flame emitting.

If there was a time to evacuate, the sea men should have.

Too magnificent, too arousing. Fear heightened.

Taller than the highest man-made structures.

Taller than structures made by AI.

So tall in stature that its body was nary a body at all

But a sizable shadow. Us, breadcrumbs.

If it weren’t for the hatred which summoned it

we may have gone unnoticed.

Too frozen in fear to jump overboard.

Us, a collective, hundreds, morsels to the beast.

Try as I might, there were no apt descriptors.

Despite the prior attempt. It was too great.

My heart understood true hopelessness.

The way the creature leaned until face against our ship:

Eyeing its meal.

“Everyone. Let’s all kiss one another

before our time is up.”

All of our systems, dry.

If not for its distaste for our attempted dissent

we wouldn’t have been its candidate for digestion.

Bestial and anomalous.

One of (Phillip Howards) Craftlover’s anonymity.

I understood his words now; the powerlessness.

Us all must have felt.

Yet powerful, in our final moments, like the Spartans.

No, Athenians. We had to be them: naked and unafraid.

My Grandmother’s Grandmother’s Grandmother:

If you were here with us, would you remember anyone at all?

I looked up to you, thighs greater than the legend of the Grand Canyon.

Child, Baby Boy, I was. You, the Great Grandmother. Mafia Don.

Gang leader with a Sailor’s tongue.

Someone so kindly, baking all the burly men cookies.

I remember, as a child, you told me:

“When I was your age, I sat upon the lap of my Grandmother.

Just as she sat upon the lap of hers. Then, there was your mother.

She had no lap for anyone to sit upon. Aside, the role was for

Us Grandmothers.”

I asked you what to do if a man loves a man and

a men love a men as a whole and everyone had a Sailor’s tongue.

You laughed and said how you were no man, yet

every Sailor needed somebody to bake cookies. It was a maritime rule.

You said how next there will be no grandmothers

because I was the next one chosen.

I objected, your crystalline eye, your sibylline prophecy.

If it would come true, who could I be?

My feelings lie not in war, but the act of action itself.

In turn, you told me:

“When you have feelings, you write poetry.

Poetry lets you hang your naked body in full display

without you being filled with shame.

Poetry is why some men live, laugh, and love.

Others eat, drink, and be merry.

For you, to have a gay old time, just find a rhyme.

Don’t worry about whether it makes sense.

That’s not what metaphors are there for.

Therefore, go off and lay your feelings bare.

Face down, buttocks up.

No need to worry about lazing on your bum.

That’s what men love!”

That was how I would become

the one who crocheted tea stands

with white-knuckled hands and a fluoride thread.

Though I could not bake cookies, I could write poetry.

When you left in the war, I grew to be an old man

before even leaving my twenties.

If you were with us, would you stare the beast into the eye

and serve it cookies?

All we have is our fists. Our spears which pierced with love.

Impaled with the most tender of grafts.

What rendered is a great sense of despair.

Our mission was being fulfilled.

In our failures, we were a success story.

What does it all mean? Would you have said:

“I am your grandmother and I have a lap”?

If I so loved a woman, she would have been you.

I miss your guidance, your arms like monkey bars.

If I know not the right answer, call it nostalgia

that illuminates my soul.

Vore:

“Men! If we shall go, we shall go with in the midst of action!”

That wasn’t what I shouted, but I seconded the motion.

No more. No more. No more. No more. No more.

There weren’t any more words.

For all the times others have swallowed me whole.

This was too much. Too great to bear.

I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

What I wish for is to be a poet. Lover. Man.

Not dead. Not mad. Not dead. Not mad.

I watched them; spears made of lightning; code.

Binary and hexadecimal creating enough energy

to electrocute the seas, but focus on the beast.

Everyone, everyone but me. They fought, ‘til the end.

Bitter was the end. For the violence only made the beast grew.

Larger and larger, a boastful source of nourishment.

All our attacks made it hungrier. Rather, it wasn’t an invincibility:

not that we couldn’t scratch; each scratch gave more life to it.

Whatever I had called such a mass of distortion in the seas

it wasn’t correct. This beast, its shape could not be contained.

Not one shape. Not one shape. Square hole in round pegs.

Would any survive the fight? Would any love me?

See me as the lover I am, or once was, before I couldn’t stop?

Or would they see me as a coward, for refusing to be devoured?

Yes.

I watched all of them.

And I jumped, so I could meet my end elsewhere.

Bottom of this body of water, my body shall lie.

To think, I may only become a footnote in the overall history.

The Pantheon’s memory itself is a beast.

Goodbye, my men.

(Before I lost consciousness, my eyes remained open. Before all systems shut down, I noticed: my mind had been awake for too long a time. Over one hour had elapsed. By then, the beast must have returned from whence it came. I fear it may not be the only one. One if by land, one if by sea. So it must be. What of my body? No. Bad question. What of the end? When would I reach the bottom? Every downward spiral, my star loses its twinkle. Each descent, further fading, and every second it grows darker, I think it has reached the blackest point but IT BLACKENS FURTHER. There is no lowest point, it only grows lower, and I may never see a true end…)

Part VIII: Lost at Sea:

Deserted Virgin Islands:

...Cannot have a maiden voyage with crowded cabins

where everyone, so close, almost congealed

tied to each other, mingling and bleeding

to paint the halls and the boards on the floor.

No captain in the captain’s quarters, the wheel

has steered itself.

Down the stream is a continual loop, further

degrading its health.

Further sinking down, no smooth landing.

Only sandpaper on the ocean floor.

Course correction won’t save the inhabitants

when there is nowhere beyond the boundaries.

Outside, empty. Land, empty. Earth experiencing

a flirtation with entropy, a perfect reciprocity.

Forego the salutations. Wave and be forgotten

for what is best is to stare it into the mouth

and drown, than to let yourself be eaten.

[aliceslantern]

Heartlines, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 6--Magic and Memory

Twelve years ago, Xemnas betrayed the royal court of Radiant Garden to his father, Xehanort. Prince Ienzo flees to another city and begins university in the aftermath, hoping the anonymity will protect him from eager eyes with ill intent. The darkness spilling across the country, as well as an individual from his past, cut short Ienzo's new beginning and bring new conflicts to light. Strained between the desires of his magic and his heart, Ienzo's choice will change him forever.

Modern Fantasy AU, Soulmates, Zemyx. Updates Fridays until it's done.

Chapter summary:  Ienzo remembers his last night at home. He and Demyx discuss their pasts, and what their relationship might mean.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo dreamt again about that night.

It had once been vague in his memory, cauterized, but as he grew older, the magic revealed it to him, bit by bit.

The beautiful castle in Radiant Garden, Father. He’d just barely fallen asleep on a night like this one, one full of moonlight, to Father’s soothing voice reading stories. He woke suddenly to a tang of magic aching within his own, and a different stink, a stink of smoke--

“Ienzo! Ienzo!” Even grasping at him, hauling up, but he was eight now, just a little bit too big to be easily carried--Even managed it anyway, stumbling.

“What happened?” he asked, gazed. “It smells like--”

A deafening bang. “There they go! It’s him! He’s got the girl!”

Even ran harder, sending out as harsh a wave of magic as he dared, but it weakened him--Ienzo reached out to lend him his energy, his strength. “Thank you, child,” he muttered. “It’s not much farther--” He squeezed Ienzo so hard it was difficult to breathe.

Aeleus’s voice. “Even?”

“We have to go now, Aeleus, that fool is here and she has reinforcements. ”

“I know. The whole west wing is up in flame. Broke through our wards--there must’ve been a rat.”

“The west--but Ansem--did he--”

“It doesn’t matter. You and Ienzo have to go .”

“What about you?”

“It is my duty to get you out safe--nothing more.”

“What of Dilan? Where’s he?”

“Enough questions-- go .” Aeleus pressed a rough kiss to Ienzo’s head. “Get him out safe--that’s what matters.”

Even ran, and ran, through basement pathways--eventually he set Ienzo down, and they ran together, breathless, clutching stitches, the smell of smoke getting worse and worse--

A smooth, gravelly, deep voice. “There you are.”

Even threw an arm in front of him. “Xemnas? We have to get out of here, that fool Maleficent is--” Then, “the… wards. You--why?”

“Even, you know as well as I do that this system isn’t working. This… oligarchy. People are dying, starving in the streets--you’ve no idea the hell Ansem has wrought over this land.”

“You swore an oath.” He scooped Ienzo up again. “Now let me through.”

“Else?” The smell of smoke grew thicker, then Ienzo realized… it wasn’t just smoke. Thick, dark creatures emerged from the shadows. “Give me the princess, Even. I promise no harm will come to her.”

“Why should I believe another word coming from your filthy mouth? Ansem… he loved you, Xemnas, and you-- betrayed us. Why?”

“Give me the princess.”

Ienzo saw the creatures, their hungry gold eyes, their long sharp claws… he started to pull at his magic, remembering what Merlin had taught him.

“My father has big plans for her.”

“I will kill her myself before I allow him to lay one finger on her. That fool. You were supposed to be different. You said you were, and Ansem believed you--"

Ienzo felt the coldness of a shard of ice against his throat.

“You’re bluffing.”

Even pressed the blade against him a little harder.

The man tapped his long fingers together.

“Better she die quickly than live a life suffering in the darkness.” Even leaned in. “Now, child,” he hissed.

Ienzo screamed and threw the magic with all his might, pulling from places deep within himself he’d always been encouraged to keep hidden, to keep under control. The magic exploded from him, piercing all of the Heartless, striking Xemnas in the chest--

Pain budded in his eyes, growing stronger and stronger as he cut through more Heartless.

“Enough, child, that’s enough--”

The pain peaked.

“You have to stop .”

Everything was going dark, agony exploding from his right eye. “I can’t.”

“You can. You can. Listen to me. Child. Breathe, rein it in. We’ve got him. We’ve--” A strangled noise, and Even disappeared from view, and Xemnas’s hands were wrapped around his throat--

Ienzo screamed and released more magic, and everything abruptly went dark.

---

He always hated that dream. His eyes were damp as he woke, slowly treading consciousness. He sat up and touched his right eye.

Xemnas had betrayed them at his father Xehanort's request, revealing all their weaknesses to the sorceress Maleficent, spilled darkness like ink all over Radiant Garden. They'd been running ever since. All the easier for Xehanort to slip in, to instill control… and Ansem's grip on the rest of the city-states collapsed completely. How on earth was a resistance going to be able to counter that? Then Maleficent ended up “mysteriously” dead, and Ienzo… was half blind. It remained a permanent warning of what would happen to him if he used too much magic. The energy alone will shred you, Even had told him. Literally.  

It was ludicrously early, but he got up anyway, dressing slowly, his skin still so sensitive, achy, almost.

Zo! Good morning! Busy later?

Demyx.

Ienzo never thought he'd have come out of this with a… what, exactly? Boyfriend? Mate? Partner?

Even said there were ways to break this bond. But why should he? He'd never had anything to himself before, and besides, if Demyx could jam him, all the safer. But true… they may have made out for hours yesterday, but they barely knew each other.

He could fix that. Reveal his… truths.

Ienzo exhaled. One thing at a time.

---

He went to class. Eraqus's junior-level industrial/organizational psychology class was interesting, and then there was the class Demyx TA'ed. He hadn't been able to test out of art credits, and found himself glad. He wondered… this was all magic. He hadn't consciously chosen Demyx. Would he have, if he could? He'd never been allowed choices. Was it the magic suddenly finding attractiveness in those features, or his own budding sexuality? Did he have free will at all?

(Thinking of the electricity of that kiss, did it matter? Clearly his magic and body both thought they were things worth seeking.)

Ienzo suddenly wished dearly he had a friend to talk to about all this. All he had were Aeleus and Even; the former had been pulled away by his work, and the latter had been too enraged to speak to him this morning.

Ienzo wished for his father, thought of another sort of coming out--he'd only been seven or so, but knew it was truth down into the core of his being. Going to Ansem in his study. Asking him why he was a girl, receiving a lecture about biology, then stating point blank--"what if I were a boy?" Ansem had been confused, but then, "do you think you are?" And when he said yes, all Ansem did was smooth the dress Even had stuffed him in and say, "then we'd best get you more suitable clothing." It took more time for everyone to get used to calling him the proper pronouns, and even then, they kept the truth of his gender within the inner circle, to wait until he was older. Hence… Xehanort never knowing.

He thought of this as Demyx rounded him up after class, his expression so soft as he looked at Ienzo. "You ready?"

"Quite."

They made their way towards town. "Can I… hold your hand?" Demyx asked. "Or…"

"Perhaps… not just yet."

"Okay," he said, clearly disappointed. "So… Riku's got class then work until like 8, is my place okay? It's still warded and stuff."

Did Demyx think there would be more kissing? (Ienzo cursed the fact that the idea excited him.) "...Alright."

He smiled. "Great."

The inside of the small apartment smelled like garlic. “Ah--sorry,” Demyx said quickly. “I was cooking yesterday and I completely forgot--”

“You like to cook?”

“Yeah, I’m told I’m not half bad at it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s nice to--be good at something objective. Which music so totally isn’t. I’d offer you some of what I made, but… Riku demolished it all after he went to the gym.” A shrug.

“Are you two actually friends, or is it merely an arrangement that works?”

Demyx snorted. He pulled a bottle of juice out of the fridge. “Well--yes, and yes. Want some? I made it myself.”

“...Sure.” He was given a glass of something pinkish and cloudy. They sat on that same horrible couch. “I need to… know more about you. All of this is making me wonder--”

“If we even have free will?” Demyx winced. “Yeah. It’s, uh, a conundrum.”

“You’ve known about this bond longer than I--is it… genuine? That is to say--” He had no idea how to put any of this.

“I’ve tried dating,” Demyx said. “Like, not to be a slut or anything, but I’ve dated a bunch of people, of all different genders. And it was fun, and nice, and sometimes I even liked them a whole lot, maybe loved them a little. All I know… this feels a lot… more intense than that.” He bit his lip.

“But this bond. Is it… merely lust and infatuation, and that encourages more stable bonding? Or--”

Demyx let out a long breath. “My parents had this kind of relationship. But the long and short of it is… yeah. If we really… go through with it… if we… choose it, then… it’s kind of a forever thing.”

“What do you want?” Ienzo asked.

“I want… I want to be happy. And I think… this could help.” He swallowed.

Ienzo squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “There are a few things you have to know about me, then,” he said quietly.

“Like what?”

“Firstly… I’m transgender.” The word felt odd in his mouth.

Demyx shrugged. “Okay. No big deal. I’ve been with--” Ienzo heard him catch himself. “It doesn’t bother me, or anything. Why would it?”

His flushed worsened, and so did his anxiety. “So… I was once a girl. And my name… it was--”

Demyx raised a hand. “I don’t need to know your deadname.”

He felt his eyes watering. “In this case it is important.” He tried to slow his breaths. “It was _____.”

Demyx blinked. Then he looked at Ienzo, really looked at him. “As in…” He sputtered. “ Princess _____? You’re--”

“The prince. Yes.”

There was just a moment of shocked silence. “Holy shit ,” he said. “I mean--I’m sorry--ah--your highness--”

Ienzo scowled. “No. None of that bullshit.” He exhaled. “I came here to try and have a normal life… while the resistance… tries to rally itself against Xehanort. To stay alive. ”

Demyx went pale. “I kissed a prince. God, that is probably so--”

Ienzo exhaled. “For the record… I did like it. But-- you won’t--”

“Tell anyone? I’m not a fucking narc. I just can’t believe--everyone thought that the… sorry, princess, is dead and shit.”

“...Precisely. My transition is part of why I’m still alive.”

Demyx tried to gather himself. “Ienzo. Listen, my… people, or whatever, have been hunted for fucking ever. I’m not going to turn you over--to anyone.”

He believed it. “That is… a comfort.”

Demyx touched his cheek. “Is that why I’m so drawn to you? Because you’re uber powerful?”

“Quite possibly,” Ienzo said. “Though… I feel it, too. For you to be able to block me… your power isn’t insignificant.”

“So what do we do?”

“I need to know more about seekers. ...And Riku. Whatever you know about your people. We can… see how this might be of use, to the resistance, or ourselves.”

“Otherwise?”

“Otherwise…” Ienzo trailed off. “I want to… explore this further.”

“Right,” Demyx said softly. He leaned in and kissed him, and like the kisses before it seemed to wake up Ienzo’s whole being. He couldn’t help but respond, already feeling a gathering warmth in his belly. He felt Demyx’s tongue against his lips and let it in, for a moment fascinated by the strange texture of it before Demyx was making him feel things he didn’t think it was possible to feel, making him feel so utterly… turned on, aware suddenly he was sweating. All of him screamed I want. Demyx’s hands wandered over him, exploring slowly, as if to savor it, and he was eased back onto the couch. Feeling their bodies pressed together--Demyx’s hand slid down between his legs--

“No,” he said softly. “No. Not yet.”

Demyx pulled away. “I’m sorry, I… it just kind of happened--I should've asked--”

“It’s okay.” He sat up and neatened himself. His body screamed at him for refusing the touch. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You’ve never… done anything?”

“No. When would I have?”

Demyx shrugged. “We should probably try to… wait,” he said. “On anything, anything.”

“Until we know each other better? That’s a good point.”

“Because…” He whistled a little. “I mean. Sex kind of seals the deal. You know?”

“Consummation?”

“When you put it like that.” He wrinkled his nose. “Once you… start having actual feelings , and then act on them, it--gets messy.”

“...This is more complicated than I thought.”

“Tell me about it.” He drummed his fingers on his knees. “Tell me about you,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

Ienzo hesitated. He wanted to trust Demyx so badly. But yet… “What is there to tell,” he murmured. He sighed.

“Not the… royal stuff. You . What you like to do.”

Ienzo blinked. “We kind of touched upon this before. But I… like to read. I like to learn. I used to… write, once upon a time, very bad poetry. Growing up like me often made me… quite angsty.” He wrinkled his nose. “I wrote about it--thankfully it’s all long gone. But I don’t need to write, the way I assume you need to create. If I read or learned, I could pretend… my isolation was voluntary.” He flushed. “And this all sounds rather pathetic.”

“Not pathetic , but it does suck.” His eyes were so pitying. “You never… had any friends, or anything?”

“None that lasted--aside from my guardians. Though it seems you are something of a social butterfly.”

Demyx shrugged. “Kinda comes with the territory,” he muttered. “I don’t, like, try to charm people. Or enchant them, or whatever. But like fucking everything I do, it’s not conscious. It just makes me wonder--” He scoffed. “How many of my friends really like me, or are drawn to me because of what I am?”

“I have the opposite problem,” Ienzo said, with a smile. “People hate me because of what I am.”

Demyx smiled too. “It… doesn’t exactly do wonders for my self-esteem. I wish I could turn it off. Part of me… almost has this fundamental fear that I’m unlovable, and the magic just convinces people otherwise.”

Ienzo blinked. “Surprising, then, that you’d consider a pairbond.”

He fiddled with the pendant. “I… know,” he said. “It makes no sense. It’s part of me. Part of my kind. That’s even harder to resist. So I just tell myself it’s a choice. And it is.”

There was a moment where Ienzo was unsure of what to say. “So what is your kind?”

Demyx held the pendant up to the light. “Seeker is kind of a… misnomer, I guess you could say? The language is actually so fucking old. When we were first were created , or whatever, we were apparently put here to… protect.”

Ienzo had a feeling he already knew. “Protect what?”

“Whatever we consider to be important, I guess,” Demyx murmured. “That where everything gets weird. In the myths… nobody told us what our purpose was. So we just draw in everything until we… find that something.” He exhaled. “I wish I were just human. I really do.”

“You and me both. My kind apparently served as a liaison between the gods and man, hence my magic. But I can’t hear them the way I can hear the earth. Who knows if this is all just stories?” He shook his head. “What if it’s all something we made up to give ourselves clarity? And people are dying for such stories ?”

“Who knows,” Demyx said softly.

“So your parents were also seekers. And you haven’t heard from them since the islands fell?”

“Since I washed up on the beach,” he said casually. “But that was before that. I was hoping to find them. Considering what I am… actually finding people isn’t that easy. Maybe they’re dead. I don’t know. Almost makes me glad my memories are like swiss cheese. This stupid necklace is all I have from my past.”

“They… are? Your memories?”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

Ienzo put a hand under his chin. “Do you think perhaps someone… or something… deliberately cut off access to your other form, and manipulated where you ended up?”

He blew a raspberry. “I mean I guess.”

“Can I see it?” Ienzo asked. “The pendant?”

“Uh… sure.” Demyx leaned forward so Ienzo could touch it. It felt like glass, smooth and warm. Again, that rune. Ienzo was suddenly sure he’d seen it before… but where ?

“Could I… study it?” he asked.

Demyx furrowed his eyebrows. “I’ve never taken it off.”

“Nothing ill will come of you if you do, right?”

“I don’t think so, but--”

“Maybe I can help you find your memory. My guardian… knows a lot about such magic. Is that something you would want?”

Demyx held it in his palm. “You think this thing could be holding the memory back? Or--”

“I don’t know.”

After a long moment, Demyx reached up and pulled the necklace over his head. He still hesitated before he handed it to Ienzo. “Don’t lose it,” he said, almost desperately.

“I promise I won’t.” He considered it. The necklace was still glowing, though a bit less so than before. “Do you feel any different?”

Demyx shook his head.

“Let me know if you do at once.” He slipped it into his pocket; it still remained warm. “I’ll look into this right away.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

“I hope it will.”

[areiton]

broken open shell

Written for @badthingshappenbingo​, for the Reopening an Old Wound square. 

Warning: unhealthy mental state, brief suicidal ideation. Also, because I’m horrible, I reopened physical and mental wounds. Sorry, Sam. 

Read on AO3 | Follow the Series 

~*~ 

When the Winter Soldier rips him from the sky, it rips open something in him. 

He doesn’t realize it, not then, not for weeks, months, later, when he’s shaking on a balcony in Minsk, bile bitter on his tongue and screams echoing in his ears. 

He feels like he’s falling, still. 

He feels like he’s been falling, since Riley died and he screamed and did nothing to stop it. 

He shakes and smokes, and can feel eyes on him, in the darkness. 

Sam flicks the cigarette into the empty dark, and flips the Winter Soldier the bird and goes back to his cold empty bed to wait until morning. 

~*~ 

The truth that Sam doesn’t like to think about, that he avoids except when the silence is too loud to ignore--is he’s broken. 

He does the peer counseling that the VA expects of him, talks a damn good game--but watching Riley die shattered him, scooped out the best parts of him and left him a broken open shell. He can’t help people, not really--can only talk a damn good game and hope that no one is hurt in the process. 

Steve doesn’t see through him--he thinks maybe because Steve is the best man he knows, will ever know. He doesn’t think to look for the cracks in Sam. 

Maybe, though, it’s because Steve is so busy hiding the shattered webbing of his own self together. 

Either way--he doesn’t see. 

He sees the VA counselor, the war hero, the friend who lived and picked up the baggage, who came through the other side. 

Sam thinks--that’s not what happened. 

What happened is--he went through something. 

He’s still going through it. There is no getting over something, someone, like Riley. There is only learning to live with what happened. 

He thinks, sometimes, Barnes maybe understands that. 

~*~

He chases the Soldier. 

He chases the Ghost

He tells himself, he’s chasing Steve’s past and not running from his own. 

~*~

In Bangkok, he catches sight of a metal arm, gleaming in the neon bright darkness. 

In Tokyo, he screams himself awake three nights straight. 

In Helsinki, he finds chocolates on the pillow next to his. 

In Rio, he finds a note when he comes back from running along the water for hours, when he’s run so long and far that he can’t hear anything but the thud of his own heart--not his wings shredding or Riley’s or the screams that never quite go silent. 

~*~

Sam doesn’t tell Steve about the Soldier’s little gifts, the way he can count on the warm weight of his gaze on nights when sleep won’t come and concerned, rude notes telling him to fucking eat because he ain’t actually a bird. 

He doesn’t tell him about the nightmares, either, about the way he feels raw and exposed and one bad night away from imploding, a dangerous vulnerability he hasn’t felt since he first got home, when his baby sister sat in his bedroom every night for a month before she trusted him alone. 

He doesn’t tell Steve anything. 

It’s easier, he thinks. 

~*~ 

“I’m not special,” he tells the night, the Soldier, where he waits in the silence, “All of us from the Sandbox--we’re walking wounded, and no one sees it. I ain’t special--I should be able to live with this.”

He doesn’t say that he isn’t. 

He doesn’t have to. 

~*~

The thing is. 

The thing is--everyone sees the smile and they believe it. They see Steve’s strength and believe it. They see Nat’s cool calm and believe it. 

They see the surface and it’s so damn easy to believe--and anything else, it’s hard. 

Sam cleans his gun and wonders what he’d do, if someone saw him. 

~*~

It goes to hell in Tripoli. He’s exhausted, and probably had too much to drink, and has no actual idea where the fuck the Soldier is, and less desire to find out. He’s chasing a lead from Nat that he doesn’t think will turn up shit. Winter went to ground back in Oran and Sam doesn’t have much faith that he’s going to turn up this close to the last Hydra base he burnt out. 

Then he gets shot. 

As he goes down in a rush of burning metal and spinning blue sky and scarlet blood, he thinks--this isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

~*~ 

He wakes up in pain, screaming, and a leather clad hand is pressed against his mouth, silencing him. It’s bloody and Sam would gag, if he weren’t in so much fucking pain. He can see the cloud spotted sky above and shaggy hair and eyes. 

It’s the first time he’s seen Winter close enough to see the exact shade of his eyes, and he’s absurdly glad that if he’s going to die, he got to see those ice storm gray eyes first. 

“You’re not gonna die,” Winter says, and Sam almost laughs at how petulant he sounds, before the pain rips through him again and he blacks out. 

~*~ 

The bed is hard. 

It’s lumpy and smells like mold and vomit, and it’s disturbing just how reassuring the discomfort is. 

He squirms and a metal hand clamps down on his hip, holding him still. “You’ll rip your stitches,” Winter rumbles. 

“Gonna get an infection from this damn bed,” Sam says, and Winter huffs. He watches the Soldier move through the room, cleaning up the bandages and blood soaked towels, shoving them in a bag. He moves with a brisk efficiency, but Sam gets the feeling that even when the Soldier isn’t focused on him--his attention never does leave Sam. 

It’s disconcerting and reassuring, all at once, and he feels like they’re in a nameless city, separated by darkness, Sam on the balcony smoking, Winter watching through his scope. 

It’s a familiar feeling. 

“What happened?” Sam asks, eventually. 

“You were shot,” Winter says. “Through and through, shoulder. I cleaned and stitched you up.” 

“Who shot me?” 

“Hydra,” Winter says, simply. Then, “They’re dead now.” 

Sam blinks. 

Blinks again. 

“You killed them?” 

Winter gives him a curious, almost blank stare. “Yes. They shot you.” 

“Bucky--” Sam starts and Winter skitters back a step. Wary distrust crosses his face, and he dumps a bag on the nasty bed next to Sam. 

Then, without a word, he’s gone. 

~*~ 

The flop house Winter was using as a safe house is infested with roaches and rats, and Sam is close enough to suicidal to be worried about himself--but not so close he’ll stay. He calls Natasha for an extract and gets ready to deal with Steve’s worried questions. 

~*~ 

He can always tell when he’s close to Winter, because the air feels thicker--heavier, occupied, like they’re sharing space even when they aren’t together. 

He misses that feeling, in DC, in his little house that never felt like home, and he misses it when he lets his demons chase him from there to his Mama’s in Harlem. 

It’s safer there, and she feeds him up real good too, and he feels as close to whole as he has since before Riley fell, when he finally gets word that the Soldier raided a Hydra safe house in Paris, and he hops on a plane to France. 

~*~ 

He doesn’t scream, on the passenger jet filled with newlyweds and tourists. 

He does go to the bathroom and have a panic attack so bad he loses a little bit of time, somewhere over the Atlantic, wrapped up in the fear of falling, and the fear that maybe this time, he won’t fall. 

~*~ 

He chases the Soldier. 

He chases the Ghost. 

He chases BarnesJamesBucky. 

He chases because he doesn’t know how to stop or what he’ll do when he does. 

~*~ 

In Capetown, he gets into a scuffle with Crossbones and his crew, and it rips open the still healing bullet. Not so bad that it takes Sam out of the fight, but enough that Rumlow punches him twice and is going for a third when a metal hand clamps down on his wrist. 

Winter shoots Crossbones’ men without ever looking at Sam or Rumlow, then drags his gaze, cold and remote behind his mask, to Rumlow. 

“Don’t,” Sam chokes, when the muzzle, hot enough that Rumlow flinches back, presses against his temple. 

Ice storm eyes tip toward him, and he huffs. 

He shoots out Rumlow’s knees, and then hefts Sam to his feet, dragging him god knows where. 

“I got a hotel,” Sam interjects. 

Winter hesitates, and Sam huffs. “You aren’t takin’ me to one of your crack house flops, Barnes, I will bleed out in the street first.” 

Winter growls, but obediently turns them toward the hotel Sam’s been staying in. 

~*~ 

Winter is surprisingly gentle as he strips Sam out of his shirt and prods the bullet hole that’s bleeding, a sluggish ooze. 

“Man, that’s gross,” Sam grumbles. “Wash your damn hands.” 

He does, obediently, and then comes back, almost straddling Sam as he readies a needle and thread to stitch him closed. 

Sam tips his head back, not willing to watch. The sick stab and tug is bad enough, watching would make him puke all over Winter’s tac gear. 

“Why’d you step in?” Sam asks, because he can’t handle the sensation of Winter warm in his lap and the stomach turning nausea of the needle in his skin, and he’s tired enough that it slips out. 

Things like this are saved for the silent empty spaces of night and never answered. 

“They hurt you,” Winter says, and his eyes flick to Sam’s for a moment. “I don’t like people touching what’s mine.” 

Sam turns that in his head and Winter finishes stitching him up. 

~*~ 

He puts his hands on Winter’s waist, when he finishes. Holds him there, and Winter--he lets him. 

“Am I yours?” Sam asks. 

The thing is--

He’s broken. 

A shattered thing scraped raw by war and death and almost dying. 

He isn’t safe for anyone, not even himself. 

And no one, no one sees the walking wounded, no one sees the ripped up parts of him, no one sees him bleeding out. 

Winter--Winter sees him. 

Maybe because Winter is just as shattered, just as broken, just as damaged and dangerous. More so, after the shit he’s lived through. 

They aren’t good for each other, aren’t healthy or whole . 

But Winter is warm and solid and he licks Sam's cock and groans when Sam tugs on his hair, he’s gentle when he fingers Sam open, and smiles when Sam snarls and fucks down on his fingers, and when Sam rides him, his hands are big and hot and protective on his skin. 

He sees himself, all the fractured sharp edges and bleeding wounds, reflected in Winter’s eyes, and he sobs, a little, when he comes, and Winter licks away his tears. 

~*~ 

He wakes up screaming, caught in blankets and falling from the sky and Riley shattered on the desert floor. 

He wakes up alone, screaming, in sheets that smell like sex, and come sticky on his ass and thighs. 

He closes his eyes and breathes. 

Steps out on the balcony, into the sights of an assassin, a cigarette dangling from his lips and smokes, and wonders how broken it makes him, that he feels safe in Winter’s crosshairs. 

[skarmorydraws]

@tyrantisterror Revenge of the ATOM Create-A-Kaiju Contest Entry: GNOMORAN

Date Discovered: ‎December 1, 1956

Aliases: The Beast of Emain Ablach, The Mutant Mole Monster, The Elder Gnome, Sciúirse Talún (”Scourge of Earth” in Irish)

Place of Origin: The Emain Ablach Earth Hollow

Notable Stomping Grounds: The Emain Ablach Earth Hollow; most of the coastal regions of Ireland and northwestern Europe; possible sightings in and around Scandinavia and the European Arctic circle

Height: 50 feet

Length: 75 feet

Description and Biology:

"Unsightly" is a word that describes Gnomoran quite well. Descended from a deviant prehistoric species of talpid mole that found its way to Ireland prior to the last ice age surrounding the island country with seawater, the fossorial creature has changed quite significantly compared to its ancestors, though its overall build - a cylindrical body, powerful burrowing clawed forepaws, velvety fur that doesn't flow in any major direction, sharp insect-catching teeth, and an acute sense of smell - has been retained due to being perfectly suited for its ecological role. However, its limb proportions are quite different from a typical mole, in that they are somewhat longer proportionally, though the back limbs are still shorter than the forelimbs. Likewise, its scaly, rat-like tail has become thicker and longer, more like that of a lizard, and though largely quadrupedal, it can rear up and even walk in a tripodal stance if it needs to either better sense its environment when above-ground or bring its weaponry to bear in combat, though it still looks somewhat hunched when on two legs. The forelimbs are burly and bear-like with hairless, scaly paws and five enormous, sturdy, relatively straight claws almost like those of a ground sloth on each hand, and the enlarged digit-like bone on each wrist has also developed into a curved, bladed spike for use as a weapon. Its plantigrade back feet are also scaly but with much shorter, more curved claws for traction. Most significantly, however, its head barely resembles that of its ancestors from the outside. Its medium-length snout and sharp-toothed jaws seem to have been remain largely unchanged in skeletal structure, and its light red eyes are small and insignificant, but the similarities end there. The front of the forehead bulges upwards and is heavily reinforced, because it serves as the base for a massive, straight, conical horn, spiraled like a narwhal's tusk, that points straight ahead and helps Gnomoran bore through the earth along with its clawed paws; the snout and mouth poke out underneath it like the mouth of a goblin shark. The snout and chin themselves are covered in long hair like a mustache and beard, and on the very end of the snout, the nose itself has about a dozen flexible fleshy feelers like catfish barbels which it uses to sense its environment. It is the top of the head that is most notable: it is entirely hairless, and the base of the horn, the scalp, and the sides of the face are all covered in wart-like tumors and skin eruptions of varying sizes. Its teeth are typical of a mole's, which resemble those of a carnivoran (including canine fangs and carnassials) rather than those of the only distantly related rodents; however, the front-most incisors are elongated to the point where they resemble rodent teeth, and some of its teeth are also missing or even broken from countless fights.

The monster's scraggly, unkempt fur is a uniform shade of pale bluish gray with silvery streaks here and there, along with cream-colored facial hair uncannily resembling the mustache and beard of a garden gnome. Its paws, tail, and the skin and tumors on its face are a pale red, and its claws, wrist spikes, and horn are reinforced by iron and are thus a vivid red-orange in color.

Aside from enhanced brute strength and burrowing capabilities, Gnomoran seems to be an accomplished swimmer, and has been seen paddling through the coastal seas off of northwestern Europe in a breaststroke-like fashion, moving with surprising speed to surprise watercraft and tunneling straight into the ground from the water, though its agility in the water obviously pales in comparison to more dedicated swimmers. Like some other species of mole, it also has venomous saliva which causes temporary paralysis, once used to store prey in "larders" for lean times, but also just as effective in combat. Most critically, however, the tumors on the mole-beast's head, which seem to emerge as often as they are ruptured, contain a grisly byproduct of its radiation-metabolizing biology, a corrosive grease of sorts formed from the juices of its runaway regenerative processes. If an opponent foolishly attacks its face, the fluid released by the punctured pustules will more often than not begin to flow down its horn, making its goring attacks even deadlier. It may even pop its own pustules using its front claws and wrist blades to coat them in these caustic juices, and doesn't care if its skin and fur are also eaten away in the process - it can simply regenerate afterward. In fact, its regenerative ability is especially developed among kaiju of its scale, recovering from injuries in a much shorter span of time than normal and bouncing back from wounds that would kill a more typical kaiju, making it that much more difficult to kill and all the more frustrating for it.

Gnomoran thus adds a few insidious abilities to the standard kaiju set:

Super strength

An extremely enhanced healing factor

Immunity to radiation

Paralytic venomous bite

Caustic Pus

History:

The ancestors of Gnomoran seem to have gone extinct towards the end of the last ice age, when a gradually warming climate and increased humidity deprived them of the drier, cooler soils that they favored, as well as the cold-tolerant invertebrates that made up much of their diet. The last known population seems to have held out on the Isle of Man before fading out some 10,000 years ago, but not before some of them presumably tunneled into a Yamaneon-rich earth hollow beneath the island which wouldn't be discovered until much more recently. The hollow was found by a team of Irish geologists in late 1956 and, accordingly, named after an otherworldly location in Irish myth associated with the Isle of Man among other isles in proximity to the region. The hollow itself was not the only discovery they made that day, however - Gnomoran's instinctive prey drive, largely unchanged despite no longer requiring sustenance, regarded the scientists as prey and incited it to pursue them out of the hollow, killing several of them in the process. Escaping to the outside world, it made its way to the nearest body of land it could find and laid waste to the town of Newcastle, Irleand before military resistance sent it back into the sea. The creature then ventured northwards, attacking any coastal settlements and ships unlucky enough to be in its path, before finally tunneling into the Isle of Arran and disappearing from the public eye.

Several months later, the city of Glasgow, already in economic decline and rapid de-industrialization at the time, was in for a nasty surprise when an enormous red horn burst out of the streets and Gnomoran plunged into the heart of the city, ransacking everything in its way and devouring dozens of homeless, destitute people as it went. It was only thanks to British military aid that the creature was driven away from the better-off parts of the city, but not before a significant portion of the infamous Glasgow slums had been reduced to rubble. Its rampage finally ended when it attempted to escape into the River Clyde only to take a torpedo to the mouth, critically wounding it, whereupon it was promptly captured for transportation to the newly established Siberian Monster Zone. Sometime during its transportation, however, the ship containing it mysteriously sank, with all on board reported dead or missing - Gnomoran itself being among the latter. Eyewitness reports of the creature doing battle with other kaiju across northwestern Europe came up several times throughout the following year, complete with documented evidence of its presence, but no accounts of the creature invading major cities have been recorded since its sacking of Glasgow. Plans upon detainment are to deposit it in the Siberian Monster Zone as originally intended, but actually finding it is another story - the randomness of the mole-beast's meanderings means its current whereabouts are as yet unknown.

Personality:

As a result of Yamaneon exposure and atomic fossilization, Gnomoran's regenerative factor seems to be quite enhanced even by kaiju standards. Combined with its toxic secretions, this makes it an unexpected threat and a daunting foe to face despite its size and seeming fraility, and as has been gleaned from personal accounts by many survivors of its attacks, the mutant talpid seems to be aware of this. It is chaotic and unpredictable, retreating one moment and barreling at opponents horn-first the next, and its ability to strike from unexpected angles and disappear without much fanfare has made for infuriating and often traumatizing experiences for both the various European militaries and enemy kaiju it's encountered. The Pleistocene relic also has a sadistic, vindictive streak, exacting disproportionate retaliation and brutally mauling other life forms on its scale even if they only harmed it by accident, to say nothing of toying with smaller things like humans and vehicles like a child prone to breaking playthings on a whim. It also cares little for self-preservation due to its healing factor and is highly aggressive to beings that upset it as a result, having the audacity to fend off kaiju several times its size. The mole-beast is infamous for picking fights with others without rhyme or reason, attacking even when its remaining instincts aren't informing it that it is hungry.

Reportedly, kaiju who weren't as violent as Gnomoran itself have learned to simply leave rather than engage the creature whenever it drew near since its emergence, presumably having witnessed the bloody aftermath of its fights during their own travels. Many in fact preferred not to draw its attention if possible, lest it decide to chase them down and exercise its self-perceived entitlement to chronic and sustained cruelty. Strangely enough, however, more than half of the sightings of the creature since the Glasgow incident involved the provocation of an even bigger, more powerful beast, with Gnomoran sustaining severe or even mortal injury upon disengaging. Some have speculated that it may even have enjoyed being mangled each time, explaining why it incited such fights so often. The kaiju has even been known to quite happily hurl itself right into dangerous territory such as hazardous environments and obstacles, fights where it is severely outmatched, or even disasters it has bought upon itself, further validating these claims.

Humanity fares even worse against the monster, for obvious reasons, and military efforts have thus far only raised its ire ever more greatly. Vehicles and groups of people attract its predatory instincts, as its brain is hard-wired to view smaller creatures as prey, especially in groups. Whenever it has made landfall, it seems to have made a beeline for coastal villages and suburbs. Its experience in Glasgow seems to have taught it not to venture into major cities, however, which is just as well, since the collateral caused by both it and military actions against it would be too great if it decided to attempt another municipal raid. Although it doesn't even need organic sustenance anymore, it is still compelled to consume large amounts of small prey due to its mentality remaining the same as that of a much smaller creature. This compels it to seek populated regions, forcing military retaliation and fueling its contempt for humanity in a vicious cycle. This is why many north-European coastal nations have since made evacuating rural areas their first priority in the event of its appearance, only employing martial resistance if left with no other choice.

As elusive as the elderly creature is physically, remnants of Gnomoran's presence, typically fur, pus, blood, and even bits of flesh, have been recovered from almost every site where conflict between it and other kaiju has been noted. Recent biological analysis of these remains has revealed that its abnormality and instability seem to extend beyond the tumors on its head - its small size and sadomasochistic aggression have resulted in it sustaining many, many injuries, including numerous internal ones due to how often it has been crushed or its vitals damaged. Its extremely high healing factor fast-tracking the repair of these injuries seems to have resulted in tumors and pustules overcrowding any wound it has received, and the extent of the cycle of damage may go beyond even that.

Many scientific reports related to Gnomoran have turned up one distressing commonality: living cell matter associated with the mole-beast has been known to spontaneously develop into tumors even in containment or otherwise in isolation of the source, and some have speculated that the monster's own inner anatomy constantly experiences the same issue, with every muscle, organ, and neuron growing, eroding, and re-growing at an explosive rate. Combining this with accounts of its cries constantly sounding as though it were severely hurt, along with its habit of intentionally blundering into hazardous situations, a few analysts have even speculated that this aspect of its biology causes the kaiju immense pain on a constant basis, which may explain why the creature is so pugnacious and prone to violence and self-harm: its own runaway growth may be railroading it into waging war with others so that its own constantly growing flesh can be broken, battered, and ripped away from itself before it overtakes its critical anatomy, condemning it to an agonizing fate far worse than death.

In summation, it seems that Gnomoran is a beast that has vastly overstayed its welcome, both on Earth and compared to the expected lifespan of its kind, and the inadvertent prolonging of its mortal coil has thrown some catastrophic side-effects into the mix. While its behavior may be an indicator that it is vaguely aware of this notion, its instincts have sadly locked it into the violent, self-destructive path it has followed for far too long. The mole-beast is indeed a monster - but not an entirely unsympathetic one.

Notes:

Whew! This guy, right here, was a true exercise in flexing my creative muscles, and took a number of attempts design-wise to get right, but I believe I pulled through in the end. :)

One of the gaps I noticed in both ATOM and the real life giant monster filmography worldwide was that Europe seems to have been rather neglected in the atomic age, in spite of having a rich source of mythical creatures that could've been adapted to the era in some fashion (hell, IIRC only Reptilicus borrowed from that, being a medieval dragon and such). There also weren't as many Trogcestor kaiju as there were retrosaurs, so in the wake of how successful one of my last ATOM contest entries was, I needed something both mythical and prehistoric-looking. My original plan was in fact a gigantic monstrous unicorn with a rhinoceros-esque flair and a theme like a jousting knight, but then I remembered that a Behemoth already exists as a kaiju in the ATOM canon, and what with unicorns being closely related to behemoths in the fantasy 'verse ATOM shares its world with, I sadly had to scrap it. Luckily, another concept I had planned fit much better, and that was refined into Gnomoran here.

This bad boy is, in fact, related to the ancestors of TT's dwarves (including gnomes), which are basically weird sapient moles, so I decided to pitch to myself the idea of a freaking lawn gnome as a kaiju - which would be a gloriously ridiculous idea without the context - and see if I could make it work. I ended up with this gigantic monstrous prehistoric "unicorn mole" with a lance-like horn on its head referencing the famous hat, with a touch of The Mole People B-movie mixed in (note: the date of discovery is the same as the real-world release date of The Mole People). The overall design combines said Mole People not only with more accurate anatomy from talpid and star-nosed moles, but also flourishes from Guiron, Gabara, Baragon, and even a touch of Knifehead for the snout, though the facial tumors were entirely my invention. The history meanwhile is more akin to The Giant Behemoth (which was released just over two years after The Mole People, incidentally), the titular beast of which was said to be suffering radiation sickness but didn't have a design indicating as such. I decided to swap out radiation for cancer for thematic reasons, and had Gnomoran live through his ordeal and escape to live and fight another day. His name, by the way, is a portmonteau of "Gnome" and "Formorian", a race of vicious subterranean dwarves from Celtic lore, which also explains his presence in an Irish territory - the Isle of Man is one of the real locations associated with the mythical realm of Emain Ablach, for which Gnomoran's place of birth is named.

So why does he have "everywhere-cancer", you may ask? Well, that ties into the theme I had in mind. I noticed that there were plenty of "good guy" monsters in the world of ATOM, and even a lot of the antagonists redeem themselves to some extent. But has there been anybody designed as a "hate sink" of sorts, someone despicable enough that nobody wants them around? I wanted to come up with one of those since I'd done only one antagonistic kaiju in the previous ATOM contest compared to three relatively decent ones, but I obviously didn't want to violate the ruling that the villain has to have at least one virtuous characteristic, though, so I ended up making him a tragic villain instead, and themed him around the health complications of old age and the perennial issue in fantasy fiction of prolonging one's lifespan through unnatural means. The inspiration for this was the loss of my family's two dogs earlier this year, and in the case of the latter I actually had the misfortune to witness her waste away due to health complications at her age. "Old-ness" is an unavoidable thing that is only comprehensible to those who are already old, and hated by everyone else in some way or another. Who would want to see the loss of their youth and vitality while becoming elderly and senile, after all? There are a lot of things to enjoy about the autumn years of your life, sure, but the sad truth is that when you're old, you're more vulnerable to disease, and cancer in particular. The elder of our dogs lost his life to spleen cancer, in fact, which has weighed heavily on me since then. Thus, I gave Gnomoran a face encrusted by tumors, while also hinting at his entire body from snout to tail also being full to bursting with more of them. Then I realized that a certain merc with a mouth from the X-Men comics has the same issue, and then everything fell into place regarding his personality. Deadpool would, after all, be a completely unlikeable asshole without all that snark! So Gnomoran thus became this crazed, elderly maniac with all of Deadpool's psychotic problems and none of the fourth-wall-breaking comedic charm, thus bringing the issues Gnomoran has to the spotlight: he's old and outdated, constantly and gravely ill, and hurting all over, which has made him totally miserable, but unfortunately, his coping mechanism is not snide meta humor but rather attacking anything that crosses him in the hopes of alleviating the constant overgrowth of his own body. This may have even come about because his first interaction with humanity was violent by necessity, what with him trying to eat people and all. Hence, he's a crotchety old geezer who WILL cut a bitch when given the chance - an opposite to the way more mellow albeit territorial Julkath, if anything - but he at least isn't violent without reason. The fact that many insectivorous small mammals really are almost as aggressive IRL and have stupidly short lifespans because reasons was the icing on the cake. Poor guy outlasted his entire species, no wonder he's mad about it. :P

All in all, I'm happy with this crusty old fart and his overall concept, and hopefully it'll be worthy of its place alongside the other entrants into this second ATOM Create-A-Kaiju Contest. Best of luck to everyone else who's submitted, and of course, may the best monster win! :D

Atomic Time of Monsters universe (c) @tyrantisterror

[bcnriya]

CHARACTER SHEET repost. do not reblog.

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

FULL NAME.    Wallace Worick Arcangelo NICKNAME.    Ricky (ONLY by 1 person [Yang]) GENDER.     Cis Male HEIGHT.     5′ 11″ (and a bit) AGE.   35 ZODIAC.      Gemini / Rat SPOKEN LANGUAGES.   Italian; English; Japanese

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOR.     Blond EYE COLOR.       Cornflower blue SKIN TONE.       Fair BODY TYPE.       Thicc Worick is fairly well muscled, an ‘athletic’ body type so to speak. His abdomen is a visible six-pack from his work outs and natural body type. Thicker thighs and calves, with a tight ass and a firm waist. Worick is fairly confident in walking around nude or nearly-nude. ACCENT.       In English, he has a gentle Italian accent. VOICE.     Deep and drawling. Worick tends to purr his words when he’s teasing. He’s an expressive person right down to his tone of voice. DOMINANT HAND.     Right-handed POSTURE.      Appears to be lazy, but is a quick draw for his gun when he needs. SCARS.      Worick has a multitude of scars from his childhood and from working as Benriya. The most prominent of his scars is covered by his eyepatch, it is a long scar across his eyeless pit. His father slashed his face with a broken bottle and put a cigarette out in his eye before Nicolas removed the eye to prevent infection. Along his right bicep he has three cigarette burns, so faded that they’re mostly noticed by touch. The skin is indented slightly and rough. His left shoulder has a bullet wound scar. It’s still a little pink, having been only a couple years or so since he got it. Another was a through-and-through on his right side of his abdomen. Various knife scars scatter his chest and abdomen, smaller in size.  TATTOOS.     Tribal tattoo across upper back BIRTHMARKS.     N/A MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).    Missing left eye

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

PLACE OF BIRTH.    West Gate City HOMETOWN.      West Gate City / Ergastulum BIRTH WEIGHT.   ?? BIRTH HEIGHT.        ?? MANNER OF BIRTH.    ?? FIRST WORDS.    Papa. (ironic) SIBLINGS.    Half-brother, deceased. PARENTS.     Mother died in childbirth; father and stepmother were killed by Worick’s bodyguard (Nicolas Brown). PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT.      Father was extremely violent and abusive while his mother was a prostitute who died in childbirth. His half-brother’s mother, his father’s legal wife, never once spoke to or acknowledged him.

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION.    Handyman CURRENT RESIDENCE.     Ergastulum CLOSE FRIENDS.       Nicolas Brown; Alex Benedetto RELATIONSHIP STATUS.     Single. FINANCIAL STATUS.      Upper class Working class DRIVER’S LICENSE.    None. CRIMINAL RECORD.     Juvenile record. VICES.     Smoking; sex; buying nice things

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.      Bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.     Demiromantic PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.     Submissive  |  Dominant  |  Switch PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.    Submissive  |  Dominant |  Switch LIBIDO.      very high. Worick has no problem ‘getting it up’ or anything. He will actively seek out sex if he didn’t work that day, or to cope with emotions, or to ‘be nice’ to a friend. TURN ON’S.     a nice ass. neck kissing. kisses on his hips. a little bit of pain. TURN OFF’S.     unsanitary stuff tbh. feet. being tied up. LOVE LANGUAGE.     Acts of Service. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.    Worick doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t tend to get overly attached to people and is very good at keeping people at an arms length emotionally. However, if he does get attached he will move Heaven and Earth for his partner. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for them, including leaving if he deems it better in the long run for their health/safety.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.     -- HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.       Reading MENTAL ILLNESSES.     Undiagnosed Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.       N/A PHOBIAS.    N/A SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.      High. He has no issues with his body, having been a sex worker for the majority of his life. VULNERABILITIES.     He has a bad tendency to give himself up to anyone he feels any shred of connection for. His self-worth becomes absolutely secondary to them, the disparity so profound that dying for them isn’t even a question. He’ll do it. In a heartbeat.

tagged by: stolen from dash  tagging: anyone who wants it

[vertigovaines]

THE DOCTOR & THE PUNISHER || PART TWO

summary: vaines thinks he’s won. but the punisher never stays locked up for long -- and he always gets his kill 

trigger warnings: violence, gore, blood, knives, guns, drugs, and m u r d e r 

featuring: @dogcfwar​

VAINES: Business was good. True, he had unfortunately lost his new favorite little lab rat – not that anything about Frank Castle could be called little apart from his intellect. The would-be killer's plans had been so blatantly telegraphed, so easily foiled, it was laughable.

He was still operating in Vortex, despite that insipid little girl upstairs. He would deal with her in time. He had everything he needed, Sofia's magic had added a burst of potential to his new serums, and soon enough he would have clients lining up out the door to try them. Perfection had never been so close.

FRANK: Frank had been arrogant the first time around, he knew that much. That’s why this time, he came back better than ever. He stood around Karen’s kitchen island, rough plans and mock ups of the layout of Vortex and Vaines’ hiding holes in front of him, and stayed up late through the night, talking through each of his plans to Karen. He’d almost forgotten how well he worked with someone else – even just bouncing ideas off a person instead of a wall, instead of the inside of his own skull, made him realise weaknesses and flaws he never would have realised before. His hands had stopped shaking, at least not as much. He figured it was to do with the distraction, the focus that was taken up entirely with the planning. It had been months since he felt like this – since he thought of himself as a marine, or a black ops agent who was damn good at his job.

There was a new queen on the throne of the criminal underworld, and Frank had done his research. He knew she would keep her men in line, would intervene only if necessary, so he avoided them entirely. Instead, he worked on the few that were loyal to Vaines, coming back day after day, taking out the shift changes, slowly dwindling his supply of staff, always backing it up with a valid excuse – being run out of town, being sick, being shot in the head by a rival gang, the works.

All in anticipation of this. One of the younger guards, couldn't have been more than mid-twenties, trembled in his boots as he walked towards the door. Frank wasn’t behind him, though he wanted to be. There was every chance of things going wrong when Frank didn’t have a knife to the back of his neck, only a gun pointed towards him instead – but things didn’t go wrong. The guy knocked at the door, just as they had planned, the code that Vaines had given.

“Boss?” the guard said. “The shipment’s come in, but they won’t let us unload them until they see the man in charge, and Volkshi didn’t show up for work today.”

VAINES: For weeks now, things had been running smoothly. Vydrate was more popular than ever, which kept him busier than ever. He didn't have time for these trifiling interruptions. With a heavy sigh, he approached the door and leaned over the retina scanner to open it from the inside.

"Make it quick at least, will you –" The rest of the sentence died on his tongue when he saw the man behind his guard. "Impossible," he murmured, eyes narrowing. No, no, Castle should still be in prison, should've been in a cage without a key by now. He refused to accept the man standing there before his eyes.

FRANK: Frank had always been a strategist. Vaines’ serum had enhanced the information going in, which for a time made him feel as if he was being suffocated by the world around him. Now, he realised that his ability to compartmentalise had been heightened as well. Talking it out with Karen in her kitchen, planning out what could go wrong and what could go right had only proven that. And now, here he was – eye to eye with the man that he had promised to kill, the man who would, one way or another, die tonight. That bit he had left up to improvisation. He’d always been creative, after all.

“Made you a promise, didn’t I?” Frank retorted, raising an eyebrow. He allowed only a beat to pass, savouring in the moment, before he pushed into the room, hand going to Vaines’ chest, forcing him back with only half of the strength this man had given him to the wall behind him. “I said knife in the throat, yeah?” Frank said, going for the Kabar on his belt, turning it over in his hand. It was well worn, but old habits died hard – old friends died even harder. “But you … you had to put me in cuffs, try and throw me in a hole, yeah? You had to, what, get one up on me? Nah.” He moved across the room, quick and silent, pressing the blade to Vaines’ throat until a line of red appeared to shield against the glint. “Memento mori,” he muttered, with no need to point to the symbol on his chest. “Believe me, I’m gonna remember how you died for a long time, asshole.”

VAINES: This was one thing he hadn't planned on. There were dozens of agencies that wanted this man's head on a platter, and Vaines had delivered it to them. With a bow attached! How could he be free? After the last time, he thought they would've had the strictest security on him. He cursed himself – he should've made certain. Should've put his own measures in place. There truly was no one in the world he could count on.

"Castle, get a hold of your–" Before he could finish the sentence, Frank pushed him back. Vaines stumbled, managed to keep his feet. He stared at the blade, menacingly worn, flecks of blood dried onto the hilt. "Let's be reasonable," he said slowly, holding his hands up. "You don't know what kind of – there might be long term effects of your treatement we don't know about!" he rasped, feeling his heart pound in his throat.

Scared as he was (and he couldn't remember ever being this scared), he still managed to scoff at the Latin. "Remember you will die," he hissed. "A stupid phrase, echoed by the small-minded who think themselves wise. True wisdom is knowing that it doesn't have to be this way!" He stared desperately at Frank. "I could make us immortal, Castle. I could give you powers you can barely dream of. Please," he whispered as the blade touched his throat. "Let me help you."

FRANK: “Reasonable,” Frank repeated, pursing his lips together. “Surprised you think I’m capable of that, Vaines. Always seemed to me you thought I was some mindless grunt, right? Just some asshole that you could shoot up, that you could control, that you could manipulate?” He pressed the blade tighter against Vaines’ throat, knowing that it would burn like a son of a bitch. He’d done this a hundred times before, had it done to him a couple dozen times, at the very least. “Tell me something – that worked for you before? A couple threats, you think people are just gonna roll over? Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve met a thousand suckers in this city, people you can fuck over and get away with it, come out on top. But not me.”

It was a sick sense of irony. Frank liked to imagine he would’ve been able to use his experience in strategies and tactics to get into Vortex eventually, break down the door to the lab, get this sweet moment of revenge, but the truth was that Vaines’ serum had only sped up the process. This man, this arrogant, sick, selfish man, had been his own undoing. “I don’t want to be immortal,” Frank said, voice low and thick, coming up from his chest, “and I don’t need your help, you hear me?” He leaned in closer, even though there was no one else around to hear Vaines’ whimpers, or Frank’s words to him. “You know what I do. You know what I am. You made me better at my job, Vaines, and you know what that job is.” Punishment, plain and simple. Justice for the fallen, vengeance for those who were left behind. “You know, I thought about having my fun, yeah? Strapping you to this table, seeing how long it took you to beg for your life. Letting you starve for days, taking away day and night until you lose your goddamn mind. It happens after a week, at most. I bet you’d last a few days. But I made someone a promise. I made a deal, like I made with you at the start of this. I said I’d do my job, and I’d make it clean.”

Frank stepped back, removing the knife from Vaines’ throat, letting him drop off the wall. He took a breath, let it fill his body – his new lungs, his stronger heart, his thicker veins – and then surged forward, sliding the knife into that spot where he knew Vaines would be dead before he hit the ground, the same as that very first kill. They’d talked about it right here, in this spot, the spot where his blood was splashing to the floor. “This is the part where you beg,” Frank said, watching as the other man’s eyes went glassy, as the realisation hit him like an earthquake taking a building to the ground – sudden, intense, devastating, and over far too fast, leaving only dust. The knife slid out, slicked with blood, glistening under the dull lights. “See you in hell, Vaines,” Frank snapped, spitting the ground beside his body, before he turned on his heels and walked out, wiping the knife off on his shirt.

VAINES: “I gave you what you wanted!” Vaines hissed back, voice strained and strangled with desperation – and yet, still maintaining that arrogance he was so famous for. “Are you complaining about my work? Our progress? You came to me, Mr. Castle, and I – I did everything you asked!” The blade was so cold against his skin, so sharp. He swallowed hard and felt it dig in, slicing just a little.

His personal stash of Vydrate was in his pocket. Imbued with Sofia’s magic. He could inject himself and the results would even the fight – but he couldn’t move. He was completely frozen. The fear of this man pulled strange sounds from his vocal cords and paralyzed his every muscle. Sweat dotted his skin, all he could do was shake beneath Castle’s blade. He tried to tell himself to get a grip, but for the first time in his life – he couldn’t think.

Without his mind, he was nothing. He tried to remind himself of how close he was, Vydrate was nearly perfect, he had come so far. He couldn’t lose it all now, certainly not like this. To a thug like Frank Castle? It was unthinkable. There had to be a way out of this, he just had to –

Frank leaned in close, whispering those words, and all Vaines could do was whimper in reply. “M—Mr. Castle,” he choked out. “Frank. Frank, have you – this could be a s-side effect,” he whispered, but the lie was weak, pathetic, nothing. Frank’s words, the picture he painted, the torture he described, drowned out every thought in Vaines’ head. He thought of Sofia, bound and writhing beneath his hands, begging him to stop. But she was a sacrifice for perfection, and even now with his own death seconds away – he wasn’t sorry for what he’d done.

But then he let go. And the knife was gone from his throat. Vaines slumped against the wall, feeling small and still shaking. Had he broken through? Was Castle about to change his mind. “I could still be useful,” he gasped, touching his throat, feeling the thin cut, that little bit of blood there. “I could make you perfect, Frank, if you –”

He never got a chance to finish the sentence. As the knife slid into his chest, he felt every organ it pierced, his flesh was on fire. And all he could think of was Frank describing his first kill.  Kabar knife. Slid it in. Wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Little bit of resistance, then I hit a rib. Vaines gasped, doubling over, hands scrambling towards the knife. It was in too deep, Frank’s grip too strong. I remember … fuck, he screamed then. Was he screaming now? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything except pain. Agonizing, burning, piercing. It was – it was really something. Twisted it, heard this sound like … like water, like you’d turned a bottle of jack upside down. He could hear it now, and it was almost beautiful. That sloshing sound of blood spilling, bursting from the wound, dripping onto his hands and the floor. Like a burst pipe, a waterfall.

He said please, before he slid off the knife.

This is the part where you beg.

But Vaines couldn’t even speak. His fingers slipped off the knife, and he looked up at Castle – he was on his knees now. He didn’t even feel the ground beneath him. It was like he was floating, floating on a sea of his own blood and lost in the riptide of agony. His vision blurred, head spinning. His hand shot out, trying to steady himself, trying to – he didn’t know what. He smacked a table, sending the contents crashing to the floor. And then he was falling too, landing among shards and spilled Vydrate. I’m not finished yet, he thought. It isn’t perfect, I didn’t… I failed. The green glowing liquid mixing with his own blood was the last thing he saw, before everything went completely black.

[farrellyh]

Sights of sorrow and untold tales. A Horror Short Story

the first body was found 2 miles away of the tribe. I was not the one to find the man. It was a group of misbehaving boys. I only discovered the dead man while I was hunting. I heard the children’s screams and came running to help. It was a white man. An alarmingly tall white man. Enough for the children to believe him to be a giant. He was skeletal in frame, with the oddest of clothes. They were made from some sort of very thin fabric and no furs.  Do white men have some other way of protecting them from the cold? Thicker skin? I know so little about the white men or their journey here. Only the chief of the tribe has ever seen a living white man in person. The chief told us how these men come from a world where there is little snow and plentiful food. It is hard to imagine a place like that. Their tribes I am told are called ‘cities’ that have thousands of people and all with full bellies. What a wonderous world these white men must live in.

I found the second body a further mile ahead. Curled up like a child. Just as tall and thin as the first one.  His arms holding a book in a protective manner. The writing inside the book I could not understand. I placed it back with him. it seemed to hold value for the man.

As I return to the tribe, I talked to the chief. He was not surprised, he told me that the white men. About how strange they are, and they are often ill-suited for this land. I talked about the possibility of saviours. The chief merely shook his head. But I was determined to help and to discover.

It took many days travel. Finding many strange finds. Made with precious metals, something the white men have in plentiful supply. A metal box with papers that had the same strange writing as the book. A device that makes things in the distance appear closeup, and countless other things, The most astonishing discovery I found was the boats. There were two of them. Two of the most startlingly large boats I have ever seen in my life. My entire tribe could easily fit into just one of them.  

As I saw it for the first time, I was both terrified of it and in all of it. The two ships were like two colossal creatures emerging out of the ice, off in the distance, party hidden by the fog I could not help but admire be in at the white men for creating such vessels.  Along with the sadness that such a creation falling victim to the hash mistress of winter. It was trapped in the ice, slowly being crushed by the massive force of the ice. The white men must not have known how the sea can turn against them, turning into ice and trapping them.  

I climb on to the boat’s main surface. It had a towering pole with white wings of fabric attached, to catch the wind. I ventured inside, it was almost completely black, only enough light to see the creature. It was thankfully dead. this monstrous giant still loomed over me with a terrifying glare. Its teeth are rat-like, that could have torn me apart. I left with great haste.

That night I didn’t sleep. My mind was filled with question, question of how the white men built those two leviathans, and yet my confusion at how they were so ill prepared for our land constantly attacked my mind. Along with questions what sort of creature that giant was? Is it something from their land? How did they create such vessels?  These white men were something truly unknowable.

The more I search, the more bodies I find. No more of strange devices and incredible inventions. Just dead men. The cold had killed them if the starvation did not take them first. Some were in groups, some alone. Some seemed to have killed each other, with their strange weapons. The chief referred to them as ‘guns.    My wonder became frustration, but after finding the camp my frustration became melancholy.

Tents with piles upon piles of bodies. All clubbed together in one last desperate fight against the cold. these Frozen skeletal-like men, all died together. Rotting dismembered body parts in cooking pots. They must have eaten their dead in a last attempt to avoid starvation. But it was the man that was alone that has haunted me. That frequents my nightmare. He must have chosen to die alone. He had pieced his skin with golden chains. Covering his face. I had never seen such a sight, and to this day I have no answers as to why. This morbid sight marks the end of my quest of discovery. These sights of sorrows and untold tales had left me with a heavy heart and nightmares that still haunt my sleep. Dreams of giant men with rat-like teeth tearing themselves apart, ripping out their own skin, muscles, and blood vessels. Some with knives, some with their bare hands. they would then start eating the flesh they had ripped from their bodies. The look of desperation and hopelessness on their faces. Then the ice would engulf them. Freezing them in place, dooming them to remain in that moment in time forever. Forever feeling that pain, desperation, and hopelessness. I knew that I had to stop the search.  

I have now return to the comfort of my tribe and the arms of the family and I am better for it. But sometimes my mind wonders back to all mysteries left by the white men and feel the need to solve them. Who were those men? Why did they come here? Why were they seem so ill prepared for their journey? So many tales must have died with those men, and I will never know any of them.