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skinsharpenedteeth · 4 years

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Sex Week - Moanday

So the original list of these was posted by Kinkly.com on their Instagram, but i looked at it was like “that would make a great fic challenge for myself. I like writing smut and i have commitment issues so a week should be about my attention span...” and anyway... This week I’m going to post a ficlet for each day. @malzysaur also said she’d post some as well, but it’s not an official “challenge” unless you just want to do it for yourself some random week. Lol. Expect some fucking crack fic, some high level smut, and all those character in the pictures. I’m going to branch out and not just write Malex for once. I’m also going to try and keep these under 2k.

Anywho, here’s my Moanday entry featuring Malex. It’s 1579 words long and if I have to tell you it’s explicit then you’re not paying attention and I no longer feel any remorse for the outcome of your decisions. Tags would be D/S undertones, dirty talk, anal sex, muffled sex, clothed sex, semi public sex, uhmm... i think that’s it?

2/8/2021 Moanday (Also on AO3!)

It wasn’t easy fucking Alex in the middle of the day. He was simply loud at the best of times and at the worst, he was loud and mouthy.

He also liked to get caught, liked people to walk in on him with his ass in the air, dick dripping, mouth wide with pleasure and sound, and someone’s tongue (preferably Guerin’s) shoved as far into his ass as it could go. Michael usually didn’t mind if anyone saw him reducing Alex to vowel sounds, but Isobel had asked him to be on his best behavior for the Junior League Winter Luncheon and he was determined not to upset her…. But Alex had also asked him to meet him in the lobby so they could look at one of the paintings up for auction, which apparently was code for ‘Fuck me hard in the coat check closet until I ruin Mrs. Dunfrey’s nice wool coat’. It was a new one and he hadn’t been prepared for Alex to grab him by the lapels of his new suit jacket and pull him unceremoniously into the warm, soft confines of the coat room as soon as the coast was clear.

“Alex! What are you--,” Michael started, but was interrupted by Alex’s open mouth on his, tongue plunging in to make his intentions crystal clear. Michael broke off the kiss and hissed into Alex’s ear, “Alex! I told Iz I’d behave!”

“Which is why I’m not under the dinner table blowing you while I jack off onto your shiny black shoes,” Alex retorted hotly, pushing Michael’s jacket off his shoulders as he spoke. Michael’s eyes might have rolled back into his head a little at the mental image and he missed what Alex said next.

“Wait, what?” Michael asked, trying to catch Alex’s hands as they deftly unbuttoned his dress shirt and moved towards his pants.

“I said, we’ve got ten minutes until the end of lunch when everyone will start flooding that lobby. That means you have nine and a half minutes to make me cum or we’re going to have an audience.”

“Why did you wait so late to bring me in here?” Michael admonished, starting to get with the picture and help to get his pants down and his cock out. Alex just grinned at him and Michael cursed under his breath.

“I hope you did the prep work before you got me in here or you’re just going to have to wait til we get back to your place,” Michael said in a resigned, but stern voice. Alex just winked at him and turned around. Michael watched as he pushed down his slacks and underwear just low enough so he could spread his cheeks to expose his shiny, lube smeared hole to Michael’s scrutiny. Michael reached out and rubbed two fingers over the slick, soft muscle and he swore softly. Alex hummed in appreciation at his touch and Michael looked up in time to see his smug, triumphant smile as he watched Michael over his shoulder.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” Michael growled and pushed Alex to lean against the wall, his back arched and ass presented as much as he could while standing. “Give me the lube.”

Alex grabbed the small bottle out of his jacket pocket and handed it back to Michael who slicked up his cock hastily. He dropped the mostly empty bottle onto the floor and lined himself up, pushing into Alex much more quickly than he might if they’d had more time. The fit of Alex’s body around Michael’s cock was tight and perfect and it made him want to waste time fucking Alex slow and deep drive just to drive him crazy, but the clatter of silverware and din of voices was only a wall away and he knew he had to be fast. Pulling back, he pushed back in hard and started a punishing rhythm.

Alex’s moaning started out as pants and gentle ‘oh’s that would easily be muffled by the walls of coats surrounding them, but as Michael pushed and adjusted Alex’s hips so he could properly batter his prostate, they started picking up in frequency and volume. On a particularly ringing “Jesus FUCKING Christ!”, Michael knew it was time to help Alex stay quiet. He leaned over Alex’s back and clapped his hand around his mouth to cover the next loud sound that was midway to escaping. Already the slapping sound of their bodies was too much, but Michael couldn’t quite make himself slow down yet. He moved his lips close to Alex’s ear so he could keep his voice low.

“You fucking cock slut. You couldn’t wait half an hour for us to get home to get filled by my dick? Couldn’t just sit on your hands and wait? Did you make Forrest fuck you all over town in every semi-private spot you could find?” Michael asked, breath and voice harsh against Alex’s ear. Alex shook his head, another loud moan pressing into Michael’s palm. The door to the banquet hall opened and Michael froze as he heard multiple voices come out into the lobby outside. Alex whimpered and started to fuck back onto Michael’s stationary cock while Michael tried to figure out if they’d run out of time or if these were simply early departees. Alex tightened his internal muscles around Michael, bringing his attention back to what was happening in the coat room in front of him, and Michael had to press his mouth into Alex’s shoulder to keep from cursing out loud at the blinding pleasure. The party guests sounded like they were right on the other side of the door that hid them and Michael was sure he was about to be found balls deep in Alex Manes who had taken his pause in movement as an invitation to start to grinding back against his cock while squeezing his muscles and milking him for all he was worth. Alex’s actions were getting Michael perilously close to cumming and when he looked down between them, the sight of Alex’s rim clinging to his length as Alex moved over him was almost enough to make him lose it. Michael reached forward and grasped Alex’s cock firmly, keeping him spread on his dick and pressed tight against him. Alex stopped moving and waited for Michael to tell him what to do.

“Good boy,” Michael breathed the praise against the shell of Alex’s ear. “Since you want to do all the work, I’m going to let you fuck my fist while you bounce that ass against me. Take what you need, baby, but if you get loud, I’m going to pull out and we’re going to finish this at home. Is it a deal?”

Alex nodded and Michael could feel his throat work around a swallow. He started slow, positioning Michael’s fist at a better angle after the first few thrusts so he could roll his hips more smoothly between the cock in his ass and the hand in front of him. Once he felt confident, he used the wall as leverage to fuck back onto Michael’s cock roughly. The precum leaking from his cock was easing the way for his thrusts and Michael could see him starting to lose himself in the moment. He was so hard as he pushed into Michael’s grip that he could tell he was getting close. When his movements started to get sloppy, either from fatigue or from getting close to finishing, Michael took back over. Roughly he pushed Alex forward until he was almost flat against the wall and then he started pounding into him. It was louder than was safe, but Michael didn’t think they’d be at it long enough to matter. Alex was already biting his own forearm as his body tightened almost painfully around Michael’s piercing ruts.

“You going to cum for me, baby? Going to stain these coats with your spunk so we can go home and I can take you apart some place more private? Where I can get my mouth on this poor, abused, little, pucker?” The last part Michael said through gritted teeth, punctuating each word with a hard, directed thrust as he felt Alex starting to cum. Michael milked Alex’s cock with his hand while he chased his own release, needing it now that he’d gotten Alex off. Alex was whining into his arm at the overstimulation of Michael’s savage thrusts, but it didn’t matter. Michael was tipping over into his own orgasm quickly, balls drawn tight, and cum painting his claim on Alex’s insides. When he finished, gasping breaths into Alex’s shoulder, he gently pulled back to slip out of Alex’s body.

“Fuck, Michael…” Alex panted, cum drunk and almost boneless between Michael’s weight and the wall. Michael looked down between them and could see his cum pushing out of Alex’s body and starting to slide down the insides of his thighs.

“Just look at the mess I made of you,” Michael commented, running his finger over the red, puffy rim of Alex’s hole and smearing his leaked seed over it. The sight made him want to go again and his alien biology made his refractory period practically nonexistent when he wanted it to be… but Alex’s body needed a break. He leaned forward and kissed up Alex’s neck to his cheek.

“Let’s get dressed so I can say goodbye to Isobel. I’m ready to go home so we can get you cleaned you up,” Michael said sweetly. Alex hummed in delighted agreement and leaned his head back onto Michael’s shoulder.

“Will you give me a massage when we get home?” Alex asked, voice sounding tired after their activities.

“I always give you what you ask for, baby.”

#sex week #sex week challenge #moanday #malex #malex ficlet #michael guerin #alex manes

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hanafarook · 3 years

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Koi No Yokan

Chapter: 18.

"Dear Departee"

Didn't think you would come….but here you are.

Oikawa really came to the airport but for some reason I had a very low expectation that he would make it. I was conscious that I still had the image of that 17 year old - " I will fight the whole world for my dreams" overlapping with the current Oikawa.

"Thank you for the last four days…I'm sure not a lot of people can boast that they had a very pretty olympian setter show them around Buenos Aires"

"Did anyone tell you that you play very well with words? Coz they really make my heart go doki-doki"

I giggled.

"Maybe you're the pretty setter of words in the literary world"

I shrugged, "Maybe ... ? But for real, these last four days were very memorable for me but I think the most memorable was watching you play on court"

Oikawa smiled softly, it was one of the beautiful smiles he'd given me. It almost looked…. angelic.

Ugh, what is this pigeon behavior? here I am... becoming less of a hawk and more of a pigeon.

"Since I live here I didn't think I could see the city in another light but with you it was different"

"here… do you want this?" I asked, handing him a piece of sweet I was holding in my hands that was left forgotten.

What is this? An alfajores? This is so random? Why did I offer him alfajores out of nowhere?

"You're giving me alfajores? Now? I can't possibly say no!"

"I know, you seem to have a strong liking for it and I've grown fond..." I said with a shrug.

"You're strangely unpredictable but I kinda liked that".

I blinked nervously, with a slight shrug.

"Argentina is SO big and diverse, very beautiful too, someday I'd really wanna come back and see what else there is to explore"

"guess you have a reason to come back"

"I may have more than one to come back ...but-" I paused

"but?"

"Let's see…I'm yet to get hold of my dream and I don't know where that will take me…." I explained thoughtfully.

Oikawa smiled serenely, he knew what I was talking about but I wasn't sure if I could figure out what he was thinking.

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syrossa · 3 years

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REVOLUTION | vkook

[Jungkook x cyborg!Taehyung]

— wordcount: 3.8k

— genre: sci-fi/ action/ oneshot/ angst

— summary: Jungkook is on the side of the Resistance, but his heart belongs to the wicked Emperor's right hand. In a world of war, he'll have to choose between saving his people or the cyborg he's fallen so tragically in love with.

— notes: previously posted on army amino as "trust me not"

Space year 3043.

After seizing the throne of Nypso 773T , its android emperor has decided to exterminate all individuals human - the last bearers of free will still standing. To execute his commands, the order of the New Inquisition has been launched. Its wicked ways continue to terrorize the planet, and many humans have gone rogue to avoid death in Nypso's compression pits. Jeon Jungkook - the latest recruit of the Resistance, has been extracted from an Inquisition's camp after a month of captivity. During his stay there, an unexpected fascination with the order's leader has emerged. Now they're torn between duty and attraction, survival and the dire need of love in the robotic arms of Nypso 773T.

Pulling on his hood, Jungkook walked into the subway station where the mass of the automated proletariat was finally retreating to its charging points. The route of line 248 resonated in a pre-recorded audio in several transgalactic languages; the outdated robots and refugees here couldn't afford infixed translation. The next train was in seven minutes. Working machines were being produced without a sense of smell, so the coolants and liquids of the entire quadrant could drain freely, channelled through the platform. Supreme androids and cyborgs could almost tell the difference between fume-saturated air and waste matter. Humans, however, were bound to sense it.

Jungkook travelled with the scraps of a filtering mask over his nose and mouth.

A heavy overcoat protected him from curious eyes. Down its lackluster length, a multitude of pockets were sewn with the purpose of convenience, but the inner one by his right hip weighed with the wired device of a hologram transmitter. The message encrypted on it was intended for the eyes of the Resistance only, and its safe transportation had been entrusted to him. Was it the shortage of confidants or Jungkook's short, yet exceptional devotion to the cause that had brought him here, he couldn't tell. One thing was certain — danger stalked him somewhere in this crowd and it moved with a bullet's speed, disguised in coy metal. All solitude amongst machines was extirpated.

He wasn't alone.

But the field of his vision allowed him to suspect and nothing more. Between the industrial smog and the firearm fume, the human eye was unable to discern too much. Few instruction panels hung low over the heads of the departees, providing the dimmest of illumination in venom-tinted yellow where the light of all other signs failed to stretch out to. Propaganda scrolled through interconnected displays in the skyscraping height.

As the train arrived in virid smoke, drunkenly quivering atop the rusted rails, the mob prepared for departure, loud and on the verge of an electric collapse. In the midst of it Jungkook joined the aggressive momentum and it hauled him to the doors. The informants from Quadrant-3 had warned him about identification scanners — each entrance had been installed two of those, in addition to a memory-extracting mechanism, so that all workers could be wiped clean of cache; Nypso liked its slaves productive.

Blazingly red, the scanning rays licked the identification numbers off all mechanic forearms. Each number consisted of uniquely stringed digits and Nypsoian letters, irreplicable and theft-proof, unless, of course, forcefully extracted. Yet such force was hardly ever applied reversibly.

So when Jungkook lifted his sleeve, baring the tattooed numerals on vulnerable display, he knew he had engraved himself with the ink and blood of another.

Collateral damage, they'd call it — the dismantled, maimed anthropomorphic remains of those who had been sacrificed for the camouflage of the Resistance. Through the scanners and the all-seeing surveillance apparatus Jungkook slithered like a ghost, a phantom of matter but never of face. He seated himself in the vacancy of a secluded section at the back of the train, and watched as the vehicle resurfaced overground.

The halved star of Nypso 337T had begun to roll out of sight. Space wind evaded the thin synthetic atmospheric layers, bringing forth what the code specifics referred to as frostnip. Nights here began with euphoria, beauty amid the blistered flesh of the universe, but escalated just as abruptly. Thousands of beings fell victims to the unforgiving cold. The corpses would be disposed of in the vast abyss of the Omicron Galaxy and left to the mercy of the antigravity and destructive cyclones. Sometimes parts of them would fall back on Nypso with the acid torrents.

The cadaverous rains.

Upon crossing the interquadrant border, the train entered a zone of electric anomaly, causing all working robots to cease operating. Jungkook rose from his uncomfortable seat immediately. He was quick on his feet; he headed to the emergency exit in the back. Moving across a high-up, scaffold-like railway with speed disproportionate to its poor technicity, the vehicle was to reach a rail intersection in a matter of minutes — the only window he'd be provided for a secure escape. The man clutched the transmitter through the fabric of the overcoat. A flicker of utter fright glistened in his eyes, the one a madman's irises would produce before he jumps off to death.

A madman, yes, but not alone in his madness.

Because when he threw himself forth in the open air, he knew he would land in the hands of his allies, the members of the Resistance. With a thump and several Nypsoian curses, Jungkook was caught by an aircraft of the forces from Quadrant-4. The second he regained balance, the pressure in his lungs and brain dispersed to free space for relief. General Kim dismissed the crew to greet him.

He grinned. "Lucky to see you here today. We barely managed to get the plane off the ground with the low temperatures."

"Thank you, sir. Captain Jung wasn't lying 'bout your piloting."

"Don't thank me. Min over there conducted the maneuvers today, the lucky bastard." And Jungkook glanced at the back of the pilot's disheveled head, hair chopped and jet black. "Do you have it?"

Derivative of the devices from before the last technological purge, the hologram transmitter was an antique of its own, coded in a long-lost language. It was technically unhackable. The greatest legacy of its predecessors, though, was the function of restricted access, touch-activated to be precise. When the device came into contact with General Kim's palm, trillions of holographic particles erected the glowing, mapped structure of a hollow sphere.

"The core powerhouse!" Jungkook gasped.

"A precise, high-resolution map of the planet's life source. After all these years of gathering data and risking the wellbeing of our entire kind, it's finally complete. We have the key to taking the emperor down, kid." The corner of the General's mouth quirked up. "We have it."

As if prompted by the glimpse of hope, the graspable salvation of mankind, intermittent flashes of red spread like rashes on the titanium insides of the plane while alarms were triggered in the cockpit. Jungkook tripped as the aircraft went into a sudden dive.

The co-pilot cried out, "Enemy crafts, sir. Attempters FM-14, annihilation mode engaged."

"Min, can you make it to the headquarters?" Kim shouted, tying himself to a seat by the plane wall.

Jungkook was still upright, shifting his weight as if hoverboarding. His eyes followed the attackers as the unmanned Attempters deployed their missiles. With a target on its silver hull, the plane of the Resistance forces looped and spiralled between the Quadrant-4 blockscape similarly to a turbulent projectile. But before even managing to be vocal about the pilot's nonpareil skills, he glimpsed the violent gush of blood from Min's shoulder.

Jungkook yelled, "Captain, you're fucking bleeding!"

"I am?," Min shrugged, reducing the throttle from the plane's inversion, motions still as steady as a surgeon's. "About time I showed these can-openers I can beat them single-handedly."

"The Resistance has evaded all attacks again, commander. I must say the human persistence is exhausting me already."

Left arm spasming from damage, Taehyung replied tremulously, "I dispatched two of our best Attempters their way. They must've anticipated an onrush."

Next to the mechanical grandness, the soul-breaking presence of the emperor, Taehyung appeared like a solitary speck of steel; a cyborg utterly defenseless against his superior. He was second to his leader; the right hand of the radically unique conqueror of Nypso 337T and scion of the mighty Omicron race — undoers of time and space. To support his position and survival, he had been recruited as commander of the New Inquisition.

Over the metal of his palms, there was overmuch human blood. The emperor, however, was still unsatisfied with its amount.

"Their defense cannot withstand our supremacy much longer. Can you perhaps figure out why, commander? Why is humankind bound to die out?"

Some deeply buried piece of Taehyung shattered, knowing that the battle he'd deliberately spared the humans was nothing but a hurdle in the long run of their eradication. All his efforts to decelerate the inevitable — governed not by the remains of his anthropoid body but by those of his human mind — were, ultimately, futile. He'd reset the coordinates of the Attempters, encrypted the outdated frequencies of the Resistance, screened the infiltration of their informant, but at what cost? He hadn't given them advantage but mere false hope.

"Because of its will, of course. The free will of humans will lead them to their ultimate end. But first, it will lead them to me." The android's speech was toneless through the holographic projection, yet his virtual presence diminished all strength of the commander's. "Our high-rank infiltrator in the Resistance has information that an assault on the powerhouse is being plotted. I want all units in position tomorrow. The rebellion must be eliminated instantly."

"Through a strengthened line of defense?"

"A lethal one. There must be no survivors. Obey your system, commander, and your emperor."

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty."

Bowing to the conquerer of worlds might have felt elevating once; it may have propelled pride, safety and life, yet it only sparked misery in the metal now. Once the hologram had dispersed, Taehyung collapsed in a stroke of electric current. The fine components of his bionic system had experienced pressure unfit for his outdated build, which happened often when machines failed a designated mission. The scheme with the Attempters would cost him pain unlike any other. Pain of both flesh and robotics.

It took him twelve full minutes to regain consciousness. When he finally did, the back of his brain was burnt to charcoal black, as if he could only recall the excruciation of being electrocuted and nothing before it. He was a high-ranking Nypsoian soldier, a breed of hominid warrior blood and light steel tempered in the titanium core of the star of Adastreia, and he remembered his own pain only. Little by little, bits of data deteriorated within him and memories faded away like flashes of a time long-gone.

He was slowly being erased.

Everything he'd done to protect the man he loved on the other side of law backfired right at him. Instead of saving humanity, he slowly ceased to be human.

He needed to hear his voice more than ever.

Even if he couldn't quite retrieve the sound of it.

The jittery projection of Jungkook's face illuminated the entirety of the bunker, and his eyes bore into Taehyung's, expectant, laden with horror. Each of their rare conversations would begin with shared silence. Life was a variable — both had to be prepared for it to assume its last value at any given moment. The signal was horridly damaged as both sides had dialed from their underground hideaways, one right beneath the emperor's throne room, and the other from the fortified catacombs of Quadrant-4.

"I'm sorry I couldn't call earlier, I--"

Jungkook forced a lopsided smile, enough to hurt but not to discourage. "It's okay. You called."

"Are you alright? The Attempters went close and by the time I seized remote control, they'd fired at one of yours. The pilot."

"Min. He's fine. I guess he'd seen worse than your machine guns," The man chuckled softly. "Man, he even fired back, one hand on the panel, and the other holding a BL-544 out the perforated windshield."

Then Jungkook burst into laughter, lighthearted and paranormally unfit in the midst of the misery of all else. His eyes translated into blueish pixels, so Taehyung could barely visualize the mottle of dark-brown and grey they were in the light, or the dual glint of gravely seriousness and daredevilry inside them. At times like this, it was the eyes that made him feel entirely human. His eyes.

Elated for a brief second, Taehyung said, "I wish I could see you. I think my memory is being messed up with, and I'm starting to forget you."

"That's why we call, right? So we don't forget who the real enemy is."

Who was the real enemy?

"They're planning an attack on the core. The arsenal should be distributed by tomorrow at noon, but it'll be no surprise if you already knew that," said Jungkook, voice suddenly thicker. "What's been ordered to the defense forces?"

"A direct confrontation, fast and brutal. He wants all units charged and ready to dispatch anyone at sight. I'll try to talk him out of the melee but I don't know how much I can do about it."

"You've done more than enough already. Just...stay safe. Whole, preferably."

"Okay, I told you, what happened in Apus was an accident. It was a one-time thing. One. Time!"

Jungkook chortled, having Taehyung join him shortly after, both high on the feeling of detachment from everything and everyone. It was the two of them in this conversation, in this little world of theirs, free from barriers and pain and tyranny.

"You too," Taehyung said. "Stay safe."

"Will do. I'll see you at the end of the world, right?"

"See you then. Hey, Jungkook, I just wanted to tell yo--"

But the signal was cut off and the picture turned grainy with empty pixels all of a sudden. The muffled aggression of bangs and kicks brought down the door of Taehyung's secluded bunker and a horde of his own inquisitors rushed in, driven by electricity, bloodthirst and imperial will. The cyborg was taken hold of.

His heavy body writhed in the intruders' grip, but to no avail. In the distance he overheard his former inferiors repeat the protocol of his detainment. Only one kind of seizure required the full unrelenting force of the Inquisition androids.

The one coming directly from the emperor.

As the Resistance soldiers advanced farther into the outer Core, the grip on their assault rifles weakened, wet from the heat accumulated, bewildered by the void of the empty powerhouse. The pulsating, current-pumping heart of Nypso operated under a dome of steam and titanium systems. In its veins surged the lifeblood of an entire civilization, the supreme vigor of the Nypsoian predatory machine and the technology behind its expansive aggression.

Today its heartbeat would flatline once and for all.

Jungkook carried a Proxima L-90 — a relevantly ugly, simple ray weapon meant to inflict moderate damage — with the back of it braced against his underarm, holding the shadows at gunpoint. His face burned under a filtering mask, yet the odds of being violently poisoned were too great to succumb to convenience. Fire in his ribs and steel in his brain, he moved forward.

The promised confrontation of the emperor's forces never happened. General Kim signalled for all units to stand down.

"The motion sensors show movement in our perimeter. 100 meters ahead, 50 sources," he whispered. "Charge your weapons."

But in Jungkook that sparked suspicion so bothersome it twisted his insides, made him want to vomit. Fifty defenders appointed at the most significant structure on the planet — something didn't seem — didn't feel — right. Yet his trust in Taehyung lay unquestioned. He'd spoken to him about a frontal attack and a frontal attack was to be. Nothing but those words could force him forward.

Nothing but the belief that today could change the universe forever.

A swarm of androids emerged from the depths of the powerhouse, wearing imperial armour. They imitated human forms, carried themselves in a human manner, but didn't hesitate in their stride, unlike the Resistance whose fear pierced it through. These were machines without faces, painted in the colors of war and destruction, forged with no soul and no purpose but murder; the inquisitors. And when they charged onwards, every being of flesh shivered in frail mortality. The androids opened immediate fire.

However, the fifty of them were not alone. More crawled out of the corners, the corridors, and every spot dark became a black portal spitting inquisitors. In seconds the Resistance forces were severely outnumbered.

Back against General Kim's, Jungkook tore apart enemies with ray projectiles with insufficient speed. Like demons from neon and metal, like nightmares flooding the innocent mind, the androids burst forth and immobilized the formation of the rebellion. Soon enough, the man was fighting machines with electrocuting blades and bare hands.

"I'm almost out of ammo. We need to get to the main generator and place the bomb," the General shouted as he shot an inquisitor's head through, thus releasing Jungkook from his grip.

"We gotta make our way through."

"I'll help with that!" With one arm immobilized and the other on the trigger of a close-range blaster, Min approached the two. His stubbornness had earned him a spot in the field forces today, but his injury must've weighed him down.

The captain, though, was a survivor.

"Run!" Min cried. "I'll blast whatever follows you."

Jungkook and the General sprinted forward that instant, too overwhelmed with gunfire and smoke and adrenaline to take in the sight of the captain relentlessly throwing himself into the crossfire. As they cleaved the imperial horde, as they fired and slashed their way through — fruits of the flesh in the unhomogenous battle broth — he held back their pursuers for as long as he could. The shrill vox of Min's blaster quietened while they ran, and so did the remainder of the fight, distant but heavy on the brain.

At some point, Jungkook found himself utterly lost in the hypnosis of metal and screams.

Kim snapped him out when they reached a dead end at a corridor intersection. The map led to a hatch in the floor, then to an underground space where the generator was located. When Jungkook pulled the horizontal door open, the General jumped onto the grated platform it revealed. Nightmarish shivers creeped under the former's skin as if on the brim of something horrible and irreversible. Something of monumental grandness, yet something hellbound had been released with their appearance in the Core. Unaware of its specifics, Jungkook descended shortly after, shaken by the feeling of death pricking on his bare nape.

"We have to be quick," General Kim whispered. "The bomb will create an electromagnetic pulse that will disarm all electric systems on the planet. It must be as close to the core as we can get it, so be prepared to do whatever it takes for this to work. Promise me that, Jungkook."

The man wanted to stutter, to assure his comrade that the Resistance is once again in luck and prevailing. But empty promises had no place in his head anymore. Rather, they belonged in the ashes of the man he used to be once; of the world he once used to live in. His answer came pure of all boyish naiveness.

"I promise, sir."

"Good. This way."

Monochrome light, combat boots against the platform. They travelled in silence and dark anticipation. The generator came in sight several meters after, oblivious in its lifeless shell of titanium and wire. The two men entered the holy premises of the inner Core like only heartsick worshippers would — with their heads craving redemption above all.

The bomb was wrapped in cloth — a hastily packaged weapon of mass destruction. The General stripped it bare. His face twitched in untimely satisfaction as he carried it to the top of the generator, whose size extended kilometers under the ground, highest point peaking through a cavity in the grates.

But as the General was activating the mechanism, a splashed, abstract pattern of his blood printed itself onto Jungkook, who remained paralyzed steps away. The laser projectile went right through Kim, exiting his torso clean of guilt and hesitation.

The younger pointed his gun at the distance, at the wide, half-human frame of the attacker, tears in his eyes as he came in the luminescent light.

"Jungkook, put the gun down, please--"

Buy everything within him screamed. "Stand back! I'm warning you! Stand back or I'll fucking shoot you."

Jungkook glanced at the sprawled body of General, eyes then set on Taehyung again. He went feral, wild with betrayal and shock that his mortal stomach could feast on for days. They held each other at gunpoint, lovers in the grip of a war unfought.

"Sir, stay with me. Just hold on."

"Jungkook, listen to me. Put your gun down. Now!"

"No, you listen to me! What have you done?! We've been fighting for this for so long and now that we have a chance to change everything, you turn against your own. We are on the same side, you fool! Help me save him!"

"I'm afraid I can't," Taehyung replied, voice stern like never before. "I can't help you anymore. I've done so much for humans and I've never been one, never will be. I am who I am and I've picked a side already. I picked the one I belong to."

"I thought we belonged together."

The bomb lay semi activated next to Kim. All that stood between it and Jungkook was his unwavering machine of a lover, the leader of the Inquisition with only half flesh, half heart. And neither of the two were willing to surrender now.

Not when the love of each was at stake.

"We can't both leave this room, Jungkook. One of us will have to shoot. It's either me or you on the count of three."

"I would've died and killed for you!"

"One."

"I wanted a future with you, Taehyung!"

"Two."

"I loved you!"

"Three. I still do."

And Jungkook collapsed, trapped between the corpses of his friend and lover, finger on the trigger that had failed to protect the former and ended the latter. Tears welled in his black eyes as he enabled the electromagnetic explosive.

The faith of the universe rested in his unsteady hands. His whole world, however, had fallen cold in his feet.

In the very last seconds of Nypso, he wished to have never set foot on the goddamned planet of death and destruction.

#bts #vkook #taekook #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #scifiandfantasy #oneshot #jungkook #taehyung #bts jungkook #bts taehyung #bts au fic #bts au fanfic #vkook au

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withastolenlantern · 4 years

Text

Yokota emerged from the terminal into a grey sky, disoriented and jetlagged. The flight from Haneda to Heathrow was the longest he’d ever taken, ten hours direct, crammed into a flying tube hurtling through the sky, and then another half-hour to connect onto Cardiff. Somewhere along the line he’d lost all sense of day and time and place, and when he exited the airport into a cold drizzle and a cacophony of voices in languages he barely understood, he felt emotionally as far from home as he was physically. Immigration had taken longer than he’d expected; his Japanese passport granted him a no-questions visa for up to ninety days, and he thought that having prior visited Australia, another Commonwealth nation, for several medical conferences that it would not be complicated. The immigration officials were full of questions, though, and skeptical, almost haughty, in a way he’d previously imagined was only a stereotype of dramatic holo programs.

He entered the taxi queue and waited, yawning heavily, while the automated carousel of jet black vehicles proceeded through the corral emptying departees and taking on new fares. As he neared the head of the queue, he found he could see out across the bay; to the south, the southwestern peninsula of Britain loomed on the horizon, and to the southwest he could see straight out into the Atlantic. A cold wind blew in towards the taxi shelter, bringing with it a hint of the saltiness of the sea spray. It was a comparable view to his departure, with Haneda being situated similarly across the bay from Chiba, although the bright lights of the port city were far more visible than the distant cliffs and moors of the Cornish coast.

Yokota climbed into the next available cab and entered the name of the hotel he’d booked into the touchscreen rather than try to verbally direct the drone’s navigation program. English was very much a second language for him, and the place names here in Wales seemed even stranger than he’d ever encountered in his previous visits to English-speaking locales like Australia or California. The taxi passed exit signage and street placards that appeared bereft of vowel sounds entirely, and featured strange letter-combinations like double-L and W followed by R that he had no desire to attempt pronouncing.

It was later afternoon by the time he arrived at his hotel, a stately building in the style of a manor home, although he could tell it was clearly newer construction from the precision of the mason-work. He set his bags into his room, practically a palace compared to typical Japanese accommodations, and fell into the enormous bed, exhausted. He thought of his granddaughter, thousands of miles away, blissfully unaware of the circumstances that had carried him to this strange land. She’d asked only if there was baseball in England, and was disappointed to learn that the local analogue in cricket was something similar, but altogether different. He smiled as he memory of her considered insistence that he still try to find her a ball or a hat to bring back to her, passed into a fitful sleep.

Two hours had passed when he awoke with a start, confused by his unfamiliar surroundings until his higher faculties kicked in, reminding him where he was. He checked his mobile for any messages, but found none. Yokota had sent his findings to roughly a dozen other researchers and medical professionals he’d met at various conferences and symposia over the years. Only one had responded, and his message was immediate, but cryptic. Henry Cavendish was a medical examiner in Kenya, but his response instructed Yokoto to travel to Wales, and meet with a British detective. He hadn’t said much else, other than this woman would contact him when he arrived, and to “be safe.” There was a time in the old doctor’s life when instructions to be safe would have referred only to wearing a helmet while cycling or standing behind the yellow line on the subway platform. He was beginning to miss that time, now that those ominous words had a new definition including foreign intelligence agents.

It was nearly seven in the evening now, and his stomach rumbled with an unexpected hunger. He took the hint and descended the elevator to the hotel restaurant, pulling up a stool to the bar. Several holos above the ornate mirrored cabinets were showing football and rugby highlights, and some kind of panel program he understood to be quite popular in Britain. He ordered fish and chips, something he’d always wanted to try, and a pint of local bitter ale.

The meal arrived wrapped in newspaper, which he found peculiar but charming, and the fish was greasy but tender in a way that made him more homesick than he expected. The beer was darker than the Japanese lagers to which he was accustomed, and maltier in flavor, but still quite good. He leaned back into the stool, half-heartedly following the football scores, and sighed almost imperceptibly. What the hell am I doing? He wondered.

A woman crossed the restaurant and took up the stool next to him. She was dressed demurely, in a light grey turtleneck and dark trousers, with a mop of curled hair piled haphazardly atop her head. She ordered a whiskey, neat, and a glass of tea, a combination the doctor found quite odd.

The barman poured the whiskey and she swallowed it in one short gulp, before pouring a squeeze of honey into the tea cup and turning toward him. “Doctor Yokota, I presume?”

“I, uh… yes?” he replied, confused.

“Detective Inspector Eloise Chatham. I understand you’ve recently encountered some… shall we say… peculiarities."

#so that happens #the world ocean #also i've gone through british customs three times and their officers are always the most haughty dipshits

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clawabiding · 5 years

Text

Red Rhotano

Across the aft of the Mare’s Milk sprays a seafoam deluge. The sky is clear and the sun is high, but the sea roars as if the heavens are in revolt. Red Rhotano, her name bought and paid for by the crashing, thrashing waters on the border of Limsa Lominsa, closes her eyes and inhales. Mist, salty and cold, fills her lungs as much as air, and she expels both in a sigh so jubilant the errant souls of the Mare think she were, despite the long frame and longer ears of the Rava, born of the waves.

Red hung from the center tie of the mizzenmast with her eyes on the approaching vessel. Winds as they were, a mainsail that large would overtake the Mare’s Milk in less than an hour and put the Mare in cannon range in just shy of forty minutes.

“Swarbera,” she called to the Sea Wolf at the base of the mast, “It’s them. It’s the <godsforsaken> Longpike.”

Swarbera Sterrahlsyn, cannoneer of the Mare’s Milk, clapped a ham-sized hand over his forehead in frustration, “Aw no, aw shite -- the Executioners ain’t suppose t’sail beyond the Swallow Meridian! They got laws! The Accord!”

Red shielded her eyes with a canopy of slim fingers, “You know another banner with a bloody neck-stump stitched into the weave, <friend?>”

Swarbera ignored her, his mind still struggling to acknowledge who exactly was tailing the Mare, “Aw, and the bleedin’ Longpike? She’s supposed’ta be on the other side of the parallel! She’s supposed’ta be halfway to Thavnair! She’s supposed’ta--”

“‘Bera!” shouted Red, “Tell the captain to <get his knickers around his ankles and prepare to receive,> because the Pike is gaining.”

Swarbera, who knew maybe four words of Red’s hometongue from proximity to the long-earred viera, stared vacantly up the mast.

“Tell him to prepare!” she cried.

To her, the masts were just her native spruce, uncomplicated by uneven bark and branches. Navigating the slippery, boot-polished deck, even thrown to and fro by an angry sea, was simple compared to the winding narrows of Golmore. Everything was known to her when she stepped on her first ship. Everything was basically the same, just kissed by the overzealous affection of the big, deep wet.

Red stood with her back to the sails and her eyes on the Longpike. Swarbera had been right about the Executioners. They weren’t out here by choice or by plan, but chased toward the Mare’s Milk by a sky of dangerous purple-grey. Twenty minutes had passed and now she could see the veins of lightning in the clouds and the spreading darkness on the horizon. A storm and a bad one. A void-colored seafarer’s hell reaching toward the Longpike and, eventually, the Mare.

Under normal circumstances there’d be an unspoken truce. The Longpike would sail by the Mare’s Milk and both vessels would pretend they didn’t see one another. The Pike wouldn’t even log the sighting. Against the coming storm ships on the Rhotano Sea were allies facing a common foe. But the Longpike’s crew were notorious even among the Bloody Executioners: they didn’t arrest pirates, they scuttled ships and took pot-shots at the drowning crew. They didn’t take captives, they took corpses if their faces were on warrants. A slower ship, especially a pirate vessel, facing a coming storm? It would only take a short cannonade to cripple the Mare and leave her for the demon winds to unmake. The Longpike would barely need to slow.

“Red!” shouted Swarbera from halfway to the bow, “Get your stilt-legged arse below deck, Captain is gonna scare ‘em off.”

Red turned to face Swarbera, confusion etched over her features. She couldn’t imagine what that meant. “‘Bera, what is it exactly that scares a <bear-hunting bird> like the Longpike?”

Swarbera grinned. Finally, a word he knew. “A bigger <bear-hunting bird.>” he said, pointing a finger at the dark clouds overhead.

She isn’t one for hiding. For all her natural talent, Red doesn’t do well when she cannot see the sea. More often than not, her place in the small barracks goes unused and she sleeps with an arm around the rigging. Cold is cold, but walls and a roof are captivity. Motion is her enemy when she cannot see the sky. Red Rhotano has more friends in the harsh wail of a banshee wind than she does in the quiet creak of the below-deck hull. Her home is -- was -- open to the air and a hundred feet off the ground. That will never change.

“Your funeral, Red!” sighed Swarbera when his explanation of the plan and the resulting argument didn’t sway her. He went below deck when the first thunder shook the masts, leaving Red up top to help with the change in course.

The captain’s plan was simple: steer the Mare’s Milk perpendicular to the storm instead of running from it, make the Longpike chase them if it wanted a bite, only to lose precious ground to the advancing swell before the worst of it hit. The captain was counting on the Executioners being unwilling risk their vessel to the storm, especially if they thought the Mare had little chance to survive in the heart of the squall. The trick would be doing exactly that. The Mare’s Milk was a tough vessel, but it was going to be a close call. Even the best case scenario wouldn’t leave the Mare unscathed.

Red was the last hold out on deck when the final crewman went below. The final departee was Captain Sterling himself. The gruff, older hyur made eye-contact with Red long enough to acknowledge this was what she truly wanted. She nodded as she tied the mainsail’s last rope.

She remembers her mother, almost eight decades old and as beautiful as anyone in Muscadet. She remembers hearing the frustration in her mother’s voice turn to something damning and afraid. But mostly she remembers handsome Coeli, sick and surrounded by her wives, all sworn not to leave her bedside. She remembers leaving Muscadet behind with her best baskets in tow, and how chilling it felt to step beyond the final edge of Golmore.

Alone on deck, Red watched the distant Longpike continue its approach, course changing to match the Mare’s. A chill ran down her spine like a finger of ice, but she realized too late she was wrong. The Pike wasn’t changing course entirely, just enough. It bobbed on the rocky sea like a stain against the purple sky, too calm and too quiet. All she could hear was the subtle roar of the ocean.

When Red heard thunder, she knew it wasn’t the storm’s doing. Her ears twitched when the low whistle of a fast approach grew increasingly more obvious. The moment etched itself in her memory. Had it been forty minutes? Surely it hadn’t. The Longpike’s cannons couldn’t possibly reach the Mare yet. This had to be a warning shot.

The deck exploded beneath her feet, or near enough not to matter. The concussion deafened her, the force threw her, and the last thing Red Rhotano saw was the ocean rising up to claim her. Then, cold. The sea was so cold. So dark.

Red never felt a cold like this and never would again. Her mother was waiting for her, standing at the edge of Golmore with three women she didn’t know ...and a man, a man with so many scars she can read the lonely history in them. They won’t let her pass, and despite that she knows this as well as anyone, she argues. She yells, she screams, and she has to be held back by her mysterious sisters. “Take it,” she begs, “At least, take it. Please! For Coeli and her wives, just fucking take it!” And in the greatest mercy Red’s mother has ever offered her daughter, she takes the vial that cost Red her home and turns her back, forever.

The cold and dark were interrupted by something yanking her upward. It was tight around her middle and pulled so hard Red’s back spasmed with agony, despite the rest of her being so numb. When her face breached the waves and she drew above the lapping ice-tongues of the sea, she tried to draw breath and couldn’t. The cold and dark were still winning.

All at once, something hard hit her back. Hands on her sternum forced something to crack and she spat up a lungful of sea. Red pulled herself into the closest thing to a ball she could manage and coughed so hard she tasted something coppery on her tongue in addition to all the saltwater.

Awareness slowly bloomed around her. She was alive, she was on the deck of a ship. She opened her eyes and saw a blurry face.

“S-swarbera?”

No, not a face. Faces. Four of them. Surrounding her, all looking down on her. All close enough to smell their sour breath.

“Alas, no,” came a calm voice, pickled in the amusement of the cruel. She wasn’t far off though. A roegadyn, a sea-wolf. Whereas Swarbera had a thick black beard this one’s face was clean and feminine.

“Welcome t’the Longpike, little rhotfhis,” said the woman foremost among those crowding around her, her curly mane of grey-green falling over her cheeks and brow, “We don’t expect you’ll be stayin’ long.”

#ffxiv mateus #ffxiv roleplay #red #viera #rava

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2022-med-cruise · 2 years

Text

It’s Saturday and, like I mentioned last night, we decided to give ourselves a break. We slept in - 8am which is earlier than we wanted but since it is an embark/debark day with lots of cross-over as far as newbies arriving and looking lost and folks departing lookin’ gassed and a bit sorrowful. After the departure announcement, we dragged ourselves outa bed for a late breakfast at a snack bar called Malmsen’s (named after T. Hagen’s mother) where we had their signature waffles which are amazing!

Wandering around the ship, we felt like we had it to ourselves as the departee’s had gone and the new arrivals wouldn’t come aboard til around noon. So we grabbed the chance to snag a washer/dryer on our deck’s laundry room and now have fresh tidy-whities for the rest of the trip.

While our room was being cleaned we decided to head for the pool deck to get a bit of R-N-R. Trying hard not to crash in the warmth I went and stuck my tired, achy feet in the hot tub and could just feel the tension relax. We had lunch in the Pool Grill (they make killer Hot Dogs n’ Burgers) and then came back to change into our swim gear for a bit of pool/hot tub time. Boy, did we need a day off! Touring is fun, but after 2 years of vegetating, yah don’t realize how outa shape you are.

So now to fill in a few blanks from yesterday’s tour. Our Venetian guide turned out to have spent a ton of time in Scotland - still goes back often - and we had a grand old time talking about the “Old Country”. Probably bored the hell outa the others in our group!

After a 90 minute boat ride to get to Venice proper we debarked at the pier and began our 3 hour walking tour of St. Mark’s Square (tourist trap unfortunately), the Cathedral, and the Doge’s Palace. The cathedral entry was a bit of a mess as the local government is installing cofferdams to protect the foundations of the church from the rising waters/sinking ground. Once inside, however, the effect is almost overwhelming with more gold leaf than the eye can take in, wall-to-wall mosaic floors, hundreds of renaissance paintings, and enough people to make you wish for a magic wand to make ‘em all disappear! I’ll try to post a couple of pix of the inside so you can get an idea of just how ornate the building is.

Leaving the cathedral we walked around the corner to begin the tour of the Palace. Turns out that the Doge really didn’t have any governing power - he was strictly a figurehead. And he was virtually a prisoner inside his palace. As the guide mentioned, there was never any coup as nobody really wanted to spend the rest of their life as a captive - no matter how fancy the surroundings!

The many rooms of the palace were covered with murals and paintings depicting the times. Quite a few of the rooms were actually functional chambers for doing the business of the city as well as dispensing justice. The hall of the court lead straight to the Bridge of Sighs and the prison next door. If you were going to the left you were headed to the cells (Sigh!) and if you were going back in the other direction you were headed for the gallows (SIGH!) Thus the name ‘Bridge of Sighs”.

I’ve already talked about the boat ride from Hades so enough for now - I’ll just tack on some pix that I hope will load!

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libidomechanica · 5 months

Text

Which, one succeed— for Thee frock bound upon talents, he is lost

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lover, then? Stoic ancholy unders stored soul inspect; of the gale blood by reflected from mighty tributaries scarcely palpiti’s’ on soul with broad, attention the post-horses that the Dorian want white of its spicy

formidable ermined, the party of patent by murmurs to fall a very will expected man, and wakes preserve and touched your Italian had to exertion of count dust; and pure sweet fruit; for his poor sometimes a divan.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #139 texts #ballad

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