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drwcn · 4 years ago

Note

I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea:

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation.

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!”

There was no response.

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu.

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —”

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.”

[2]

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot.

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a...

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb.

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible.

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!” Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -”

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning.

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside.

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through.

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby.

Fuck.

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets.

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! — in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name.

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child.

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift.

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road.

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead.

[3]

It ended with Jiang Cheng.

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to.

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead.

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle.

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would. Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da.

Da-da. Die-die. Father.

He was standing beside her father now.

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian.

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!

But then...

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away.

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother.

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough.

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential.

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish.

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...”

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!”

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—”

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it.

Just a joke. A silly joke.

In time, he would come to realize his mistake.

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry.

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lepusrufus · 4 years ago

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Double edged scalpel ch.5

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4

Summary: someone please give Nicole a break for the love of Miranda. And there be smut y'all

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Seeing Cassandra's softer side made something flutter within Nicole's chest. The brunette was a sadist through and through. Witness to that fact was the array of torture devices that littered the dungeons. Not to mention the prisoners she frequently killed, only to haul them on the autopsy tables in her study to be examined, chopped and sectioned by the both of them.

But there was an uncharacteristic sort of gentleness in the way their lips slid against each other, sharp teeth occasionally biting down on Nicole's lower lip but never enough to draw blood. In the way Cassandra would drag sharp nails against flushed skin, but not go beyond the pleasurable amount of pain. Even the glint in golden eyes when Nicole went over some old notes of hers on more tricky anatomy concepts. Having an exclusive look at this side of Cassandra felt beyond intimate and the thought almost made her miss when the brunette spoke from where she was leaning over a notebook.

"Okay let's just wrap this up, I have plans."

Nicole hummed, dropping the liver she was holding in a freezer bag. Most body parts were already bagged and ready to be picked up by Cynthia and her undercooks, they were just putting into practice some things the brunette was curious about. She dropped the now blood soaked leather gloves in the sink and went to sit by Cassandra, who was scribbling some final notes.

"In that case I'll go enjoy a cup of tea," she sighed. "Tea that I had to skip because someone was eager to start on this early."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow at her, accompanied by her usual smirk. "I meant plans with you."

Oh? That was new. The brunette laughed at Nicole's wide eyed expression and snapped her notebook shut. She took her sweet time putting it on the shelf with the others and checking the time, pretending not to notice the redhead's inquisitive expression. Then, she lifted Nicole’s chin with a thankfully not covered in blood finger.

"Don't get me wrong I love it here but," she grimaced, "it gets stuffy sometimes. Especially in summer."

Well, that much was true. The undergrounds of the castle were oddly warm, although not downright hot, compared to what one would expect from a castle. Pair that with the annoyingly humid atmosphere and having to wear a leather apron and gloves so as to not completely ruin your outfit and you got the perfect recipe for discomfort. She really ought to ask Cassandra about installing some kind of better ventilation down here.

"Meet me in the attic in about… an hour." She leaned down and their mouths were so close that Nicole could feel icy breath on her lips.

The attic? She's never been to the attic, it was not only off limits for most staff but also dangerous if rumors were to be believed. Not that she had the clarity of mind to voice any concerns when Cassandra finally leaned in to kiss her, complete with a nip on her lower lip that made Nicole’s breath hitch.

---

The fact that Nicole had no idea how to get to the attic could be a slight problem. She had asked Anita, but not only did she not know, she also seemed mortified by the idea. Another maid just gave her vague directions to look for a ladder on the top floor. As if that wasn't like trying to find the needle in a haystack. Or the needle in a giant castle.

She was just wandering around the top floor, praying not to stumble upon anyone who would be less than thrilled to see her there. A sigh of relief escaped past her lips when she heard familiar buzzing and steps coming towards her.

"Oh Cas-" she swallowed her words when she noticed red hair spilling from underneath a black hood.

"Nicole! What are you doing here hmm?" Her inquisitive hum was way too exaggerated the same way her fangs seemed too sharp when she grinned.

"I was just looking for Ca- lady Cassandra. She asked me to meet her in the attic."

Daniela's mouth fell open, almost forming an O shape. Then back to her characteristic giggle, almost as if laughing at a joke only she knew.

"What, you don't know how to get there?"

"...Not really," she sheepishly admitted.

And that was a mistake. Nicole would've preferred to wander the hallways until Cassandra eventually got bored enough of waiting and decided to come see where her glorified lab partner was. But her plan was ruined by Daniela wordlessly grabbing her arm and pulling her in the opposite direction she was going in. She even went the extra mile to partially turn into a swarm, which made Nicole's panic skyrocket. She didn't mind bugs. But having hundreds of them fly all around you, accompanied by manic giggling was a whole other thing.

Before she knew it though, Daniela let go of her arm, laughing a little at Nicole's stumbling. She gestured dramatically towards a ladder and said:

"There you go. Say hi to Cassie for me."

"Th- thank you my lady." And with a small bow of the head she grabbed the ladder and started ascending on shaky legs.

"And enjoy your date," she called out, once Nicole was at the top of the stairs.

Blushing, she decided to ignore the comment and start looking for the sister less likely to turn her into fly food.

The attic looked… old. It was obvious that people didn't come here often, although someone probably did clean it regularly as there were no cobwebs nor dirt on any surfaces, aside from some dust. It was full of neatly arranged boxes and crates, their contents as mysterious as the castle's inhabitants. Tentative steps took her across ancient floorboards, navigating old rooms.

"Rah!"

Nicole damn near jumped out of her skin, a string of curses spilling past her lips. "Jesus fucking christ Cassandra!"

The brunette only laughed, hands on her knees and pretending to wipe a tear from her eye.

"That's what you get for making me wait for so long."

"I didn't even know where the attic entrance was! Good thing one of your sisters came to my rescue." Nicole rolled her eyes at the last word.

Cassandra stopped laughing, eyes narrowing slightly. "Which one?"

"Uh- Danie-"

"Did she hurt you?" Cassandra grabbed her arms, golden eyes looking for any visible injuries.

Nicole just laughed softly, taken off guard by the display of concern. "No, no. Just gave me a bit of a fright, that's all."

With an eye roll, Cassandra guided her further into the attic, through more dusty rooms, until they reached a short corridor, light spilling from its other end. The room they entered was relatively small, almost half of it occupied by stacked boxes as if it used to be a storage room like the rest of the attic and nobody bothered to completely clear it out. A few pieces of furniture were also present: a couch with a coffee table in front of it and paintings leaning against a wall to collect dust. This room however had a window, left slightly ajar, that allowed you to see the mountains stretching on the horizon, crowned by the beautiful orange hues of dusk.

Nicole moved to the glass to take in the view, mouth almost hanging open, when an ungodly screech from outside made her backpedal straight into Cassandra.

"What the fuck was that?" She asked, eyes widening at the sight of flying creatures circling the towers.

"Mother's flying guard dogs."

"They sound the same way I'd imagine the souls of the damned do." Nicole didn’t take her eyes off the ghoulish creatures, almost as if keeping eye contact would dissuade them from attacking.

Cassandra just shrugged. "Wouldn't be too far off. Also here." She sat on the couch, gesturing towards a cup.

Nicole went to sit by her side, grabbing the mystery cup. She frowned slightly when the steam reached her nose, bringing with it a pleasant minty and honey aroma.

"Tea?"

"Since you were so disheartened about having to skip it earlier," Cassandra averted her eyes, seemingly finding the curtains very interesting.

After a long sip, she let out a content sigh. The warmth was more than welcomed, despite the weather. She set the cup back on the table and turned her attention on the brunette, now fidgeting with the corner of a pillow.

"Thank you," Nicole said, leaving a small kiss on her cheek.

Cassandra smiled and turned around, locking their lips in a kiss that at first mimicked her gentleness, but soon turned hungry when dainty hands made their way to the brunette's nape, pulling her closer. She shifted them both, pushing Nicole down on the pillows littering the couch, until she was laying on top of her, legs on each side of her waist. Her focus was on leaving a trail of nips and kisses down Nicole's neck when the redhead jumped and barely stifled a yelp at another screech from outside.

"Ugh what the fuck is today, scare me out of my mind day?"

"How are you scared of these but countless dead bodies don't phase you?" Cassandra laughed, sound muffled by her position with her mouth against Nicole's neck.

"I used to work on corpses, not on ugly gargoyles that could chew my face off!" She gestured wildly at the window and the few creatures visible outside.

"You what?"

"You...didn't know?" Nicole couldn't help a giggle at Cassandra's confused expression.

"How was I supposed to know?"

"I thought your mother told you already. Or your sisters," Nicole shrugged.

"They knew?!" And, after something seemed to dawn on her, "Oh I'm gonna kick both their asses."

Nicole couldn’t help letting out a small laugh, placing her hands on Cassandra's cheeks and, with a pout for dramatic effect, "Right now?"

As much as the sight was both funny and endearing, the warmth starting to pool at her core was making her beyond impatient.

The indignation in golden eyes was replaced by an all too familiar glint and black painted lips went back to their work on Nicole's neck. Sharp fangs pierced the skin there, just enough to draw a few drops of blood and a whine. After licking every last bit of it, Cassandra's lips moved to the collarbones and lower, hands slowly starting to undo the buttons of Nicole's pesky uniform that was in the way.

When both the button up and the skirt were discarded on the floor Nicole tangled her fingers through black hair and pulled Cassandra in for a kiss. Her free hand went to the back of the dress, pulling down the zipper and guiding it off of the brunette's shoulders. Once both of them were left only in undergarments, Nicole pulled back to look up at the brunette.

"If I knew I was supposed to dress up I would've asked the chambermaid if there's anything fancy in the uniform stash," she said, taking in the beautifully intricate lace of Cassandra's matching bra and underwear, complete with a giggle at her awful joking.

The brunette only raised an eyebrow. "Mhm I can take care of that. Not like you'll need these for long though." Her hands reached under Nicole's back to unclasp her bra and in mere moments that too was on top of the pile of clothes on the floor.

Then Cassandra bent down to crash their lips together, tongue slipping past Nicole's lips when a wandering hand elicited a gasp from her.

Cassandra was by no means a patient person. Quite the opposite actually. But teasingly dragging her nails across sensitive skin only to feel the girl under her squirm and whine when her hand just won't go where she needed it made waiting all the more sweet. Slender fingers started to toy with the edges of Nicole's underwear. After a groan against her lips and an impatient tug of hair, Cassandra finally gave in, slipping two fingers inside her. She felt Nicole arch into her, a broken moan escaping past her lips when she broke the kiss to let her head fall back into the cushions. Cassandra took that as an opportunity to kiss the length of her neck, occasionally stopping to suck or bite at a spot, enjoying every gasp and moan she drew out of the redhead.

With Cassandra's rough pace it didn't take long before Nicole was clenching her thighs around her hand. Cassandra kissed her, swallowing her moan as she came.

The small room in the attic, Cassandra's drawing room she would later find out, was the perfect secluded spot. They spent the rest of the evening enjoying each other. First evening of many.

#double edged scalpel #cassandra dimitrescu x maiden #unhinged maiden™ my beloved #daniela dimitrescu #fanfic #idk how to smut yall

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ka-writes · 4 years ago

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Notes- Did I decide I was gonna write a fic at 2:00 AM? Yes yes I did... anyways I don’t have an archive account yet but I wanted to get it out there.... um here is chapter one of my space AU, because I absolutely fell in love with the AU.

——————

Inspired by:

Humans are Space Velociraptors

By:FreshRoses_InMyGarden_NeedTheRain

Some kids come from storks, others come from crashed spaceships

By: mmmajora

Home Again, Home Again

By: teeth_eater

All works can be found on Ao3

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Ohh also challenge if you wanna do it, fill in the Title! And another one... if you were an alien what question would you ask a human other than basic questions, like name and age.

Also suggestions are always appreciated! And if you wanna support my main blog it is kadoodle.. also I have no updating schedule so I will when I want to.

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Warnings: Cussing, mentions of tight spaces and characters being trapped, mentions of corpses, and needles.

——————

“Humans are [Insert text here]”

Chapter 1: Idiots kidnap the wrong kid..

Honestly, life hasn't been bad. His needs were met, most of the time, and he had a.. place to sleep…

Yeah no life wasn’t great.

Tommy was easily, barely, avoiding Social Services. Sleeping on benches and occasionally grass. He got whatever wasn’t wanted and had an official bag for the first time. He had some spare clothes, and no money. The authorities stopped looking for him after a while and the only main challenge was getting essentials.

No one would miss him. No one would look for him. Therefore he was the perfect target among many others. The only thing setting him apart was his sheer ability to survive, not a want, like many of the others, it was a fact he would survive. Not that his captors knew that of course.

Alternative: Tommy gets kidnapped by aliens and sbi rescues him.

——————

He woke up in a cage.

Not a cell or a room, a fucking cage.

There were a few others in various cages around the room. All of which were either dead or close to it. Most of the ones still alive had been there for months, possibly years. No one knew of course.

The smell of rotting bodies stenched the place with a coppery coating. The room wasn’t large but not quite small. It was dull grey with layers of grime settling on the floor and cages. The room was long and skinny, lined with cages against either wall in a zig zag format. The only light was coming from the small door window, which happened to be positioned right in front of Tommy. It glowed a faint yellow and was blurry, not allowing Tommy to see into the hall.

Shadows would occasionally pass by the window. None ever stopped at it. Causing the ever growing hunger to grow more. Once one had stopped at the door, not for more than a second, before it screeched. It was inhuman and sounded like a hurt hawk from one of those nature documentaries. Tommy shoved his hands onto his ears and waited for it to stop. The thing chuckled, not like a human, but something close to it.

——————

Tommy waited for what seemed like hours before something happened. The door opened, sliding into the ceiling. A weird looking creature stepped in. It looked like it had a porcelain mask over its face with a painted smiley face. There were no ears or hair, instead just more porcelain, which formed a spear which sat on shadows. The thing was wearing a lime green hoodie and black leather pants that seemingly faded into the creature's legs. The knees bent inwards causing it to look awfully awkward as it crouched near Tommy’s cage. The hands were long and lanky with no real palm. The creature also had a tail that looked close to how Tommy pictured a devil's tail to look. This was the first time in ages Tommy was glad to be behind bars.

The thing pointed at itself and said,

“Dream.”

In the most heavily accented English Tommy had ever heard. That didn’t matter as much of the fact that the seemingly painted smile moved with the words.

“Come.”

The creature unlocked the cage and half dragged Tommy out of the cage into what Tommy presumed to be the lab. He noticed a window. The only thing for miles was stars. He was in space. He had been kidnapped by Aliens. Fuck.

——————

Humans were a heavily avoided species. The things were what kids would expect to come out of their closet. They were feared, and for good reason.

The first ship to find Earth was ecstatic. Finding another intelligent species in what would’ve been deemed as a planetary desert was a scientific breakthrough. Causing the entirety of the media to go insane for a couple of years.. That was until the first ship ventured onto the planet. It was immediately shot down. The entire crew was killed and the entirety of the ship was destroyed in a matter of minutes. The ISF (Intergalactic Safety Force) deemed it as a no flight zone and claimed to punish anyone in the desert. Even so poachers smuggled humans and within days had their ship crashed.

The only ones allowed to take humans were scientists, who were specialized in taking care of difficult species. They were allowed to test on said species and do whatever they wanted, in the name of science of course. Most people didn’t care how they treated them and were really only interested in what could kill them.

Which is where Wilbur came in. He was a toxicologist, a scientist studying poisons, he also dealt with various potions and other chemical mixes. This knowledge is what gained his entry to the Dream Team Ship.

He had been testing on around nine different humans for the past six months on the celestial calendar. This time Dream, his boss and the captain, brought in a juvenile human. He was skinny and lanky. Clearly had been starving before being taken. He felt bad before shaking off his pity.

“V74 and V83. Make sure he can communicate beforehand.” Dream promptly stated before leaving the kid in the room.

Wilbur tried not to think about his terrified face, before he clipped on the translator. Usually it is worn on the back of the head, since humans brains are vastly different than most species, it is clipped to the left side of the head.

The translator looks like a simple device when in reality it took dozens of celestial years to perfect it. It’s a small silver disk that ingrains into the part of the brain that controls communicating. After the body gets used to the device it can translate any language into one you understand instantly.

It took a couple more years for the translator to incorporate the estimated 7,000 languages spoken on Earth. For a planet that has been isolated it has a more complex and diverse set of cultures and languages, than Pellucidian has had in centuries. To say Wilbur was jealous, wouldn’t be far from the truth. Not that he studied cultures for a living. It was something that always interested him.

He put the device on the kid’s head and grimaced at the pain that was on the kid’s face. He quickly dried up the blood and mixed a solution that would ease the pain. It was clear and tasted like water, which is the only way they got humans to take the pain reduction.

The kid relaxed for a spilt second before tending at the unfamiliar setting.

“Where am I?” He snapped, causing Wilbur to jump back a bit, before collecting himself and standing up.

“The Dream Team craft’s labatory.” The kid’s face flashed with panic for a split second, “You have two testings scheduled for today. It will go quickly.”

“Will it be painful?” The kid asked. As standard for testing, Wilbur ignored the question and measured the substances. He quickly cleaned the puncture spot before giving him the needle.

The kid winced in pain. Wilbur swiftly led him to the testing chair. It had restraints that moved with the patient's body, which prevented bruising while keeping them in place. Wilbur clicked them on and sat at the desk located to the left of the kid.

“What did you inject into me?” The kid asked clearly trying to fight off the anesthetic.

“A dosage of Lidocaine, which is an anesthetic for your species. It’s only to numb pain that may come with the solutions we will be using today.” The kid’s face flashed with a deeper panic than before, causing Wilbur to tense. “We won’t start yet, since we have a list of questions to go through before we begin.” Wilbur lied. He hated testing people, especially kids. Dream of course didn’t care, like the rest of the Dreamon species. It made him sick. That was when he made a split second decision. Hoping he could get a distress signal out, without alerting the other crew members. He was gonna get the kid off the ship, at the next stop of course. Which was in three celestial hours.

The kid scoffed, clearly not believing the lie. He paused a moment thinking over his options before he smirked,“Fine. Ask me what you want bitch-boy!” Wilbur gasped, clearly not anticipating the insult.

——————

Chapter 1 End

1406 words

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End notes: Why the hell does google docs make it so hard to copy and paste??

Also I had to do some intense googling for this... I hope you enjoyed!

(Also also this is my first ever fanfic... please give feedback and reblog!!)

Minor mistakes are forgiven... don’t expect me to be perfect... I am dyslexic.

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Tommy: ....

Wilbur: ....

*intense starring*

Wilbur POV: I am kidnapping it.

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Chapter 2:

#my writing #my fanfic tag #okay 2 rb #tommy mcyt #wilbur soot #dream mcyt #dream smp fanfiction #sbi au #space au

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kazbrkker · 5 years ago

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Chapter 6: Distant Reminders

Chapter summary: Finally a glimpse of the day Farah, Hadir and Alexis met, told from both perspectives. Some fluff between Alexis and Alex. Slight confession (blink and you miss it.) [3870 words]

Warnings: pretty dark chapter – please be careful. Mentions of wounds, burns and blood. Implied mentions of sexual assault.

27 October 2019, 0600 "Alexis" & "Alex" | Codename Aces CIA agents with Urzik militia Liberation Force Base, Urzikstan.

Truth be told, Urzikstan was starting to grow on the CIA agent. Used to working in much less hostile environments than this, Alexis figured it would take time before she could adapt. But between the constantly rowdy, yet lively compound and the unpolluted Urzikstan night sky that smiled down at her—it wasn't difficult for Urzikstan to imprint on her.

It was 6 on the clock when she awoke, a wired response. Judging from the unslept sleeping bag, Alex was still on lookout duty. Five minutes later, he entered the room.

"Wow, cute bed hair."

"Morning to you too." Alexis ignored his sarcasm, starting to roll her sleeping bag but halted at Alex's request—questionably saying hers was more comfortable. "They're the exact same," She deadpanned.

"Fine, I like your smell. Consider me obsessed." Alex lazily pulled his shirt over his head and grabbed his towel. Her laughter was airy among the morning stillness.

"Dial the creepiness to a min, 'kay?"

They walked to the makeshift showers that Farah had shown them—grimy and borderline filthy but they couldn't be bothered, instead, grateful that showers were even a possibility. Alex stepped one foot in when Alexis opened her bathroom door, "Quick proposition, wanna save some water?"

Alex dramatically clasped a hand on his chest at her vexed jab.

"What? It's our part to save the Earth, isn't it?" His voice lowered to a whisper, as if he was sharing the best-kept secret. Their foreheads were practically touching, his breath fanning on her cheeks. Their height difference made Alex peer down at her, thumb boldly rubbing across her cheekbones. "I'm just offering, I take my responsibility very seriously."

"Mm. I bet. Just get your ass in the shower." Back against the bathroom door, Alexis chuckled at how ridiculous he was, but it was a normalcy she got used to. Even at 6 in the dead morning, there was already an irrepressible smirk on display. The warmth that radiated off his bare torso did nothing but intensified her need for a freezing shower. He didn't even budge under her shove.

"Ooh. Grumpypants."

Rolling her eyes, she briefly glanced at the muscular arms that encaged her, silently tracing the intricacy of his tattoo sleeves, "Can I leave now?"

"Sure, excuse me then." He gripped onto her hips as though squeezing through a narrowed pathway—except it wasn't, there was plenty of room. All he had to do was release her.

It was pointless to try and ignore the heat of his touch, her thin cotton t-shirt could only do so much.

Alex stepped away, chuckling knowingly. She almost felt cold. A flustered Alexis stood rooted for a few seconds before rapidly blinking, breaking the... whatever this was. "I hope the water doesn't run out when you have shampoo in your eyes!" She shook the feeling out of her system, harshly biting her lip to reprimand herself.

'Jesus. Drag your mind out of the gutter, will you?' Although the devil on her shoulder tempted her with an exhilarating idea. Alexis swung the door shut with a bang, hopefully, loud enough to scare those thoughts away.

She heard his muffled yells from outside. "Point taken, you're a devious thing, aren't you!"

After a much needed shower, she found her partner back in their room. His hands tucked behind his head, droopy eyelids signified his sleepiness but held open with resistance. She entertained his cheeky statements while drying her hair.

"You look great."

"Tuck me in?" His persistence eventually honeyed her. This half-asleep state was endearing, albeit laughable and unbelievable to anybody else.

"Night." She squatted down to face the now tucked-in Alex. He answered back, words blurred from exhaustion, clearly delirious since he audaciously asked for a goodnight kiss, but was met a splash of cold water. "Well, it's officially morning, but... semantics. Answer is no." Refusing to witness her smug face, within two minutes, the said man passed out.

An amused curve played on her lips, observing her friend. Once he was truly asleep, judging from his unfurrowed eyebrows and slightly parted lips, she kneeled to land a soft kiss on the crown of his head. Her movements trembled ever so slightly as her lips brushed against his forehead, diligent to not rouse the light-sleeper.

Otherwise, she'd never hear the end of it.

Alex had slipped into unconscious blissfulness by now, leaving her alone with her raging thoughts. Looking at him, she thought of a few words that she would never utter out loud, even if her life had been beaten to shy of an inch. She was no idiot, nor a teenage girl struggling to analyse her feelings.

Alexis had feelings for Alex, she resigned to it ever since her return from St. Petersburg. Staring death in the face can do that to somebody.

It was a fool's errand to think it would ever work out. A bigger mistake if she destroyed the most important person in her universe. It didn't help that they were in the middle of a war, and they always were.

Besides, love was overrated. But try telling that to her defying heart for not letting it go even after five unreciprocated years. Alexis quietly untied the curtains covering their partition of the compound, leaving more than one thing to rest.

It was a nightmare to work out in jeans, but to respect their culture, she obviously had no complaints. Alexis convened with Farah, Hadir and another group of militia fighters for their first training today. Today's lesson resolved around stealth—her speciality. She taught them everything to know about sneak attacks, efficient knifing and using unconventional weapons like a belt or a pen.

They were an easy bunch to teach, like a sponge readily soaking up whatever she had to give. Somehow standing here reminded her when she was an insignificant recruit back in Fort Benning, how time flew. "Being stealthy is more than sneaking around and keeping quiet. It conserves ammo and your energy. Tradecraft 101: if you can't identify the target, you are the target."

They wrapped around 9.15am, concluding the lesson by teaching them her neat trick, emptying her shoes to reveal razors pasted against her ankle. "Hide these in your socks. It will get you out, trust me." She drawled out the last part, unintentionally grinning at a funny memory.

Farah smiled, asking her fighters to head to breakfast. Hadir, with his stomach growling embarrassingly loud throughout the training, eagerly led the beeline to the kitchen. The commander spoke gratitude to her informative lesson again, before a small tap on Alexis' shoulders pulled her attention away. It belonged to a young woman, not older than 15, she guessed.

"I... want to learn more... Can you teach me?"

"Your English is flawless..." Alexis waited for her name, the young woman was fidgety, only met her gaze meekly upon asking.

"Alia."

"Beautiful name." A smile fell on both the commander and the agent's lips. "Well, nice to meet you, Alia. Maybe we can meet back here after breakfast?"

The young woman nodded eagerly, shoulders now loosened. There was a slight skip in her steps when she walked in the kitchen's direction, joining the rest.

The corpse of the young child she witnessed the yesterday unwillingly flashed before her eyes. If she shut her eyes, she'd bet she could still smell the unholy putrid decay of human flesh.

"Alen– Alexis?" The sound of her name dragged her out of her thoughts, the excitable yells and rowdy chatter from the kitchen now of tangible existence. Farah waited for her expectingly, "Lost you for a minute."

They walked away to the rooftops. "Oh. Sorry, just... I didn't see her when I was here the last time... She's so young."

"War waits for no one," Farah replied truthfully. "We found Alia in a sewage tunnel three years ago, she was the only one left in her family. We found her before the soldiers did..."

She didn't explain further; for they both knew the tragic outcome of a young girl living alone in this occupation. Farah continued on a solemn note, "Barkov does not inflict pain only from his bombs and massacre. He tears families apart, ruin our children's innocence. Barkov and his army do... unspeakable things..."

Farah didn't explicitly state it, but there was a shared understanding. It was terrifying to be a woman in Urzikstan. Or really, be a woman anywhere near this life...

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you the last time."

Fazed by the unexpected mention of old events, Farah replied a few seconds later. "It's okay. You came back."

"Still, five years is a long time when freedom is on the line."

"Alexis," Their gaze connected meaningfully, "I have waited all my life. Five years is nothing. Plus. you came with backup. You brought me victory."

The agent's nose scrunched in grimace, "Don't jinx it." The commander looked perplexed at her words, "It's bad luck to say you've already won before you actually did."

"You believe in luck?"

"I didn't, but after you saved me... Let's just say I'm a believer." Although there was nothing cheery in her tone. "Luck can go a long way, I'm living proof." The distant look in her eyes and made Farah caution around her next words.

Farah remembered the day she stumbled upon Alexis. Stumbled would be the right word, seeing she literally walked in a chamber with Alexis in it.

Same shit, different day. Only today Farah and her fighters received intel of a new mob that moved operations just outside the borders of Urzikstan. As if Barkov wasn't enough, they were terrorising and robbing farmers of their already piss-poor life.

They utilised the element of surprise, showing up in the dead middle of the night. Also dousing the enemy's compound in petrol was an easy and foolproof way to get the job done.

"Sister!" When Hadir yelled for her, she was terrified something had happened to her brother—who was still inside, drenching the house with more petrol. "There is a woman... Prisoner! She doesn't look like she's with them!"

"Bring her out!"

Hadir balanced a bloodied woman on his back, carrying her all the way back to their waiting trucks in the woods. Farah immediately demanded her male fighters to look away, covering the skimpily dressed woman with a canvas mat. Not that it mattered, really—the unknown woman's face was unrecognisable, bruises and blood littered all over her body, her natural skin colour a mystery to them.

"She's alive! Barely breathing, but still here." One of her fighters announced. At that, they floored back to their compound. Farah was the one to clean her up, horrified by the state she was in. The commander had seen her fair share of gore, but even she didn't want to imagine what the mob did to the woman. Under the cuts, wounds and burns Farah could see a peek of the woman's skin colour. After dabbing some water on her face, her American features came into view.

There was no patch on her, no dog tags to identify her. Soldier? No, spy, she concluded. The woman looked far too beautiful for a wise commander to send into an active, hostile battlefield like Urzikstan.

Farah shook her head dismissively. "You give me too much credit, Alexis. You were the one strong enough to live through all that."

"If it weren't for you, the mob would have killed me. Hopefully." The agent swung her legs freely over the rooftop's edge. Her solemness didn't bypass the commander. "I'm serious, Farah. If I wasn't so lucky to meet you, even though it was in a burning fire, I wouldn't be here..." Their sight fell upon a faintly wrinkled patch of skin that covered a part of Alexis' left shin. "You saved my life, Farah. Thank you."

Through blurry vision, it was hard to make the commander's face, but she roughly pictured the curve on her lips. She made no efforts to hide her tears, knowing Farah had seen her worse. Recalling St. Petersburg drained every ounce of life in her, a dark stain of her past that no matter what, she couldn't scrub away.

And believe her, she had scrubbed her skin raw trying to erase it. But it still lived, crawled under her skin.

After the annoying tear dropped, her vision cleared. Now facing Farah, who seemingly had the same sentimental expression on her face, the two women engulfed in a tight embrace. There was a kind of serenity residing in the knowledge that Farah still smelled the way Alexis remembered.

When Alexis, then Alena first woke, she was quick to hold a scalpel against the first person she saw. It didn't help that it was a man.

Digging relentlessly into the guy's neck, she ignored the electrifying pain all over her body yelling at her to stop.

"Stop! Stop!" A young female dashed into the room, frantic arms flailing about. Alexis recognised the authority that radiated off this woman, so she jerked her head at the exit.

"I cannot let you leave. Look at you, you need to recover."

Displeased, the scalpel pierced through the man's skin. Eyes averting in a frenzy, she tried to work the best escape plan in her jumbled mind. "I'll recover somewhere fucking else. Let me go."

"We are not the enemy here–"

"'Cause the bad guys are so honest?" Alexis spat, using the guy as her human shield to inch towards the entrance. Her antics were gaining a ton of spectators, lining alongside the exit with firearms. "Tell your men to back off. Now! Or I fucking shoot my way through."

Alexis dropped unconscious after that statement, apparently, someone had hit her with a dose of anaesthetic. She half-imagined she would be restrained, but surprisingly, not only was she not, but the same woman slept beside her bed defenceless too.

Maybe it was pure stupidity, or kindness.

"Hate to interrupt, but Laswell's calling." Alex's voice boomed from the rooftop's entrance, making her jump. Back-facing him, she hastily wiped her tears and at a confirming nod from Farah, she turned around—all traces of tears disappeared from her face.

Farah watched the brunette agent retreat, a sad yet proud smile resting on her face when she thought about how far they both had come.

"Everything okay?" Alex inquired warily, shutting the door behind him for complete privacy.

"Yeah, perfect. Why?"

"Nothing. Just looked intense, that's all. And you're usually not big on hugs."

An uncharming snort escaped from her. Leaning against a table, she said, "Maybe that's just when it comes to you. Enough, where's Laswell?"

Alex was about to probe further but an unceremonious ring of the satellite phone stopped him. He huffed, having half a feeling that Laswell was a genie or something borderline supernatural, summoned at the mere mention of her name.

"You got Saint and Echo 3-1 on the line."

"Sorry for the early call, but I got good news. The attic of the Al-Qatala townhouse was a gold mine. It looks like we found the Wolf."

"Good news indeed," Alex commented.

"Communications from the laptop were tracked to Ramaza Hospital in Urzikstan, where the Al-Qatala leader is believed to be holed-up. Farah's forces will track terror activity at the hospital while a Marine ground force will advance on the complex."

At that, they arched a questioning brow, "Why the extra heat? We already have Farah's forces."

"Not my call, Saint. Colonel Norris suggested it and the General agrees. We only have one shot at this, the plan needs to be flawless." She almost scoffed at the same old excuse, but couldn't really blame Laswell. "You two will link up with Sergeant Griggs, the main priority is to capture the Wolf. Saint, you will lead interrogation about the stolen gas. I want him alive, can I trust you?"

Alexis shrugged casually. "Of course, death would be too easy for the bastard... Excuse my language, Watcher."

"Agreed. But, I still want him to look presentable, got it?"

"Are we talking face? Or waist down?"

"Saint..."

The female agent received a defeated laughter from her partner, mouthing at her to stop it. Suddenly the minuscule guilt in him for executing Alexis' punishment for "insolence" disappeared. She had a true gift for pushing the limit, and then some. Consider it her cheap thrill—testing how far she could resist the CIA's chain of command. Alex sometimes wondered if Alexis was actively trying to court her death.

It was humorous watching her try though, knowing she was too precious of an asset to the CIA and JSOC to really punish. She'd only get a light slap on the wrist for trying—only irritating her further.

"Just kidding, Watcher. You can count on me."

━━━━

28 October 2019, 0530 Rammazan, Urzikstan.

Soldiers or agents, everyone had their pre-mission rituals. The familiarity of routines helped to comfort soldiers who fear they might not return from their voyages.

Every day might be their last.

For Task Force Black, it was a last-minute poker game until somebody won three streaks in a row—freeing themselves from carrying claymores for that mission. Usually, Commander Maddox would win, but observing their games for a prolonged period of time, something told Alexis her commander was playing cheat.

Their games, albeit entertaining, was not her thing. She liked her silence, enjoy the isolation before entering another war—she'd never know how long a mission was. Days, weeks, months.

Her incident changed her, after that, she could never really be alone anymore—feeling the urge to always be surrounded by people. So there she was, sitting on yet another rooftop that oversaw the hospital the Wolf was in, even though it wasn't her shift.

A waft of smoke filled her nostrils unpleasantly, immediately catching her attention. "I can feel you looking," Farah said from her right.

Busted.

"6 minutes." The agent subconsciously mumbled, earning a confused look from the commander.

"She means you're killing 6 minutes off your life." Alex continued after Farah's narrowed eyes, "She used to annoy me with this every time I pick up a stick. Mildly efficient. If you have iron willpower like me...Alexis can be very persuasive." He winced at the reminder of her 'detox' sessions, truly terrifying.

Alexis rolled her eyes.

Their conversation ceased when Farah's walkie-talkie announced Al-Qatala was firing in the hospital. "My soldiers confirm that the hospital is under siege. Al-Qatala is taking civilians as human shields. They're protecting someone."

"Or something."

Farah shrugged, "The more we find out... Hadir is my best sniper. You can rely on him and all my fighters."

"Well... This one is my best sniper. You can rely on her as long as she's well-fed— Ow! See my point?"

"Keep talking... I'll leave you to die."

Taking the opportunity when Hadir and Alexis engaged in small talk, seemingly part of their ruse, Farah successfully sneaked Alex her cigarette. He managed to pass it back before his partner swivelled back.

"Marines want their pound of flesh. They're leading the charge on this."

"I told you we would help you."

"And you're keeping your word."

"I don't do this to keep my word." Farah hesitated, "The invaders of my country have no regard for human life. The gas kills all things. Even food in our gardens. If you use these tactics, you are my enemy."

"No exceptions?"

"None. Al-Qatala has given my people a bad name, and we have paid dearly for their crimes. I want to see the Wolf punished."

The two CIA agents nodded coherently, "We'll make sure you're at the embassy for the handoff to Price."

"And you? Where will you two go when this is over?"

"Wherever they send me," Alex stared into the distance, casually nudging Alexis, "Hopefully this time to somewhere with a view."

Alexis chuckled, rolling up the hems of her jeans, "Urzikstan isn't so bad... you know. After we kill Barkov."

At their sighs, the commander finally understood. "You don't choose?"

"Ha. Not exactly." There was a price to pay to be the best out of the best, spoiler alert, it sucked.

They spilt, each taking different corners to defend until sunrise. Knowing his best friend couldn't be alone, Alex's fingers thoughtlessly slipped between hers and pulled her along.

Hadir called for the female agent, "Want to spot for me?"

Alex's grip tightened significantly. Her blood spiked from being put on the spot. "Um. I don't know... Hadir said he kept my fried rice—" Alex grumbled an insincere apology on her behalf before dragging her away. He hoped she couldn't hear the way his teeth grounded in irritation.

They settled on an isolated corner, away from eager ears. "Okay, I really wanted to eat that–"

"I'm a better eating partner. A better partner, overall, not that I'm trying to compete." He boasted with a wink, "But if I have to, I'll definitely win."

"Ah, the lovely smell of testosterone. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're tiptoeing on jealousy," Alexis mumbled sardonically, the scope on her sniper rifle clicking rhythmically.

"I'm not jealous."

At the realisation, a wry smile appeared on her lips, taking a break to harshly shove Alex's left shoulder. "My goodness, you are jealous! Don't worry, Hadir won't sweep me off my feet, pretty sure he has bigger things to worry about..." Alexis cleared her throat sarcastically, "Like a war?"

"You know me, I hate sharing. Especially my best friend." He shrugged dismissively after flicking her nose, only to be met with a pair of mocking eyes. "Can't you pretend to love me, just once? Come on, Lexi, say it. I'll cover your eyes." He whispered, the best friend part doused her with a bucket of cold water. Undeniably her heart lurched, though it was a simple joke, her stubborn heart had a mind of its own.

The rifle laid in her hands, forgotten. Under the rising sun, her voice was reduced to a whisper. Alexis swallowed a thick gulp, deciding to wave the white flag so she could calm her fiercely pounding heart.

"I don't have to pretend, Alex. You are my best friend. There's nobody else I can physically stand being in a room longer for five minutes."

For a cynical person like Alexis, this was basically a confession.

Alex arched a brow, still waiting.

"Fine. Love you."

Just as the Urzikstan sun finally pierced through the clouds, shining streaks of blood orange on their faces, it charmed a spell in Alex. The man couldn't help but be enamoured at this gorgeous sight.

"Yeah." He replied mindlessly, chewing down his lips while watching Alexis close an eye in concentration through her scope.

"Love you too."

‧͙⁺˚*･༓

alex, deadly c.i.a agent/prev delta force soldier: "tuck me innnnnn. 'kay gr8, now give me a goodnight kiss."

a/n: i gotta admit, i was so sleepy writing the first half i typed "fuck me in?" instead of "tuck" i mean... if u insist 😳

taglist: @flyboidameron

want to be tagged? just let me know!

#call of duty x oc #call of duty x reader #alex modern warfare #echo 3-1 #alex cod #john price #kyle garrick #farah karim #hadir karim #kate laswell #oc: alexis #fanfiction #call of duty #modern warfare #killer instinct #ysr writes: kl #please read tw carefully

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veinsandknuckles · 5 years ago

Text

It's a bad life if you don't weaken, pt 5 (Tallahassee/Reader)

You had found a house. You’d found plenty of houses along the way, but this one looked especially promising with its two stories, a tall foundation that left the front door as the only entrance you’d need to guard, wide fields spreading out in every direction to lay bare anyone, dead or alive, who might try to sneak up on you. There were old tire marks in the soil running towards and away from the building, the latest set belonging to a car parked awkwardly against a wall with leaves and debris scattered on the roof - no one living was staying here.

Tallahassee tried to kick in the door and made a wonderful scene when it swung open without any effort, leaving him to land face first on the hallway carpet.

He looked so baffled and crestfallen when he got back to his feet that the three of you laughed at him even harder and he turned tail and ran on into the house until he found a door that hadn’t already been kicked in by some other survivor. You heard a crash, boots running across wooden floors, then another crash. Columbus and Little Rock entered after him and fanned out like a well practiced SWAT team to make sure Tallahassee’s display hadn’t awakened anything.

You carried in the bags, pushed the door back into its frame and secured it with the hallway cabinet and, gun at the ready, went to explore the next floor up. Those fools were making a lot of noise down there but you were sure by now that the house was empty. Thanks to their eager bad-ass antics, you had first choice of bedrooms.

Tallahassee came up the stairs once he’d gotten some of the smashing out of his system and he froze in the doorway to the master bedroom, his grin twisting into a mask of utter grief.

“No,” he breathed.

You were sprawled on the king-size bed, arms crossed behind your head, legs stretched out and luxuriating on the soft sheets. With a smile, you made the bed bounce and there wasn’t so much as a squeak of complaint from the springs. Three of you could have fit on the bed without brushing up against each other. “Oh yeah,” you purred. “This house was a great pick, Tallahassee - I can really see us making ourselves at home here.”

The other two finally caught on to what was happening and followed close behind. Little Rock elbowed Tallahassee aside and cursed at you. “Come on! I’m not sleeping on the floor again - Tallahassee, tell her.”

“Oh, wow,” came Columbus’ voice from somewhere down the hall, “this room is so nice! Hm, doilies.”

Little Rock bolted immediately and through the walls you could hear her flinging herself onto the bed in there and shouting “dibs!”

Tallahassee’s face was dark, and he glanced towards where your hand rested on your gun. “I could have you over my shoulder and out of here quicker’n you could get the safety off of that thing, missy.” He drew himself up with injured dignity and pressed a hand to his chest. “But I... am a gentleman. A gentleman with a sore neck and aching muscles and very long limbs.”

You raised your eyebrows and wondered if you could bring him back to the idea of lifting you up bodily. “Yes, that’s what we all call you behind your back. Gentleman.”

He shook his head. “You know, I give you kids everything I have and I get nothin’ but lip in return. I despair of your generation.”

Tallahassee did that a lot, drew attention to his own age and the gap between his and yours. He was welcome to fish for reassurance about his own all he wanted and you usually obliged, but lumping you in with the other two? “Watch who you call a kid. Columbus makes me feel ancient by comparison.”

He looked at you oddly before he smiled. “Figure of speech, sweetheart.” Something made him pause, as if he was weighing up his options. Then he sighed with exaggerated melancholy. “Well... if you won’t take pity on me, I’d better find somewhere else to bunk up.” Tallahassee touched the brim of his hat to you and walked off with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder before you could gather up the nerve to point out the bed was wide enough to fit both of you. ----

In the end, there were enough bedrooms to go around and then some - this house had obviously belonged to a real old fashioned country family. No one wanted to speculate further than this in any real way, but Little Rock made fun of all the framed photographs she found and amused herself by throwing them out the window, trying to hit the roof of the old abandoned car. Maybe she was working through something.

The other survivor(s) hadn’t stayed here long enough to ruin much. Their footprints had stained some carpets and there were broken egg shells and empty packets of food clogging the kitchen sink, but all of that would have expired by now in any case and in the cabinets there were cans, spices and nonperishables galore. There was also a corpse in the sitting room, but it was the still sort, so you pulled on some long rubber gloves, grabbed the edges of the rug it was lying on and dragged it, half wrapped up like a perversely over-stuffed burrito, slowly out and down the front stairs.

There were a few offers of help, but you wanted to stay busy so you declined, found a bucket and some soap, opened all the windows wide and eventually with a lot of elbow grease and retching, got the worst of the stink and the goo out. Tallahassee kept himself busy and alone in the rest of the house doing something mysterious, Columbus and Little Rock split up to rest a while and came together in the kitchen to cook and after a good few hours of quiet, hard work you felt your stomach rumble as the smell of death was replaced by the (honestly speaking, only barely) preferable smell of food.

It was amazing how quickly the unacceptable became commonplace - if you couldn’t learn to build an appetite with maggots crawling on your hands, you would have starved a long time ago.

When it was all done, the four of you sat down exhausted on the porch to the first hot meal you’d had in ages. The table was covered by an old sheet, there were wild flowers in a jug of water, there were beers to drink and the already empty bottles held flickering candles that picked up some of the slack from the setting sun. Someone, perhaps all three of them, had obviously had a hankering for the domestic and right now it didn’t seem like the sort of thing that any of you wanted to mock.

Tallahassee had gone to work with hammer, nails and whatever wood he could find and had already boarded up most of the windows that could be reached on the first floor. Everything that could and should be done today had been done and there was as much stillness and safety now that there would ever be again. In short, this was exactly the time when at least one person would be gearing up for a breakdown. The silence around the table could be excused while everyone was still ravenous and busy shoving the weird combinations of pickles, spam, noodles and preserves into their mouths but it worried you when things slowed down and there was still no talking. Something had to be done.

“Anyone feel like they’re going nuts?”

Well, that made them sit up. Columbus coughed and Tallahassee froze, fork half way to his open mouth.

Little Rock sighed. “I mean, yeah. Obviously.”

“You ever gone proper camping, like strapped into a heavy rucksack?” You addressed the question to her since she’d made the mistake of replying first.

“Ew, no. I had better things to do than subject myself to ‘nature’.”

Tallahassee kicked her chair under the table and she jolted and gave him the finger.

“Well,” you pressed on. “My point is, when you take the pack off and sit down, that’s when you feel how tired you are. And it’s almost impossible to lift the thing back up again after.”

Silence descended again. No one looked like they disagreed with you or were in doubt of what you were getting at. After a moment, Tallahassee opened another bottle with his teeth, took a drink, belched and said, “that’s a fair point, princess, a good analogy.” There was no knowing whether he meant it or if he was being sarcastic.

“You’re saying we shouldn’t get comfortable here,” said Columbus. He hadn’t looked away from you since you started talking, which was rare for him.

“No... we’ve got plenty of supplies, this place looks safe enough and the propane tank is almost full. I think we need to rest. I’m just worried, if we’re not focusing on moving and surviving...”

“Well, my plan,” Tallahassee said and leaned back in his chair, “and you’re more’n welcome to join me, is to get absolutely, incoherently, pants-shittingly hammered. Ain’t nothing in this world can’t be solved by drinking.”

“Drinking what? Did you find liquor and just... hide it from the rest of us?”

He smiled and trailed his fingers lazily up and down the neck of his beer bottle, and you’d gotten completely off the subject but everyone was talking and ready to strangle Tallahassee, so for the moment at least the crisis was averted.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he drawled. “Bet you wish you’d given me the master bedroom now...”

“That’s such a great plan, Tallahassee,” said Little Rock, each word dripping with insincerity and with only lemonade in her glass. “And are you finally going to let me have some? I mean, I can find other ways to let off steam, if you think that’s better. I still say your hat could use some glitter... who knows what I’ll get up to while you’re passed out in a pool of your own vomit.”

Tallahassee drew himself up, puffed out his chest and held on tight to his hat. “I swear to God, you so much as touch this hat and I’ll show you what your own kidneys look like.”

“I’m practically 13! Give me a goddamn beer!”

“Actually, you’ve got almost another three months.” Columbus looked thoughtful. “Wow, I’d better start looking out for some toy stores...”

“Toy stores? Are you deaf? I’m a teenager.”

“Hah!” Tallahassee cackled. “Give me a break - you’re barely out of your diapers. Oughta get you some velcro shoes, I’m sick to death of watching you struggle with your laces.”

Little Rock turned her indignation back on Tallahassee and he welcomed it with open arms.

You’d never articulated this thought to yourself before, but he really did rile people up on purpose and you were beginning to see why. It might very well have started as a way to keep them at arm’s length, but he had another reason now - better they were angry at him than sad. Or numb. As the saying went: don’t mourn, organise against the idiot who hogs the booze and farts on your pillow ‘to remind you of home’. It wasn’t a very nice favour he was doing them but you couldn’t help feeling cheated that he never needled you the same way. It’d at least meant he was giving you some attention.

...Christ, you must be getting desperate indeed if that’s was the sort of attention you were willing to settle for.

“Tallahassee.” Columbus’ voice was soft but firm, and he glanced over at you. “Bring us your stash and pour Little Rock a very small drink.”

“Make me.”

“I don’t have to make you. You’re outnumbered. I favor a nice merlot, myself, but I will settle for whatever you’ve got.”

#Tallahassee #tallahassee x reader #tallahassee imagines #Zombieland #zombieland: double tap #woody #my fics

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ckret2 · 6 years ago

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Cuckoo

Continuity: Godzilla, Monsterverse continuity Characters: Mothra & Godzilla, in a platonic/sibling relationship; with passing mentions of a half dozen other kaiju species. Wordcount: 7000 Summary: How Godzillas keep their young safe when there’s a plague of parasites that wants nothing more than to breed in their corpses; how Mothra’s miraculous rebirths are achieved with nothing more than a few DNA tweaks and a simple biological timer; and how a reincarnating moth and a radioactive lizard form a symbiotic relationship. Notes: Look at me properly formatting this fic instead of tossing up a makeshift summary and going “good enough.” Warnings for some gore and casual cannibalism. My other KOTM fics can be found on my blog under the #my writing tag.

###

"So, it's like a bird's entrusted egg."

"What is this, 'Bird's Entrusted Egg'?"

"Entrusting an egg... Some birds will lay their eggs in the nest of another species when they can't care for them."

- Professor Omae, discussing an unhatched Godzillasaurus egg found in a Pteranodon nest (Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla II)

###

This was how nature worked:

The Godzillas ran. The Jinshin-Mushi hunted. The Godzillas fought alone. The Jinshin-Mushi fought together.

The Godzillas fell.

The Jinshin-Mushi bred.

###

Their species went by many names—phosphor mouths, starbacks, walking fish, screes. They went by many names because they didn't claim any as their own, answering to whatever they were called by others. And worse names: death breaths, crocodile corpses, bug breeders, brood parasites.

Today, he was a brood parasite.

The brood parasite dragged himself onto the island, clutching his one surviving egg close to his chest. He spilled his own blood on the shore, so hot it sizzled where it hit the ground; he could feel stones tearing at the gaping hole in his abdomen, but couldn't lift himself enough to keep from making his wound worse. It didn't matter. He was dying soon anyway.

In his ruined abdomen he could feel the eggs the bug had put in him, nestled hard beneath his hide like tumors. He wished he'd had a chance to put his egg somewhere safe and get far away from it so the incubating bugs wouldn't be able to go straight for his child when they hatched.

He wished he'd been able to put his egg in a nest that he knew he would accept it.

But he didn't have that choice. This was the only nest he could reach. He'd just have to take a chance on the charity of an unproven species and die hoping.

He dragged himself to the nest's narrow opening. Down through the hole, he could barely see the shell of the egg already occupying the nest. Carefully, he lifted his egg and slid it through the opening. His grip slipped. He watched with dread as his one egg rolled down the incline toward the other.

The slope evened out and the egg rolled to a gentle stop, right next to its new sibling.

There. He'd done the best he could for his child. He pushed more soil in front of the entrance, trying to make the opening a little less obvious. And then he turned and dragged himself back toward the ocean. The only thing he could do for his child now was get the bug eggs inside him as far from this nest as possible...

The brood parasite died on the shore.

And then he was just a bug breeder.

###

This was how nature worked:

Mothra was born alone, knowing everything.

Mothra grew wings.

Mothra circled the world, visiting her many nests. If a nest's egg was broken or hatched, she laid another to replace it, its DNA encoded with her every memory up until the moment the soft shell closed around the newly-formed embryo. If a nest's egg remained, she touched it with her telepathy, resetting its internal countdown to hatching, encoding her new memories into its DNA.

As long as a Mothra existed to check the nests, no egg would hatch.

Eventually, Mothra died.

The eggs' timers counted down toward the day they were set to hatch.

One egg reached zero.

The egg hatched. Mothra was born alone, knowing everything.

The only species of titan that laid more eggs than Mothra was the Jinshin-Mushi. But, unlike Mothra, the Jinshin-Mushi formed swarms of innumerable parasites. They devoured the world alive.

There was only one Mothra. There was only ever one Mothra.

###

Hatching was like waking up after a long sleep, but far slower.

Hatching used to be terrifying—waking up without remembering having fallen asleep, being trapped in a small dark tight place. Mothra used to fear she'd die inside her shell without being able to tear free. So a long time ago, she'd rewritten herself from the inside—she could do that—so that her emotions felt different when she first began to wake up, so that the inside of a shell was no longer frightening.

At first she only changed one egg so that its future incarnation wouldn't feel fear when she hatched. Changing herself like that was always dangerous, always carrying the risk that she’d do something wrong and cause the next incarnation to die; so she was cautious with such alterations and only experimented with one egg at a time.

But eventually that egg's turn to hatch her reincarnation came, and she woke up healthy and safe and calm; and now all of her eggs carried the same change.

Not every egg faithfully recreated her the way it was supposed to. Sometimes the reincarnation that came out couldn't lay eggs, and so he spent that generation protecting his existing eggs all the more fiercely, passing on his memories faithfully and waiting until he could reincarnate as herself again. Sometimes one egg carried two incarnations, and they would tumble into the world together in a confusion, and together she and herself would have to navigate being one person in two bodies—although, usually, one would be sickly and soon die, if not both. Sometimes she would hatch to find another reincarnation already alive, one that had mutated in its shell, one that was small and hard and sharp and mean, one that couldn't speak to other minds and couldn't mentally alter its own body and couldn't speak to its eggs to reset their timers; and for a generation they would live together, and she would fear it would try to kill her.

But never, in all her lives, had she ever hatched from an egg to find a second one sitting next to her.

She stared at it, wondering if maybe she was somehow mistaking a large scrap of the eggshell she'd just ripped out of for an entirely separate egg. But no, it was definitely solid and whole—and it definitely wasn't one of hers. Had someone else dumped one of their eggs in her nest? The audacity! Did they see the opening to her burrow and think it was a convenient little nest they could steal without having to create their own? Or did they hope their child would hatch before she did and have a nice tasty egg to snack on for its first meal? She'd see about that.

With some difficulty, she tipped the hard egg onto its side and pressed her soft squishy new body against it to roll it up and out of her burrow. It radiated life and energy. The opening to her burrow crumbled as she shoved the egg through; she let the dirt and sand rain down on her.

Outside, she let the egg stop, crawled around it, and surveyed her island to see how best she could roll the egg out to sea and be rid of it.

There was a corpse on her island.

It was so massive—ten times her height—that half the meat had desiccated down to jerky before it could rot. A hip bone and broken ribs shone white where they stuck up out of the remains of the meat. In spite of the ancient body’s deterioration, she could still see how its abdomen had been ripped open. She could see the old, round shells of unhatched bug eggs.

Mothra stared in shock at the dead phosphor mouth. And then she looked at the egg.

She understood. She knew how phosphor mouths desperately tried to protect their children from parasites. They'd never tried to leave one with her before—her nests so cold and isolated, with a parent that only checked them every few years—but he'd had no choice.

Her nest was his child's only chance.

She cleared the dirt away from the opening of the burrow, carefully rolled the egg back in, and set it back where she'd found it.

###

Her hatching must have awakened the phosphor mouth's egg. Two days after she hatched, it started shaking; the day after that, she saw the first crack in its hard shell. That was probably how its species worked; the eggs must somehow know to hatch when their nestmates hatched, so that their adoptive parents would be more likely to see them as part of their brood. Were other species ever fooled by that, she wondered? She had seen families with a single phosphor mouth among them before, but she'd never known why the eggs hadn't simply been kicked out of the nests like the brood parasites they were. Did other species, like her, pity the eggs?

Phosphor mouths ate her eggs sometimes. They weren't the only species that did so, but they were one. She suspected strongly that sometimes they ate her. She rarely ever knew how she died, since she couldn't pass the memories of her own death on to her eggs—but enough phosphor mouths had tried to eat her that she was sure some must have succeeded. She wasn't their primary prey, but she was their prey. She wondered whether the child inside this egg would know that.

This was an experiment, she supposed. An experiment to see whether she survived. An experiment to see whether a phosphor mouth left in the nest of its prey would see its fellow hatchling as family or food.

The next day, a chip tumbled off the side of the egg. Mothra carefully climbed the egg to peer inside the small hole.

A yellow eye peered back.

And then it was replaced by a snout, trying to poke its way through the hole, snorting and sniffing heavily. Its mind was only just waking up, but it was so curious that it made her feel curious too. She squished her face against the snout.

The phosphor mouth inside squeaked and jerked back. The egg shook as its center of balance shifted.

Mothra dropped back to the ground and left the egg alone.

###

Every once in a while, she'd see a muted blue glow from within the egg, accompanied by small yelps, as the phosphor mouth tried to blast its way free. She occasionally rapped on the egg encouragingly, just to let its occupant know that she was still there. Sometimes the occupant rapped back.

It took another two days for phosphor mouth to free himself. She was outside when it happened, but she heard the crackling shell, the thump, and the hatchling's squeak of surprise. When she peered into her burrow, the hatchling was on his side, legs kicking, back plates flickering blue with alarm. He managed to roll onto his stomach and stayed there, flopped in the remains of his shell with his arms down at his sides and his chin on the ground. He was the same vivid green as the trees on her island.

Hello, she thought to him. He spasmed in surprise, got up to a sitting position, and stared up at her. He was too young to think in words yet—but he felt excited to see her. He felt... attached to her.

That was a good sign. It meant that his species probably didn't eat their nestmates. (What would she do if she was wrong, though—or, rather, what would her next incarnation do? If she died now, she wouldn't be able to go to her other nests and pass on her memories, rewrite her eggs so that they'd know that they should smash any brood parasite eggs that made it into their nests. When her next incarnation came to the island to see how her egg was doing, would she see the two smashed eggs and the dead phosphor mouth and be able to tell what happened? She liked to think she'd be smart enough to draw the obvious conclusion.) She crawled down the burrow, and he crawled up to meet her, walking awkwardly on all four.

I am Mothra, she said as he sniffed her. This is my island. You were left in my nest.

Although he didn't have words, she could feel a question in his mind: Mother? Father? She could feel he wasn't asking whether she had laid him—who had laid him was irrelevant to him, never entered his mind—he was asking who were the adults of this nest. Who was protecting them.

She hadn't cocooned yet—she was stronger and lived longer if she waited before cocooning, and anyway she hadn't wanted to be a bag of goo when the phosphor mouth emerge from his egg. No adults, she told him. Just me, another hatchling.

For a moment, he was struck with terror at the thought—No adults. No one to teach us or protect us. But before she could try to reassure him, he pushed through the terror, studied her closely, and came to a decision.

I will protect, he concluded. Sister.

Mothra was taken aback. He'd been out of his shell for only a few moments, he'd been confronted with the possibility that he was going to have to face the world all alone as a baby with only another baby beside him, and his first instinct was to become the other baby's protector. Despite the fact that they weren't even the same species! Despite the fact that, if he'd been a few decades older before meeting her, he would probably be trying to eat her.

I can protect, she told him. And he believed her with the whole-hearted faith with which babies always believed the thoughts she put in their heads. Too young to tell the difference between an inserted thought and an instinct.

And with all concerns about who was going to protect him gone, he wriggled past her—squishing into her side in the process—stumbled up the burrow, and emerged into the sun for the first time.

###

Phosphor mouths were cannibals, she discovered.

Almost as soon as he got outside, her new nestmate—her "brother," she supposed—had spotted the corpse of his real parent, gleefully charged over on oversized feet, and started eating its neck.

Mothra stuck out her proboscis. Yuck. She'd do the same in an emergency, but she would never be so happy about it.

He did it with such self-assurance that it had to be an instinct. Maybe that was why the meat hadn't rotted away but toughened in the sun, so it would last until the egg hatched? Maybe the adults expected to die and be fed to their children?

It had to happen a lot, considering that the adults were so likely to die before their children hatched that they'd made a habit of leaving their eggs in other nests.

With a strip of neck meat dangling from his mouth, the hatchling ran around the side of the corpse and dove into the ripped open abdominal cavity. Mothra stuck her proboscis out farther.

She heard a crackling sound, and then a crunching that was far larger than anything he could be biting. She crawled down beside the corpse, trying to see what the hatchling was doing.

He was eagerly kicking and tackling the bug eggs in his parent's abdomen, collapsing them in on themselves, crushing their contents. His mind felt like he was playing. To him, this was a game he was born knowing how to play. Find the meat, eat the meat; find the eggs inside the meat, pop the eggs. It always amazed her how many different species were born ready to play games that would, someday, be turned into desperate fights for their lives. It was how they trained themselves, she knew. Even if nobody took the time to teach them how to fight—and what to fight—they would be driven to teach themselves because it was fun.

She sometimes wondered what instincts she'd had when she'd been born the first time. What games she'd played. But she couldn't remember it.

He kicked one egg and it crumpled in—but something inside stirred. He yelped in alarm, tried to kick it again, and tumbled onto his back. Mothra hurried toward him.

A prematurely born bug scraped and clawed its way out of the egg, hissing, its long eyes glowing red. It swiped at the phosphor mouth.

Mothra splatted a ball of silk against its chest, sticking it inside the remains of its eggshell. And then a second one on its head, and a third on its chest again. The phosphor mouth headbutted its chest until its shrieks gurgled and died and its juices oozed through Mothra's silk.

And then he ate its head.

He turned to look at Mothra, crunching happily through bone shards. We protect each other. He squeakily roared at the dead bug, lights flickering ineffectively up his back plates and ending in a tiny puff of blue; and then he stumbled off to explore the shore.

She was beginning to see why other species liked having a phosphor mouth in their nests.

###

This was how nature worked:

The Godzillas ran. The Jinshin-Mushi hunted. The Godzillas hid their eggs. The Jinshin-Mushi passed over other creatures' nests, seeking only their adult prey.

The Godzillas fell.

The eggs survived.

###

I will be asleep for a few days, she told the phosphor mouth. She put into his mind an image of her cocoon. I might dream, but I will probably seem dead. Don't touch me and keep me safe.

"I'll protect you, sister," he reassured her, with a hint of childish giddiness at the thought of the grand battle if he had to keep the promise, but mainly with deep solemnity. His hatchling playfulness had faded fast, along with his early green coloration, shedded like so many scales until all but his belly was a dark blackish-grey; and although he was a happy child—she'd done her best to make sure of that—he was also a thoughtful one. Not curious, not questioning, just thoughtful. Thoughtful—and a little bit skeptical.

I'm going to have wings, she told him. She'd told him before—she'd been warning him about her pending metamorphosis for months, not sure how much preparation he needed to be sure he'd still recognize her once she emerged—but a last reminder didn't hurt. I can control what colors they have. I can even put some images on them. What do you want them to look like?

He considered that a moment. He was—of course—skeptical; but she'd never given him a reason to doubt her. "Can you make them look like anything?"

She found herself marveling at the fact that every single word in that sentence came from a different species's language.

He'd learned to speak from creatures living underwater and on nearby islands, and talked to her now in a hodgepodge of at least twenty languages from seven or eight different species—whatever grammar he felt made his current point and whichever mix of vocabulary he could fit into the shape of his mouth and throat and tongue—and she made up the difference in his comprehensibility by reading his intentions straight from his mind. Most phosphor mouths she'd seen before spoke a heavily accented version of their adopted family's language. She wondered if anyone would ever be able to understand this one besides her.

Not quite anything. And I can't change the shape of my wings. But I can put most things on their surface.

"Do flames!" he said.

Oh. Of course. She'd been reassured by a volcano pter that visited sometimes that all kids had a pyromania phase, but Mothra wasn't entirely sure that didn't just apply to pters.

What would flame look like—red, orange and yellow stripes, make them wiggly and end the stripes in points? I can do flames.

His face lit up.

He watched in rapt fascination as she cocooned herself; and then, as she dissolved into her cocoon, he lost interest—from the outside, it probably didn't look like anything was happening—and drifted off to gnaw at the picked-clean bones of his parent.

Her mind unraveled and she began to rewrite her body.

###

When he saw her flames, he got so excited that he ran around the island yelling blue light at the sky.

And then—to her surprise—he sat down beside her and started playing with her new thin layer of white fuzz, combing his claws through them. Being combed was new. It felt nice.

"Are you always fuzzy?" he asked her.

Only if I have a long time to eat and grow before I change, she said. If I have to change fast after hatching, I'm thinner and smooth.

"How fast can you change after you hatch?"

Within a day, if I need to. But I die a lot sooner.

His hands froze.

Don't worry. I'll die a lot, but I'll always come back. I have eggs all over the world.

"Right." He felt more uncertain than he sounded. She'd told him this before, but he'd never seen it. He would soon enough.

You'll get to see them for yourself soon. It was why she'd metamorphosed. She'd stayed on this island with the young phosphor mouth for as long as she could. The dead phosphor mouth with a belly full of bug eggs probably meant that the bugs were swarming on the mainlands again, and she didn't want to expose a young phosphor mouth to that any sooner than she had to—especially when she wasn't able to teach him to fight, the way a volcano pter or sea serpent could have taught him. The islands were relatively safe; bugs rarely left the main continents. But her eggs would hatch soon if she didn't go to reset their timers. So she had to go. And he was coming too.

She could tell the thought of her dying made him more uncomfortable than he wanted to face—because he tackled her, butting his snout on her wing in a fake bite and growling threateningly. She squeaked in surprise, but she was used to this game, and she quickly tried to knock him over and silk up his hands before he could get a good grip on her. The first time she got out of snout-butting range, she took off, and he called her a cheater.

They stayed one more night—so he could rest and she could stretch her new wings—and then, the next dawn, they set out from their little island.

###

"What's your name?" her brother asked. He was completely submerged except for the end of his tail, sticking out of the water like the tip of an iceberg, and his words were half telepathic and half bubbly gurgles.

Mothra, she replied, perched on an actual iceberg nearby. She kept having to shift her feet to keep them from getting too cold.

"That's your kind." He must have been speaking with the volcano pters; that was the term they used for different intelligent species. "I mean your name."

My kind and my name are the same. Names are to tell apart multiple members of one kind, and there’s only one Mothra.

He was quiet while he considered that. The tip of his tail disappeared underwater. Mothra took off, rubbing her feet together to warm them up.

Volcano pters are named after their nests, her brother said. He was so deep that Mothra could only hear his thoughts.

Yes, I know. Sometimes they ask me where I hatched because they want to call me by my nest. My name would change every time I hatched if I did that.

Is my name Infant Island?

Oh. So that was what he was asking. No, it's not. You're not a volcano pter. She landed, waiting for the inevitable next question.

What's my name?

He didn't have one.

And she felt horrible.

Volcano pters named their kind for their nests—the volcanoes they emerged from. Sea serpents named their kind for the specific shapes and colors of the light that glinted off their scales when they curled through the water, as though their names were written across their bodies and could be read in the sunlight. Skull faces were named for the first sounds they made that sounded like words. She had met phosphor mouths with all three kinds of names, and far more besides—some, even, with multiple names. Phosphor mouths didn't have names of their own; they accepted whatever names were given to them by the people around them.

Mothra, whose name and species were synonymous, who was born over and over already knowing her name—it had never occurred to her that her brother would need her to give him a name.

Once, one of her mutated false reincarnations, small and hard and sharp and mean, unable to enter Mothra's mind, had insistently pressed itself to her side until she entered its. Give me a name, it had pled, desperate and afraid. Don't you know a thing without a name isn't alive? Give me a name or I'll take yours. She had named her nightmare Battra.

She hadn't named her own brother.

He surfaced before she had a chance to answer him, clutching the sunken egg he'd been rescuing. He looked up at her, head just over the surface of the water, eyes wide and curious, gills half out of water and rippling, and—

Sweetiefish, she told him. You're my Sweetiefish.

She'd come up with the name on the spot. She was relieved when he was delighted.

Mothra landed on the iceberg and her brother—Sweetiefish—climbed up beside her.

He dropped the egg next to her and asked, "Is it still good?"

She lay on top of it, pressing her face to the frozen shell, listening for her dreaming future self inside.

Nothing.

No, she said. It's dead. It probably isn't even good to eat.

"Oh." Sweetiefish radiated disappointment. Mothra rolled the egg off the iceberg and back into the water.

Come. She lifted off and fluttered toward the island that the egg had rolled off of. Sweetiefish sank back underwater and followed her. We'll make my next nest in a hill where a glacier can't carry the egg away. We'll have to stay here a few days so I can lay a new egg.

Can I bring you food?

She'd told him that she needed to eat a lot when she was going to lay an egg, and plantlife was sparse and small this far north.

Just don't go farther than I can hear you.

And he didn't.

But she wouldn't be able to keep him so close forever.

###

"Evolution" is defined as a change in the inheritable characteristics of a biological population over successive generations, as expressed in the genes passed on from parent to offspring.

###

Mothra traveled between her nests more slowly, now that she had a juvenile phosphor mouth tagging along. They moved fast over water, where Sweetiefish could easily swim fast enough to keep up with her; but more than once she had to leave him behind somewhere safe for a day or two so she could reach eggs deep in continents.

She was afraid to leave him alone for too long. The world wasn't overrun with bugs like she'd feared, but it was still half-barren from the last plague, and the remaining starving bugs crawled around looking for food. Sweetiefish was younger than their usual prey and wouldn't make a good meal for many bugs or good incubator for many eggs; but he was healthy and strong, and had a tendency to start flashing threats at any unidentified moving object that was larger than his eye. She didn't know if he knew to be afraid of bugs. To this day he still liked stepping on and popping round hollow things, but that wouldn't be much help against a full-grown bug.

Once, she hatched alone.

She didn't know what had happened to her last incarnation; all she remembered was seeing a bug in the sky heading in the direction she'd left Sweetiefish, and frantically resetting the egg's timer to hatch immediately before tearing off after it. If her last incarnation hadn't come back to re-extend the egg's timer, then she'd died fighting the bug. But had she won? Was her brother okay?

She forced herself to metamorphose in a few hours and came out hungry and frail and small, but fast and sharp. She tore off toward the coast.

She found herself—her last self— and she found the bug, both dead. They'd only been dead for a few days. They hadn't made it to the coast—but the bug might have signaled its siblings. She stopped long enough to eat her previous incarnation's corpse for strength, leaving the fire-patterned wings, and raced on to the coast.

He was where she'd left him, curled up just off shore, letting the surf wash over him and over him, nervous in his aloneness. The moment he spotted her, he clambered to his feet, shaking himself dry as he ran onto the shore to meet her. He wanted to know why she'd taken so long. He wanted to know why she looked so small and weak. Was she okay? Did she get in a fight? Was she hungry? Why were her wings green now?

Because she hadn’t wanted to be seen as she raced over the forests back to him.

She relocated all of her eggs to coastlines—bays, islands, straits, deep river deltas. They would be more vulnerable there, where aquatic ovivores would have an easier time crawling ashore to get at them; but it meant she'd never have to leave her brother behind.

She rewrote her eggs so that all of her future selves would place their eggs on the coast, too.

###

Mothra lost more and more eggs now. Each time she made her rounds, she had to stop for long periods to form and lay another egg—which meant she slowed down, which meant she couldn't visit her eggs as often. Laying so many eggs in one lifetime wore her out. Sweetiefish asked if she could lay them less frequently, then pleaded for her to stop; and when she said she couldn't—her future survival depended on it, even if it meant threatening her short-term survival—he lurked nearby, whining unhappily as she strained to grow another healthy egg.

Her lives were shorter. Two eggs in a row hatched mutated and sharp. She had to replace more and more eggs. Maybe she should just have fewer nests and visit them more often.

"I'll protect your eggs," Sweetiefish said.

What do you mean? Mothra had felt him brooding on the problem of her eggs for days now. He was old enough to do that now, brood rather than just think. He wasn't quite as large as the typical adult phosphor mouth, his belly was still a pale foggy grey, and his back plates were still mostly rounded—but the plates were just starting to develop their sharper points, and he had an adult's roar.

Adult phosphor mouths, she'd learned from other adoptive families, visited their home nests, but usually lived solitary lives in the ocean. She'd wondered—and worried—about when he'd decide that it was time for him to go. She'd lived a dozen lives next to her little brother. She wasn't ready for him to leave.

But it seemed he was ready. "Your eggs are eaten because nobody's scared to eat them," he told her. "Even if you're there when someone attacks, all you do is tie them up or get poison scales on them that knock them out a few minutes. Of course they come back and try again when you're gone. If I'm there, I can kill them."

Mothra winced at the thought of it. She knew he could—she knew he had—but all the same, she hated the thought of killing. She was expendable; she could die and die again and forever come back. But everyone else—for them to die meant a person vanishing from the world forever. No one else had eggs that carried their next selves. They would not rise again. And the thought of that, of people around her ending, made her ache.

But Sweetiefish was determined. And if she kept losing eggs at this rate...

"I can swim between all your nests now," he insisted. "I can make a route like you do. I can check on them all the time. If I catch anyone trying to eat one, I can kill them. If they've already eaten one, I can track them down and punish them."

But how will I know where you are? she asked. What if you get in trouble?

"I can protect myself if I'm in trouble."

We protect each other!

He balked at that. "You can hear me, can't you?" he said. "Won't you be able to hear me if I'm in trouble?"

She thought about that. From across a continent? Across the world? she asked. I don't think I can. But—maybe I could.

He began his patrols. She followed along—which slowed him down, but she promised it would only be until she could adjust her eggs just right.

It took three tries. The first time she ruined her hearing completely. The second time, she could hear far too much, much too far, and ultimately it ruined her hearing again. But the third time, she got what she wanted: after metamorphosing, when she closed her eyes, when she focused hard, no matter where she was, she could hear his heart beating and the distant rumble of his mind.

###

Mothra heard Sweetiefish scream from halfway around the planet.

She tore off as fast as she could. She was grateful that she was currently fully grown; but she wished she was more aerodynamic. Her fuzz dragged against the air. She was too slow. She needed to get to him faster, faster, faster.

It was over by the time she reached him. She didn't know what had attacked him; just that she could see the blood it had left behind long before she landed, and she wasn't sure how much of it was from the attacker and how much was from her brother.

She could hear his thoughts long before they were close enough to speak: You're wearing the fire wings again. The ones you made for me.

I like the fire wings. She tried not to let him feel her terror.

His neck, his chest, his arm were lacerated. The bleeding had slowed, but it started again every time he tried to move. He lay on his side in front of her burrow, blocking it with his body.

Who did this? She landed next to him.

"Three-headed freak," he growled. "Flying. Lightning. Couldn't understand him."

She went cold with terror. She knew them.

She'd seen a meteor crash down, tracked it, and found three creatures sharing one body tugging themselves out of it like they'd hatched from it. She'd felt that they were like her—that their minds could speak to other minds. She'd tried to greet them. She'd tried to ask their name.

They had no name. A thing without a name isn't alive. She'd feared them then.

She'd felt their fear of her, and they'd fled.

She hadn't seen them since.

Were they hunting her eggs now? Were they destroying her future incarnations? Had they attacked her brother just because she'd frightened them?

She ran her legs over Sweetiefish's wounds uselessly—even if she cleaned them and kept him safe, she didn't know if they could heal before he died.

Maybe he couldn't heal himself. But...

Let me in! I need to get to my egg!

He could only shift a little bit, rolling on his side—it looked so much like the pose his parent must have died in, torn open on yet another island between her burrow and the shore—no. No, no, she wasn't going to let that happen. She crawled into her burrow and clung to her egg.

She could rewrite herself.

In her cocoon, she could rebuild herself from dust and liquid into a new body, a whole living body. She could shed poisonous scales from her wings that paralyzed her targets. What if she made a potion instead of a poison? What if instead of paralyzing whoever she shed them on, she gave them the ability to do what she did—to regrow from dust and liquid, to regrow from torn flesh and blood—to heal wounds instantly, to be filled with life?

She only had one chance.

She clung to her egg, forehead pressed to the shell, not so much rewriting the future incarnation inside as tearing the existing writing into fragments and sticking it back together in new ways, please, please, please let this work—

She set the egg to hatch immediately. The incarnation inside didn't waste a moment gently shifting around in the shell, but rather fought, struggling to get out so they could save their brother. She waited for the incarnation in the shell to make the first crack, and then tore it open the rest of the way herself, ripping her duplicate incarnation into the world.

It hurt to be ripped into the world. And it would hurt to cocoon herself so fast. But they didn't have a choice.

"What... are you...?" Their brother's voice was weak and gravelly. The grown Mothra had been helping the younger spin her cocoon—every second counted—but at Sweetiefish's voice, she scrabbled to the mouth of their burrow to reassure him.

It's okay, she told him, butting her head against his and hoping he couldn't feel her fear. We'll save you. Just hold on.

"'We'?" he asked. "No, don't—I got hurt saving your egg, don't make it mean nothing—"

I'd rather have you than one egg, she said angrily. Anyway, it's too late. I already did. Just hold on a little bit longer.

The moment she felt her younger incarnation's mind stir again inside the cocoon, she scrambled back down, helping to tear it open and set her free. She was the spindliest and weakest that Mothra had ever been, shaky on legs like twigs, a shriveled abdomen that would never lay eggs, a head almost too heavy to lift. The elder had to support her as they climbed up to the opening of the burrow. Please, please, please—

This should heal you. Feebly, the younger Mothra brushed her wings over their brother, shedding the loose scales on him.

He flinched, and looked weakly up at them. "Your poison?"

It's not poison anymore. It shouldn't be poison. I rewrote it. It'll help you. I promise.

It stings. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight.

I'm sorry. Just hold on.

They could feel his flesh heating up under the scales; they could see the scales working into his hide as they crumbled apart, smaller and smaller. They could very nearly see his wounds begin to heal. But it wasn't enough. He needed more.

The elder Mothra ripped off the younger's wings.

Sweetiefish's eyes shot wide open as her pain echoed through his mind. He roared feebly. What are you—?!

It's okay. It's okay. Just wait. She shredded and crumbled the wings, grinding them into his wounds, ignoring his screams—and then, when the wings were gone, the body of her younger incarnation. She endured the pain, trembling.

This was one of the only times she would remember how her own death felt.

There was nothing left to give. Her brother's flesh was burning to the touch. He was glowing red. But he was healing—wasn't he? She could see his wounds closing. She could feel his strength returning to him.

Until, finally, half wild with pain, he lurched to his feet, stumbled away from her burrow, and launched himself into the ocean. Steam billowed out of the water around him.

It was several minutes before she could get anything from his mind but overwhelming pain. Are you okay?

I'm alive.

That was good enough.

You got rid of your poison, he said. How will you protect yourself?

I'll put it somewhere else. She could make a stinger. Turn the poison into a liquid venom.

You died for me.

It isn't the first time, she said. You're my Sweetiefish. I'll die a million more times to save you. Just make sure I can come back a million and one times.

He crawled back onto the shore, stood wearily, and trudged up to her. "Always," he said. "We protect each other."

Always.

###

"Evolution" is defined as a change in the inheritable characteristics of a biological population over successive generations, as expressed in the genes passed on from parent to offspring.

Over several generations, rewriting the genes of her eggs one by one to make sure she could better protect Godzilla, Mothra evolved herself into a sister.

###

Humans were the smallest intelligent species that Mothra had ever seen. She adored them. Together, they built structures out of wood and stone the size of a normal creature's nest. Even as large as one of her nests.

She wondered if they'd build nests for her, too.

She visited the human cities with the largest buildings—she liked the ones that looked like free-standing hills with flat sides and even corners—and in each city, found twin sisters, and modified one so that she would be like her: able to birth her own replacement without a mate. She guaranteed that her chosen would also birth twins, so that they could share the heavy mental load of her vast mind. Life, she had found, was so much easier with a sibling.

Then she waited for a new generation to be born and grow; and with the twins as her representatives, she spoke to the humans: she told them that she would like their help to build a stone nest around one of her eggs. She would help them in the construction, and she would offer their city her protection if they accepted. If they didn't want to, she would respect their decision.

Some didn't accept. She left them in peace.

But most accepted.

And when others came along to threaten the civilizations that harbored her eggs, as the divine moth had promised to the humans, a creature with a scream like blue fire rose from the ocean to defend them. And above him, like sunbeams through the storm, the moth herself appeared to fight alongside him, with the eyes of her warrior emblazoned upon her wings.

###

This was how nature worked:

A Godzilla risked his life to guard Mothra nests.

Mothras gave their lives to save the Godzilla's.

By chance, a single Godzilla and a single Mothra were brother and sister.

But there was only one Godzilla. All Mothras were one Mothra.

This was how two species evolved a symbiotic relationship.

###

Comments/reblogs are welcome! If you want to leave a ko-fi tip or like the fic on AO3, the links are in my description.

#mothra #godzilla #kotm #king of the monsters #my writing #fanfic #(*waits with a shotgun for the first varmint that tries to make the obvious joke about the title*)#(i know y'all. i know what y'all are like.)#(the other species referenced are: mutos rodan manda skullcrawlers ghidorah aaaaand humans)

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suicidalcatz · 6 years ago

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DOG DAYS ARE OVER : CHAP 11

Pairing : Jake Kiszka x reader

Genre : College AU

Previous parts : Prologue ; Chapter 1 ; Chapter 2 ; Chapter 3 ; Chapter 4 ; Chapter 5 ; Chapter 6 ; Chapter 7 ; Chapter 8 ; Chapter 9 ; Chapter 10

Masterlist : here

AN : It is wednesday, my dudes! This part and the next ones are like 90% fluff, 10% angst... like bittersweet. You’re still heartbroken but try to keep your friendship with Jake, while doing all of your homework... A lot to handle. Actually I had to cut the chapter in half because it was too long (9-10 pages). I really hope you’ll like this chapter because I liked writing it! Feel free to tell me what you thought of it, send me dms or questions, and thanks for reading me x

Chapitre 11 : Would you cook for me ?

Ignoring Jake's texts or avoiding him was useless. But hanging out with him was a challenge I wasn't ready to handle, never asked for, and yet was pushed into. Pretending I didn't see him when we crossed paths in the hallways, or that I didn't receive any of his texts was petty, there was no point in doing so. I couldn't avoid him without giving him any reason, and I couldn't tell him why I needed some time far away from him either because it meant revealing the truth and 1) I wasn't ready, 2) he'd be the one avoiding me like the black plague if I did. It brought me to the conclusion that I would simply pretend nothing happened at all. Jake hadn't noticed the whole situation anyway, so to him it'd already be like everything was normal, just like it always had been between us. It was the best I could think of. For him, for Josh, for anyone. For me ? Not so much. Of course I was still heartbroken, of course it'd take me some time to get over him, and staying by his side would be like rubbing salt on a wound while demanding for it to heal. But I wouldn't risk to break our group's dynamic for selfish reasons. So I sucked that in, everything. The sadness, and painful pang of my chest every time I saw his face, while repeating myself it was for the best.

That aside, I had some other things coming. For the worst. My useless self got so into self-pity and deprecation that I had totally forgotten about homework... And my drawing teacher would be less than pleased as we were all supposed to hand her five new portraits on Monday. Realization hit me during breakfast with Josh who had slept here, when I saw Mandy pack her things and idly noticing out loud that I wasn't carrying a lot of stuff for once. This. This was the cue. But it was too late now, I thought as I walked down the halls by their side. On our way to the amphitheater we saw Jake, waiting in front of the door for the teacher to come. Other students were here too, chatting and yawning with their backs against the walls or sitting on the floor. Josh looked at me like he wasn't sure if he should greet him but the brunette was the one spotting us, gesturing us to come join him. My eyes were probably still a bit puffy but with the makeup it could pass for lack of sleep. Of course he knew Josh stayed at our place last time, I had made sure the boy texted him, and the jerk had taken this opportunity to ask his brother to bring him all his school supplies, backpack included. Unbelievable.

- Your stuff, said Jake handing Josh his bag.

- Who's the big brother again ?, I jokingly asked with a raised eyebrow.

- He's 5 minutes older, replied Jake.

- You'll never live it down !

We all chatted quietly, and I never felt more conflicted in my entire life. My heart didn't know if it should beat faster or hurt like hell, so it seemed to do both, making me feel weird just by being next to Jake. My body was in total contradiction with itself. I couldn't hold back the smile that crept across my face, but at the same time wouldn't meet Jake in the eye, disguising it by cracking joke after joke while my stress level kept rising the more time passed. My thoughts were running wild. In a few hours the drawing teacher was going to yell at me in front of the whole workshop and I couldn't handle it. I'd surely burst into tears and feel even more ashamed. I'd probably-

- Hey, you alright ?

A soft touch caressed my back and I involuntarily jerked forward, out of its grasp, before realizing and suddenly feeling bashful at my reaction. I could tell Jake was surprised by it but it lasted only a second before his face showed concern.

- Yeah, I just didn't finish my work on time... That witch is gonna murder me and ask the others students to draw a perspective of my corpse I'm sure.

I heard his chuckles before the tutor cut him off, passing by us with the keys in hand to unlock the door, separating the sea of students in half like an artsy Moses. Jake was at the other side when the crowd engulfed through the small door, letting us no choice but to keep our bodies to the walls.

- Do you wanna sit together today ?, asked Jake above the loud stomping noises.

Because of the students between us I couldn't really see his face, but was glad because it meant he couldn't see mine whitening. Josh and Mandy on the other hand were just next to me and clearly witnessed my expression change. To think that a week before I would've been on cloud nine being able to sit next to him for two whole hours... Oh how things could change fast.

We were now the three last people left outside and Jake held the door for us, continuing speaking.

- You guys are always exchanging notes, we should just, ya know ? Sit next to each other and... quietly chat.

As backup to his words, he murmured the last part in a very exaggerated fashion, in a failed attempt to make me smile. I couldn't just say no to him without looking weird because I had no reason to. Even if I knew he wouldn't push the matter, there was no way he wouldn't question it, right ? Josh came to the rescue, playfully elbowing him.

- But then where's the fun in that ? Right girls ?

Both agreeing, we rushed to our usual seats, letting a dumbfounded Jake close the door behind him. In their habitual fashion, Mandy and Josh threw paper balls at each other, while I was for once too focused on the lecture to participate in their shenanigans. I needed to get my mind to focus on something and right now Gilgamesh sounded like a good deal, so I took as many notes as possible. A task proven even more difficult because in the corner of my eye, I could see Jake staring at me.

Saying my drawing teacher killed me was a little bit of an understatement. She scared the shit out of me with her scolding. To be fair, even in a normal mood she was a scary woman. The already quiet class went completely still and silent when she barked at me, admonishing me with charming names such as « useless », « disappointing » and the timeless « lamentable ». A classic. Truth to be told it hurt much less than I previously anticipated, mainly because I was already half dead inside, with the emotional range of a cactus, and my self-esteem nearly reaching zero. Nothing much to attack, really. Nevertheless, she demanded that I hand her all five portraits plus the five others we had to do this week by the next monday. Meaning I had ten to do in a week. It physically hurt just thinking about it, and I could hear a quiet « oof » escaping some of my classmates' mouths. It's with a huge relieved sigh that I found my bed this afternoon once school was over. This day had been a catastrophe so far, so there was no other thing I wanted to do more than put on my Pjs, put some music on, and slowly work at my desk, thinking Tuesay will be a better day.

Tuesday was not a better day. Wednesday either. All my homework slowly started piling up on my desk to the point where it was starting to be difficult to keep track of it. And sleeping four hours a night wasn't doing my mental health any good. I knew I had two possibilities now ; sleep less but do my work, or skip some classes to work. It was beginning to get ridiculous, skipping classes so I could do my homework. I knew art schools were difficult, awfully so, but like most people I hadn't realized until then, in this very moment, standing in front of my desk completely covered in paint, canvas, my computer, sketches, inks... some brushes had fallen on the floor, staining it in their passage. My laptop was so dirty it wasn't in its original color anymore. There were blotches of paint, ink, and charcoal here and there that I couldn't remove the harder I had tried to, forcing me to give up. At some point I got so tired I put my paintbrush into my cup of tea/coffee, mistaking it with the goblet of water.

- ...Are you alright ?, enquired Mandy on Thursday night.

One look at my face and she had her answer. Bless her soul, she didn't need any more to bring me an energy drink from the fridge.

- I still have five portraits to do. Four pencil ones, and one painting. They all have to be from different angles, and I can't find any models, I complained while throwing my hand in the air in an act of pure desperation.

Mandy knew better than to sit at the edge of my risky desk with her designer clothes, so she leaned on the doorframe, slowly nodding her head in a pensive manner while I kept explaining the situation.

- All week I couldn't find anyone because they all had homework to do, and now most of them are skipping tomorrow's lecture to go home early so nobody's available !

My rommate crossed her arms, thinking hard. I already did almost all my paintings, asking for both her and Josh's help. Both of them were glad to help and even more so to figure on a monochrome painting on a canvas.

- Can you draw the same person multiple times ?, she finally asked.

- Actually... I don't know. I don't think that would be a problem as long as the work is done ?

Hopping on her feet, Mandy lifted an eyebrow before dragging a chair to sit on.

- Let's get into it then, we only have one lecture tomorrow, you can skip it I'll take notes for you.

Having a good night of sleep never felt this good. No. Waking up at 8, slowly realizing everybody was sitting on a lecture except me, and then getting back to sleep was way better. I sketched poor Mandy two times last night but the results were good, and she looked pleased herself. I didn't have time to redo any of these anyway, I still had other work to do. Waking me from my well deserved nap, my phone vibrated under the pillow, the screen blinding me despite the sun peaking through the curtains.

« The boys asked where you were. Told them about the portraits situation. Jake wants to help. Couldn't stop him. »

If the beginning of the text made me smile, the end completely shook me awake, making me sit hurriedly on the bed, rereading the words multiple times. Scratching my face, I quickly glanced at the hour. They were out in a few minutes. My fingers tapped the next message as soon as they could, asking her how and when, while I ran to the showers with my towel, soap and toothbrush in hand. At this hour, and a Friday, they were all available. The other residents were all either drunk as hell and passed out in their room, or in their hometown with their family and friends. The buzzing of my phone vibrating reverberated against the shower walls and it almost got drowned in the sink when I caught it to look at the screen. It was Mandy.

« They kinda invited themselves over to eat. Josh's idea.»

What the hell Joshua we're not your moms ! Throwing my phone to the nearest flat surface, I jumped on some discarded overalls and put on a sweater, wet hair dripping everywhere on the floor, table, but mostly on my clothes, making me sneeze in the process. The whole week I was so overwhelmingly busy with work that not only did my fingers hurt but I didn't have any time to see the Kiszkas let alone think about them since our shared lecture on Monday. I even skipped the Lunch Club in order to get back to the dorms and work on my assignments. Which thankfully saved me a lot of time, but I still had 2 pencil drawings to do and one painting. Once I had put on some makeup, I took a moment to look around me. Our place looked like a dump, no less. Clothes and art furniture were everywhere, the trash was overflowing with empty cup noodles and fast food leftovers, it smelled like perfume and soap mixing with rotten food, paint and cold tobacco. It was terrible, and made me shocked that I even got used to that. A life achievement of some sort. Everything on the floor I put it on a trash bag, running in the stairs to throw everything outside with the others'. My phone vibrated in my pocket, a new notification popping on the screen.

« They bought some stuff at the store, they wanna cook us something. Jake's idea. »

Okay, time to clean the kitchen.

By the time they got here, I looked even more tired than before, owing my guests looks of concern. If was funny, how they put on the exact same face while seeing me. It was like I just mirrored a picture. Their similar features would never cease to amaze me.

- Mama you're very pale.

- Did you not sleep well ?

- I did, don't worry, I dismissed their concern. Had to clean up a bit.

Mandy bit his lip, knowing damn well the place had been a war field when she left. Unaware of anything, the boys put the bags of groceries on the table before apologizing for intruding. We all sat around the table to have a pleasant talk, my friends always making sure I wasn't next to Jake to avoid any brutal peak of awkwardness / sadness. But some habits died hard, I realized when Jake asked if he could have a tour of our dorm. Ignoring glances, I stood up and gestured for him to go first, into the biggest room, were Mandy and I's workshop and beds were. The boy let out a low whistle that flattered me. He looked impressed by everything around him, touching odd looking brushes and browsing illustration books. I knew better this time, and had put his painted portrait under my bed, wrapped in an old sheet. Just as his brother did, he liked to take in his hands everything that came by, caressing it with his fingertips or idly lifting the weight of it in his palms like he was discovering an unknown world. Unmoving, I let Jake do his little tour, watching the street view by the window, sitting on my disheleved bed, jumping slightly to make the mattress bounce like he was testing it before buying.

- So this is where you're gonna paint me, he said, pointing at a chair between my desk and me.

My pale face grew some colors at the thought of it before I nodded quickly, in a childlike way, caressing the wooden chair's back.

- I'll try to be fast so you won't get bored, I assured without looking him in the eye.

It was this moment Josh chose to appear at the corner of the doorframe.

- Jakey we should start cooking or the potatoes will never be ready on time. Come on, doll.

He took me by one of my overalls' straps, pulling me inside the kitchen, making me laugh and pushing my shoulders so I stayed on my seat. Mandy and I gazed at them with awe as they poured us drinks while Jake asked where the spatula was, and Josh was washing the vegetables, already familiar with his surroundings.

In silence, I looked at Jake removing every one of his rings to put it on top of the fridge where no one could kick them, before tying his hair in a tight ponytail. Maybe it was because I only ever saw him with long brown locks framing his face, but he looked even better than usual. If he caught me staring, he didn't adress it, only smiled at me, turning his back to us to help his brother.

- Do you need any help ?, I asked while showing them where the frypans were. You guys are our guests it doesn't seem fair...

Of course the kitchen wasn't a real one, there was only a microwave and some hotplates fixed to a cabinet by the sink. Putting more than one person behind the counter was impossible without bumping into each other, and I could smell the accident from afar when Josh maneuvered the hot water filled pan at the same time Jake opened up a cupboard right above his curly head. Curiously so, probably because they had way more cooking experience than I thought, the boys handled the situation neatly, and Jake was the one preventing me from bumping into his brother.

- Go sit and relax, we've got this, he said while turning me around by the shoulders.

Watching boys make lunch had got to be some sort of ASMR because just watching the muscles of their back move while they were chopping onions and peeling potatoes had some real therapeutic effects on me. We continued chatting together, all the while answering their questions on « Where are the knives ? » and « Where do you keep the salt ? ». Kind of surprised that Josh had the permission of holding a kitchen knife, by the way, this part made me feel the absolute opposite of ASMR but he did a pretty good job, from what I could see. Mandy put on some music on the speakers, argued with Jake over the sound of it as to what was acceptable or not music-wise, and Josh made a show of crying because of the onions, yelling about becoming blind until Jake gently slapped the back of his head. It was all laughs and good conversation, like we've been friends for years, and at the same time I couldn't shake these feelings I had towards Jake. There was something extremely erotic about seeing a dude wearing a dishcloth on his shoulder. Or was it just Jake wearing it really well ?

They refused to tell us what we were eating, muttering to themselves and sometimes asking if we were allergic to this or that, only announcing it while putting the plate on the table, with Josh making grand gestures as usual, using his best waiter voice.

- Crêpes au zucchini accompanied by a fresh salad decorated with feta and its apple slices, ladies.

- Bon appétit, added Jake.

The table was already set because it was the only thing we were allowed to do, so at least the boys could now rest. It looked really good. Way less fancy than what Josh had announced of course but it smelled wonderful, the sweet scent settling in all of our dorm. And the taste, oh Lord. Everything melted in my mouth, the onions they fried were just crispy enough to add something to it, and I learned this day that cheese and apple were really good and refreshing together. A new snack idea I'd keep for my sleepless work nights at the desk. And as dessert, the boys brought beers. Of course.

#gvf fic #gvf x reader #gvf imagine #gvf fanfic #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka imagine #josh kiszka fic #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet #jake kiszka

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feministdragon · 6 years ago

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Peter Jackson’s Cartoon War

When director-producer Peter Jackson’s World War I film, “They Shall Not Grow Old,” which miraculously transforms grainy, choppy black-and-white archival footage from the war into a modern 3D color extravaganza, begins, he bombards us with the clichés used to ennoble war. Veterans, over background music, say things like “I wouldn’t have missed it,” “I would go through it all over again because I enjoyed the service life” and “It made me a man.” It must have taken some effort after the war to find the tiny minority of veterans willing to utter this rubbish. Military life is a form of servitude, prolonged exposure to combat leaves you broken, scarred for life by trauma and often so numb you have difficulty connecting with others, and the last thing war does is make you a man.

Far more common was the experience of the actor Wilfrid Lawson, who was wounded in the war and as a result had a metal plate in his skull. He drank heavily to dull the incessant pain. In his memoirs “Inside Memory,” Timothy Findley, who acted with him, recalled that Lawson “always went to bed sodden and all night long he would be dragged from one nightmare to another—often yelling—more often screaming—very often struggling physically to free himself of impeding bedclothes and threatening shapes in the shadows.” He would pound the walls, shouting “Help! Help! Help!” The noise, my dear—and the people.

David Lloyd George, wartime prime minister of Britain, in his memoirs used language like this to describe the conflict:

… [I]nexhaustible vanity that will never admit a mistake … individuals who would rather the million perish than that they as leaders should own—even to themselves—that they were blunderers … the notoriety attained by a narrow and stubborn egotism, unsurpassed among the records of disaster wrought by human complacency … a bad scheme badly handled … impossible orders issued by Generals who had no idea what the execution of their commands really meant … this insane enterprise … this muddy and muddle-headed venture. …

The British Imperial War Museum, which was behind the Jackson film, had no interest in portraying the dark reality of war. War may be savage, brutal and hard, but it is also, according to the myth, ennobling, heroic and selfless. You can believe this drivel only if you have never been in combat, which is what allows Jackson to modernize a cartoon version of war.

The poet Siegfried Sassoon in “The Hero” captured the callousness of war:

“Jack fell as he’d have wished,” the Mother said, And folded up the letter that she’d read. “The Colonel writes so nicely.” Something broke In the tired voice that quavered to a choke. She half looked up. “We mothers are so proud Of our dead soldiers.” Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out. He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies That she would nourish all her days, no doubt. For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy, Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how “Jack,” cold-footed, useless swine, Had panicked down the trench that night the mine Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried To get sent home; and how, at last, he died, Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care Except that lonely woman with white hair.

Our own generals and politicians, who nearly two decades ago launched the greatest strategic blunder in American history and have wasted nearly $6 trillion on conflicts in the Middle East that we cannot win, are no less egotistical and incompetent. The images of our wars are as carefully controlled and censored as the images from World War I. While the futility and human carnage of our current conflicts are rarely acknowledged in public, one might hope that we could confront the suicidal idiocy of World War I a century later.

Leon Wolff, in his book “In Flanders Fields: The 1917 Campaign,” writes of World War I:

“It had meant nothing, solved nothing, and proved nothing; and in so doing had killed 8,538,315 men and variously wounded 21,219,452. Of 7,750,919 others taken prisoner or missing, well over a million were later presumed dead; thus the total deaths (not counting civilians) approach ten million. The moral and mental defects of the leaders of the human race had been demonstrated with some exactitude. One of them (Woodrow Wilson) later admitted that the war had been fought for business interests; another (David Lloyd George) had told a newspaperman: ‘If people really knew, the war would be stopped tomorrow, but of course they don’t—and can’t know. The correspondents don’t write and the censorship wouldn’t pass the truth.’

There is no mention in the film of the colossal stupidity of the British general staff that sent hundreds of thousands of working-class Englishmen—they are seen grinning into the camera with their decayed teeth—in wave after wave, week after week, month after month, into the mouths of German machine guns to be killed or wounded. There is no serious exploration of the iron censorship that hid the realities of the war from the public and saw the press become a shill for warmongers. There is no investigation into how the war was used by the state, as it is today, as an excuse to eradicate civil liberties. There is no look at the immense wealth made by the arms manufacturers and contractors or how the war plunged Britain deep into debt with war-related costs totaling 70 percent of the gross national product. Yes, we see some pictures of gruesome wounds, digitalized into color, yes, we hear how rats ate corpses, but the war in the film is carefully choreographed, stripped of the deafening sounds, repugnant smells and most importantly the crippling fear and terror that make a battlefield a stygian nightmare. We glimpse dead bodies, but there are no long camera shots of the slow agony of those dying of horrific wounds. Sanitized images like these are war pornography. That they are no longer jerky and grainy and have been colorized in 3D merely gives old war porn a modern sheen.

“When the war was not very active, it was really rather fun to be in the front line,” a veteran says in the film. “It was a sort of outdoor camp holiday with a slight spice of danger to make it interesting.”

Insipid comments like that defined the perception of the war at home. The clash between a civilian population that saw the war as “a sort of outdoor camp holiday” and those who experienced it led to profound estrangement. The poet Charles Sorley wrote: “I should like so much to kill whoever was primarily responsible for the war.” And journalist and author Philip Gibbs noted that soldiers had a deep hatred of civilians who believed the lies. “They hated the smiling women in the streets. They loathed the old men. … They desired that profiteers should die by poison-gas. They prayed to God to get the Germans to send Zeppelins to England—to make the people know what war meant.”

Military studies have determined that after 60 days of continuous combat, 98 percent of those who survive will have become psychiatric casualties. The common trait among the 2 percent who were able to endure sustained combat was a predisposition toward “aggressive psychopathic personalities.” Lt. Col. David Grossman wrote: “It is not too far from the mark to observe that there is something about continuous, inescapable combat which will drive 98 percent of all men insane, and the other 2 percent were crazy when they got there.”

The military cliques in American society are as omnipotent as they were in World War I. The symbols of war and militarism, then and now, have a quasi-religious aura, especially in our failed democracy. Our incompetent generals—such as David Petraeus, whose surges only prolonged the Iraq War and raised the casualty figures and whose idea to arm “moderate” rebels in Syria was a debacle—are as lionized as the pig-headed and vainglorious Gen. Douglas Haig, the British commander in chief, who resisted innovations such as the tank, the airplane and the machine gun, which he called “a much overrated weapon.” He believed the cavalry would play the decisive role in winning the war. Haig, in the Battle of the Somme, oversaw 60,000 casualties on the first day of the offensive, July 1, 1916. None of his military objectives were achieved. Twenty thousand lay dead between the lines. The wounded cried out for days. This did not dampen Haig’s ardor to sacrifice his soldiers. Determined to make his plan of bursting through the German lines and unleashing his three divisions of cavalry on the fleeing enemy, he kept the waves of assaults going for four months until winter forced him to cease. By the time Haig was done, the army had suffered more than 400,000 casualties and accomplished nothing. Lt. Col. E.T.F. Sandys, who saw 500 of his soldiers killed or wounded on the first day at the Somme, wrote two months later, “I have never had a moment’s peace since July 1st.” He then shot himself to death in a London hotel room. Joe Sacco’s illustrated book “The Great War,” a 24-foot-long wordless panorama that depicts the first day of the Battle of Somme, reveals more truth about the horror of war than Jackson’s elaborate restoration of old film.

https://www.truthdig.com/articles/peter-jacksons-cartoon-war/

Jackson closes the film with an army ditty about prostitution. “You might forget the gas and shell,” the song goes, “but you’ll nev’r forget the Mademoiselle! Hinky-dinky, parlez-vous?”

Tens of thousands of girls and women, whose brothers, fathers, sons and husbands were dead or crippled, and whose homes often had been destroyed, became impoverished and often homeless. They were easy prey for the brothels, including the military-run brothels, and the pimps that serviced the soldiers. There is nothing amusing or cute about lying on a straw mat and being raped by as many as 60 men a day, unless you are the rapist.

“Give sorrow words,” William Shakespeare reminded us, “The grief that does not speak whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break.”

It is fortunate all the participants in the war are dead. They would find the film another example of the monstrous lie that denied their reality, ignored or minimized their suffering and never held the militarists, careerists, profiteers and imbeciles who prosecuted the war accountable. War is the raison d’être of technological society. It unleashes demons. And those who profit from these demons, then and now, work hard to keep them hidden.

https://www.truthdig.com/articles/peter-jacksons-cartoon-war/

#war #Iraq War #warmongers #cowards #technological society #technology #lies we have been told #lies we tell ourselves

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asarsgyan · 4 years ago

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WITHOUT TITS THERES NO PARADISE: “The Love Killer” - Pelambrés View

On the cold floor of Café Salento, curled up, as if hiding the pain of its failure, lies a woman's corpse, pierced by four projectiles poisoned by oblivion: one that broke her ambition, another that erased her ignorance, one that broke her vanity and, the most certain, the one that killed her dreams.

Next to the deceased, amid exaggerated shouting and as witnesses to the chaos, there remain several tilted chairs, some 38 caliber bullet casings, half a dozen employees running from one side to the other, like ants at the end In the fall, two inexperienced researchers and an open Bible underlined with red marker in Chapter 23, Verse 43, of the Book of Saint Luke.

“Countless gossipers, including me, the murderer, let us take a look at the scene.” I came to take a photo of the deceased that Mrs. Catalina asked me as proof the day we agreed to the crime. While I prepare the camera I think that this is a sublime moment, because if someone in this dunghill called world deserved death it was she, Yésica. They called her La Diabla for a reason. She was the worst human being who gave birth to hell. That is why when Mrs. Catalina told me that she wanted to see her dead, I didn't hesitate for a second and offered to kill her. Partly because she offered me her love in return, something that I have longed for since I was the wife of my employer, and partly because, because of that demon, Don Marcial became blinded and took the inheritance from Mrs. Catalina and the employeed me. Although I die for a kiss from my mistress, I would have killed Yésica for free and even paid to acquire the privilege of disappearing her. I hate her even when she's dead and I must admit that her spilled blood doesn't hurt. At the scene of the just crime, among so many astonished faces, mine stands out, which cannot hide a wicked smirk, the kind that goes with one to the grave. I will call Dona Catalina again to tell her that her worst enemy, the one who took her husband and the good life, no longer exists.

Two minutes ago I called her and she didn't answer. Maybe you have regrets. I will tell you that you can breathe without fear, that we can start a new life far from here and, why not, if you want, you can use my being and my love to be happy.

One last look. I shoot her again: this time four photographs, but none to the face because she is still upside down. I wait patiently, listening to gossip comments, until finally a Forensic Medicine official, one of those who count holes in the shot dead, turns the corpse over. I feel it strange. In a mechanical motion, they remove the hair from her face and cleans her face. As I portray the moment in amazement.

Something bad happens. God! The sun goes out. My illusions collapse in an instant. The woman lying on the ground is not Yésica. It is not the Devil.

The dead woman is my lady Catalina, of all souls. This Can not be!

What happened?

What did I do?

Everything is confusing. I cry my misfortune.

I have murdered the woman I love.

I glance at her purple lips and moan. I watchher and I look pale and I want them. Her little hands, no longer strong, hold a mobile phone and a red ink pen with which she crossed out the verse that narrates the moment in which Jesus tells the evildoers who accompany him on Mount Calvary: Truly I tell you that today they will be with me in paradise. That verse is crossed out with an inscription that sums up what was the ill-fated life of Doña Catalina: "LIES, WITHOUT TITS THERE IS NO PARADISE." And the poor woman was not lacking in reason. When she had them, the world fell at her feet. When she lost them, the world turned their back on her. At least from her point of view, that was her painful reality.

Shattered by the disappearance of the only woman I have ever loved in silence, I try to reconstruct the facts in my weary head and do not understand the deception. She told me that Yésica was going to be sitting at that table, with that white jacket, with that pink scarf, with that Bible that is lying on the floor with its pages played in the wind, at this very hour. But she lied to me. She put herself in La Diabla's place so that my assassins would kill her. Coward, she cheated on me. She played with the goodness that was born from my love. She laughed at me. I know that this pain will accompany me to the grave because the days I have left will not be enough to mourn it enough. I loved her more than my mother.

The stream of blood that comes out of Dona Catalina's stubborn head runs under the tables, cautiously descends to the sidewalk, as if she fears something worse, and walks slowly along the edge of the street, avoiding the feet of some onlookers and the front wheels of two Police patrol cars. I don't move my feet. I let the blood brush my shoes and reach down to touch it. I bring the sample collected with the tip of my index finger to my mouth and close my eyes, savoring the only little part of Dona Catalina that I can carry inside of me.

The stream, still warm, wriggles through the dust and dodges or drags some leaves that have fallen from the trees until it is lost inside a drain grate, a block below. Inside that sewer she mixes with the shit of the rich, the shit of the poor, the piss of both, and she begins to travel the city in a kind of macabre dismissal.

And, like the yellow water of Los Toreros Muertos, it goes under the houses of the bad guys who think they are good, goes under the houses of the good guys who think they're bad, goes under the worst, those who they do not believe one thing or the other. Finally, it falls over the waters of a stream that empties into the river where, kilometers and days later, it finds its outlet at the opening of the aqueduct in the city where Catalina's mother lives.

Without any foreboding, because her intuition dried up months ago, Dona Hilda picks up some water from the kitchen tap without imagining that it might contain some tiny particle of her dead daughter's soul. Sh drinks it with her eyes closed and exclaims:

"Thank you, God, for the holy water you give us."

If Catalina’s life was a monument to waste, her burial was an apology for sadness. After enjoying the pleasures of life in the best restaurants, in the most brutal sports cars, in the most luxurious estates, in the hotels with the most stars, one Thursday, three weeks after his death, on the edge of the Four o'clock in the afternoon, inside a very poor coffin, without ironwork like the ones she used in her expensive bags, nor velvet like the curtains of her mansion, under the frozen threads of an inconsequential drizzle, her body was buried in the Ce - Central chin with my unique and distant presence.

The men of Forensic Medicine deposited her corpse in a common grave with the ease of someone who throws some leftovers in the garbage can. Without a prayer and not a flower on her grave, my lady's human remains were thrown into nothingness. I watched them from a distance with a sting that burned my throat. I had an uncontrollable urge to get into the ground with her, but bullies are cowards. We like to disconnect lives, but we fear death.

When the men finished their work I approached fearfully, took some dirt from their new and gloomy home and put it in my pocket after extracting from their entrails a couple of fat, white, disgusting worms, of those diners of human flesh that they are in charge of reminding us that we are all the same. I still have that handful of dirt. On my knees I asked my mistress for forgiveness for having killed her, for loving her so much, and I lay down on her homeland to receive the water from heaven on my face. I am not good at making claims to God, but my silence was enough to make that man understand that he was not happy with him.

There, on that land that covers her poor remains, caring for her, reproaching her for her deception, swearing my infinite love, I fell asleep, seized by frost but with more pain than cold. I didn't hear from me again until a day later, when the same men who buried Catalina threw a corpse at me. I woke up scared, but my disgusted face let them know that I was not dead, although very dead if I was inside.

One of them managed to run screaming that I had resuscitated, but he soon realized his exaggeration and was teased by his friends. When they discovered that I was the mourner of the woman buried the day before, they lamented the mistake and offered me apologies that I had no qualms about accepting. I put on the grave of my beloved a cross made with shacks of trees and flowers of other deceased and I left thinking about how my life would be without her beautiful smile.

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buckyscrystalqueen · 7 years ago

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Taking The Shot: Part 5

Pairings: Negan x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, angst, smut fluff, typical Walking Dead stuff, mentions of murder

Word Count: 4,795

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hike to Alexandria took you three days and with every step you took, your anger and self doubt raged more and more. You were beyond livid not only with Negan for leaving you behind but with yourself for believing you could trust someone again. That was your main problem, you were too trusting. You trusted him to keep you safe, trusted him to protect you like he said he would. At the end of the day, Negan was only concerned with himself but by the time you got to Alexandria, you had yourself believing that being left behind was somehow your own fault.

You only had to wait one day for him to show up at his community. You had found a tree where you could see the two main streets in Alexandria where you could still get to the street in front of his truck before he left. Your blood boiled as you watched him through the scope just like you did before you met him only the feelings were now polar opposite. You spent the next hour mumbling under your breath, wanting so badly to just pull the trigger and end him right here and right now as he casually played a game of pool in the middle of the road. Not a care in the world, showing how heartless this man truly was.

It didn’t take long for his opponent to piss him off before Negan killed him. You watched his freshly shaven face go from smiling to pissed in the blink of an eye as blood and intestines poured to the ground. You saw the bloody knife in his hand and you shook your head as you settled in to take your shot. You had had enough; seen enough and you were going to stop it right here and now.

Just as Negan opened his arms wide, you reached up to point your laser at him so he would at least know who was going to be putting a bullet in the cavity where his heart should be. Your hand; however, froze when you saw a gun swing into the bottom of your scope. Fear of losing the man you suddenly realized you loved ripped through you as his face contorted when the sound of the shot pierced through the air. Without thinking, you shifted your rifle a quarter of an inch and fired. You watched the woman who had spoken to you on the roof silently drop to the ground through the scope and you shifted back to find your husband's face.

“Clean kill, mother fucker.” You said to yourself as you cycled the bolt. You reached up, grabbed and pointed your laser pointer right at his chest. You watched as his eyes flicked to exactly where you were concealed in the trees, down to the red dot over his heart and back up to you. Despite being roughly 400 yards away, you could see the hint of his tears in his eyes for only a moment.

You hesitated, turning off your laser pointer as he stared in the direction of where you were before Rick ran around the corner dragging someone with him and he pulled Negan’s attention away you. With a heavy sigh, you knew you couldn’t really bring yourself to shot the man you loved. You slung your rifle over your shoulder and climbed down to go meet him at the street to get the answer of why he left you behind like a coward. You made it to the end of the road leading to Alexandria only seconds before the caravan pulled down it. You watched Negan's face pale slightly when you moved and stood in the middle of the road in front of his truck.

"That's right, I fucking came after you. You're gunna fucking walk away from me; you better have the fucking balls to look me in the eye when you do it!" You shouted as he stopped the truck. He threw the truck in park and got out, waiving the other trucks around him and telling Simon to go with them. You moved just enough out of the way for the two box trucks to drive around you as the two of you glared at each other.

“All I want to know is why?” you asked once you were alone. “That’s all I fucking want before I walk down that road and head fucking south like I was planning on fucking doing originally. One answer then you never have to look at my Goddamn face again.”

“Get the fuck out of the road, (Y/N).” He said as he stormed to the front of the truck, his body shaking with rage as he pointed down the road away from the Sanctuary. “Just fucking leave.” You shook your head and stubbornly crossed your arms.

“I’m not moving from in front of your fucking truck until you give me an answer.” He stormed around to the open driver side door and your heart leapt when you realized what he was doing. You still stood your ground and tears began to fall from your eyes as he grabbed Lucille off the seat.

“Get the fuck out of the fucking road.” He roared as he stomped toward you, his leather glove creaking around the wood bat. You shook your head.

“Go ahead and fucking hit me baby because I’m not moving until you talk to me. Fuck, maybe my eye will pop all the way out for you.” He didn’t move a muscle one way or another; he simply stared at you, his arms shaking as his chest heaved. “Why did you leave me?” You asked your voice soft and tear throttled. Without a word he dropped his bat, letting it clatter to the pavement and stormed over to you. He grabbed your cheeks between his hands, crashed his lips against yours and you felt his tears fall on your cheeks as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Because I love you.” He whispered against your lips, his voice shaky with fear.

“I fucking left you because I was afraid to fucking lose you again. I thought if I just fucking left you it would be easier to fucking forget you; to forget how much I fucking love you. I couldn’t fucking stand the fucking idea of another cock sucking, mother fucking, dick for brains prick fucking taking you from me one more Goddamn time. So I fucking left you. And I fucking regretted it the fucking moment I saw your fucking tears in my mirror.”

“So my fucking love for you meant nothing in that fucking situation?” You asked him as you pulled your head back to look at him. “Do I not have a fucking say in the matter? Look at what fucking happened today? Fuck, look at what happened the day you fucking abandoned me. You could have been taken from me TWICE and you don’t see my fucking ass leaving you behind. That’s not how love works, Negan! This world is all about fucking fear. Fear that one day we run out of food. Fear that today will be the day we get bit. Fear that one day someone will get the upper fucking hand and punch our fucking clock. But that doesn’t have to stop you from fucking living; from fucking loving.”

“Then what the fuck happens when that fucking day comes, huh? What fucking happens…”

“I’ll still love you.” As tears rolled down his cheeks, he looked at the ground and you moved your hands to the back of his neck. “Baby, you can’t just throw me out into the world because you love me. The only thing that is going to do is make you wonder every fucking day if I’m ok or if I’m still alive, and then what?

You’re more focused on me and not keeping the fucking Sanctuary together and running. Then you start to lose your grip on these moronic communities. You would be signing your own fucking death warrant. Or you keep on loving me and keep me by your side to make you a stronger fucking man where you know I’m alive and as safe as safe can be in this world and everything runs smoothly.” You moved your hands to his jaw and lifted his chin so he would be forced to look at you. “Don’t be afraid to love again.” He shook his head in your hands and rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you. I’m not afraid to fucking love you baby girl. I’m afraid to fucking live without you.”

“Then don’t push me away because I love you, too.” You tilted your head and kissed him gently, raising your thumbs to wipe his tears away. He pulled away with a huffed laughed to rub his own thumbs softly across your cheeks and the sound of an approaching walker from the woods brought you back to the new world. “So what’s it gunna be? Am I walkin’ or…?” you asked and he growled.

“Get in the fucking truck, princess.” He jogged over to pick up Lucille as you headed for the passenger side and as you climbed in to your seat, he slammed Lucille through the back of the walkers head. Your face lit up as the walker’s eye popped out completely and rolled across the road. “Please fucking tell me you fucking saw that shit!” Negan shouted as he walked around the open truck door.

“That couldn’t have happened more fucking perfectly if you had planned that shit.” You said as he got into the truck, put Lucille on the floor and pat the seat next to him. You scooted across the old leather and leaned into his side as he put the truck in drive and drove over the dead corpse.

“Well I can now fucking say I have hit someone so fucking hard their fucking eyeball popped clear out of their fucking skull.” You laughed as you rested your head on his shoulder.

“I will agree to back that shit but between us, it only partially counts because the prick was already half dead.” Negan laughed as he slid his arm around your shoulders.

“Alright now it’s my Goddamn goal to make this shit fucking happen.” He teased as he rested his cheek on your head. “And I fuckin’ swear to you, you will be around to see that shit happen.” You smiled and put your hand on his thigh.

“I better be because it doesn’t count if I don’t see it.” He nodded his head slightly as his arm slid down around your waist.

“Oh, princess. You’ll fucking be there.” You smiled and squeezed his thigh with a small laugh.

“Good, because next time you got a red dot on your fucking chest and I’m not fucking there you better hope to fuck I’m more than a half mile out.” He laughed as he tilted his head to kiss your forehead and you could feel his smile against your skin.

“Trust me. I won’t fucking make the same fucking mistake twice.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Babe, look at this.” You called out as you pulled ‘The Shining’ DVD off a shelf in the house you were raiding. “You wanna watch it tonight?” You asked as you handed Negan the DVD case and he nodded.

“Yea, why the hell not? It’s always fun to watch my supposedly fuckin’ fearless wife jump at fuckin’ horror movies.” He chuckled as you snatched the DVD out of his hand and shoved it in your bag with a scowl on your face.

“No, what you find ‘fun’ is when you purposely try to scare me.” You snarled as you tried to step around him and with a laugh he side stepped in front of you.

“Oh come on, you know it’s funny.” You rolled your eyes at him and a patch of black caught your eye through the bay window at the front of the house. You leaned slightly to the right around Negan and locked eyes with Daryl for a moment.

“Son of a bitch, it’s Daryl.” You said as you took off toward the front door as he turned around and ran into the woods.

“Aim low!” Negan shouted at you as you yanked your rifle off your back and jumped off the porch.

“No shit!” You called out sarcastically as you tore into the woods with Negan and Lucille on your trail. “Stay to my left!” You demanded as you paused for a moment to take a shot. You found Daryl quickly in your scope and fired off a shot but your bullet clipped the outside of his thigh and only caused him to stumble. You growled as you started running once more and you caught up to Negan quickly. “Here.” You said as you handed him your hand gun. He snatched it from you and fired at Daryl and you sped up, hoping to close just a little more distance between you before you shot again. You leapt over a fallen tree and just as you were about to stop to take another shot, Daryl tripped.

“Babe, go!” Negan shouted as you put all of your energy into running with a growl. Just as Daryl was scrambling to his feet, you leapt into the air and landed on his back. Your momentum sent you rolling over his body and you swung your rifle around out of instinct as you skid to a stop. The stock slammed into the side of Daryl’s face and he fell to the ground. “(Y/N), don’t.” Negan said as he ran up to stop you from slamming the stock of your gun into the unconscious man’s head.

“Give me Lucille. We gotta get him to the truck quick.” You said as you looked around the woods. There were quite a few walkers heading toward you. You shouldered your rifle and took the bat from Negan so he could heave Daryl over his shoulder. “Where the fuck is everyone?” You asked as you swung Lucille at the nearest walker, sending it into a tree.

“Fuck if I know but they are gunna fuckin hear it from me.” The two of you ran as fast as you could. Negan was able to get a couple shots off as you took down others with the bat. “You know,” he panted as you neared the edge of the woods. “You and fucking Lucille…”

“Baby, finish that fucking sentence later.” You said as you paused to take out another walker. “Right now, we gotta fucking go.” As you finally made it out of the woods, you glared at the group of men that were staring at you confused.

“Yea, no fucking thanks, we didn’t need help.” You mumbled as you snatched up your bag from the road. You growled when you saw the strap broken from where you must have caught it with your rifle. “Fucking dicks.”

“The fuck are you fucking standing around like fucking idiots for?” Negan shouted as he came out of the woods a few steps behind you. “You see my Goddamn wife take off into the fucking woods with her Goddamn fucking rifle in her fucking hand you fucking go after her!” You heard the men mumble apologies as you tossed your bag into the front seat of the truck. “Princess, get the fucking rope out of the fucking back.” You nodded as you swung Lucille over your shoulder absentmindedly and walked toward the back of the truck as the crew took care of the handful of walkers that followed you out of the woods.

“The fuck is wrong with those idiots?” You asked as you set Lucille down in the truck and pulled the rope out and began tying it around Daryl’s legs and ankles. Negan shook his head.

“Not a fucking clue but I’m about to put a fucking end to it.” He dropped Daryl in the truck and grabbed Lucille. “This is why I fucking don’t go on fucking runs without fucking Simon.” He grumbled as he shoved Daryl onto his stomach for you. He stormed around to the front of the truck and you hog tied Daryl’s ankles to his wrists tightly. Once you were done, you tied him to the side of the truck as Negan started to scream at his men.

“I don’t even want to fucking try to get my head as far up my fucking ass as far as you fucking cock suckers have yours! You fuckers work for me!” You let out a small giggle while you went around to the front of the truck and grabbed a cigarette from the pack Negan kept in the door. You glanced at the small cowering crew of men he had lined up in front of him and you lit your smoke and pulled your rifle off your shoulder. With a half mouthed smirk and a shake of your head, you headed toward the back of the truck to keep an eye on Daryl, the woods and Negan as he continued to rage.

“Now, you fucks have one job. That fucking job is to get fucking supplies and fucking keep each other fucking safe! Add my fucking WIFE into that mother fucking picture; your fucking asses better be fucking bending over fucking backwards to keep her safe. Now, if you’re fucking wondering if I have a fucking soft spot for her; guess what- I fucking do, but that is one Goddamn soft spot! So unless your name is fucking (Y/N), I’m calling you fucking princess and you’re fucking sucking my Goddamn dick before bed, you do the fucking job you are fucking assigned.”

Without warning, he spun to the nearest man and cracked Lucille over his head, sending him flying down into the pavement. You laughed behind your cigarette as the other men tried to subtly scoot out of the way of Negan’s bat while he drove it into the man’s skull. You took out a walker that was starting to wander out of the woods as Negan stopped swinging. He swung his bat toward the rest of the men, sending blood spraying across their faces.

“Now, have I fucking made myself crystal fucking clear?” He asked and the men nodded nervously. He turned on his heel and stalked toward you and shook his head.

“Eyeball didn’t pop. Sorry babe but it doesn’t count.” You said softly as you held out your cigarette to him. He let out a small laugh as he took it and placed it between his lips so he could put his hands on your shoulders to spin you and make sure you were OK. “Negan…” He shook his head as he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth with a hiss and handed it back to you.

“I fuckin’ know you are. I just…” You shook your head and plucked the cigarette out of his fingers.

“Nope. I’m fine. It’s done, over and taken care of. I won’t let you replay the ‘I was worried’ tape, my love.” You leaned up, kissed him on the cheek and stepped back, taking the last drag of your cigarette. “Now… let’s get this entourage of mass stupidity back home so you can show me what me swinging Lucille did to you and then we have a movie date.”

“You’re such a Goddamn pain in my fucking ass.” He said as he closed the back of the truck and you walked around the far side of it. As you opened the door to the passenger side and stepped up onto the runner, you saw the crew, looking nervous as ever, still standing around the headless body.

“I know you ain’t gunna stand there and make him tell you to load up right now.” You warned and the men scrambled to get into the box truck with the rest of the supplies. You sat down on the seat with a groan and pulled your bag over to you to tie the strap together in a knot. “I really fucking liked this bag too.” You complained as Negan got in the driver’s seat.

“Fuckin’ leave it like that. You got a memory of how you fuckin tackled that fucker to the ground.” You shrugged as you pushed the bag onto the floor on top of your guns and you laid across the seat with your head on his thigh with one boot on the chair and the other on the ground. You chuckled slightly as Negan started the truck.

“If I’m not calling you princess…” you stated as you looked up at him and a small smile crossed his face as he pulled off the curb. “So does that mean I don’t have to do my job since you call me princess?” He glanced down at you and rolled his eyes.

“You do your fucking job, baby girl and I don’t have to fucking remind you what your fucking job is unlike those fucking dip shits.”

“And I suck your dick before bed.” You stated as you pointed up at him and he chuckled as he reached over and sprawled his hand over your lower stomach.

“And you do that fucking shit oh so God damn well, too.” A cheeky smile spread across your face as you arched your eyebrow.

“So what if one of those morons did a better job than me?” Negan growled as he moved his hand between your parted thighs.

“Not fuckin’ possible and they don’t have this fucking pussy I love oh so fucking much.” You mouth fell open slightly and your breath caught in your throat as his fingers squeezed your pussy. “… the fuck did you say? Fucking speak up, baby girl, I can’t fucking here you.” He chuckled as he rubbed his hand back and forth across your pussy through your jeans. You reached your hand up over your head and rubbed it up his inner thigh until your fingers found his hardening cock.

“Two can play at that game and you know I always win.” You said as you slid your hand over his length and squeezed firmly. You pulled a low grown from the back of his throat as his eyes closed and he subconsciously raised his hips into your touch. His hand pulled you closer by your increasingly wet cunt. “Watch the road, Negan.”

“Get your fucking hand off my fucking dick then, (Y/N).” He growled as he forced his lust blown eyes open.

“Get your fucking hand off my pussy then.” You countered and he glared down at you.

“Quit fucking being so Goddamn irresistible then!” He pulled his hand from between your legs long enough to unbutton and unzip your jeans before he moved under the barriers of your clothing and slid his fingers through your folds to your clit with expert accuracy.

“Jesus fuck!” You gasped as you arched into him. You rubbed the palm of one hand across his hard length as the other gripped his wrist while his fingers danced across your sensitive clit. “That’s not getting your fucking hand off my pussy!”

“Your fucking hand didn’t fucking move either!” You huffed and twisted your head slightly on his thigh and rapidly undid his belt, button and zipper. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He threatened as you pulled out his cock, letting it fall right in front of your lips as you wrapped your hand around the base.

“I moved my hand.” you said with mock innocence. Your lips danced across the head of his cock causing him to suck in his breath through his grit teeth. You looked up at him with an evil glint in your eye as you ran your tongue over your lips to collect the bead of precum that was there, knowing that you were close enough that he felt the underside of your tongue slip across the tip. His hand dipped farther into your jeans, his middle finger sliding into your entrance once before he pulled it out and pressed back in with a second finger.

“Fucking damn it baby girl, you’re fucking killing me.” He groaned. With a small, evil giggle, you parted your lips slightly and pressed them to his head, adding the tiniest amount of suction. His hips jerked forward as a groan rolled from his lips and you looked up just in time to watch his eyes roll back and close.

“Road, Negan.” With a primal growl, his eyes flew open and he ripped the steering wheel to the right and threw the truck into park.

“Fuck the rooooo…” He tried to say but his words were lost as you took him into your mouth as far as the awkward angle would allow. You moaned around him as his fingers picked up a brutal pace and the palm of his hand brushed maddeningly against your clit. “God fuck!” He grunted as his fingers white knuckled the steering wheel while both of your hips moved with a mind of their own in a desperate attempt to seek more friction. His hand suddenly tangled in your hair and pulled you off of him with a pop and without a word of instruction; you sat up and kicked a boot and one jeans leg off. He scooted over from behind the steering wheel as you straddled his lap and you lowered yourself onto him with a satisfying groan.

“Fuck baby, always so fucking tight for me.” He said as he scooted his hips forward on the seat to let you sink down even lower as his hands grabbed your hips. Your lips crashed onto him, muffling your moans and you grabbed onto the back of the seat to pick up a punishing pace.

“Jesus Christ I fucking love your dick deep inside of me, baby.” You moaned as you dropped your head to his shoulder. You grabbed the back of his neck and beads of sweat began forming on your forehead. You could feel the tight wind up of your orgasm coming quickly as he began to thrust up into you, matching your bruising pace easily.

“Oh fuck!” He grunted as his head fell to your neck. His teeth sank into your flesh as his hand shot between your bodies to expertly circle your clit.

“Yes… Negan… fuck God yes!” You screamed as you grabbed the back of his hair and pulled, bracing yourself on the roof as you were brought to the edge.

“I’m… I’m…”

“Fucking cum!” he shouted as your orgasm ripped through your body. As you tightened around him, he dug his nails into your hip as his hips faltered their pace and with a shout of your name, he spilled into you as you rode him through your wave. As you shuddered to a stop, you collapsed on to his heaving chest. He wrapped his arms around your body and held you close as you both caught your breath.

“Jesus fuck, baby girl.” He panted with a huffed laugh.

“I fucking know it.” You sat there for a moment and ran your fingers through his sweat dampened hair as you came down from your high before Negan chuckled.

“I think you fucking won.” He stated as he hugged you to him a little tighter for a moment before letting his arm slacken so you could get up and you giggled.

“I think we both won, babe.” You got off his lap and sat down on the leather seat and pulled your pants back on.

“Remind me to fucking let you play with fucking Lucille more often, baby girl.” You giggled as he scooted back behind the wheel and put the car into drive to get back on the road to head home.

“Baby, we have fucking good sex no matter what the fuck I do.” He laughed as you turned the air up a bit and rolled down your window a crack. “I piss you off, good sex. I make you happy, good sex. I play with Lucille, I wear your shirts or look beautiful, I lay in bed next to you at all no matter how clothed I am, good sex.” You pulled your boot back on and laid back down on his lap with a sigh and a shrug. “I’m just a good fuck no matter what I do.” You smiled up at Negan as he burst out laughing.

“Oh! And I’m the fucking one with a slightly fucking narcissistic self-confidence!” He teased as you put your foot in the air to tie your boot.

“Yea, so what; we share a trait. Big fucking deal.” You looked up at him and smiled and he blew you a kiss.

“I fuckin’ love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too, baby.”

Part 6

#Negan x Reader #Negan's Thirst Squad #Taking The Shot #Taking The Shot Series

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theonyxpath · 8 years ago

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Given our ongoing Kickstarter for Chronicles of Darkness: Dark Eras 2, we decided it would be prudent to take another look at Tales from the Dark Eras which contains stories from many of the eras covered in the original Chronicles of Darkness: Dark Eras. This week we look at Bone and Gold, a story by Malcolm Sheppard set in Mage: The Awakening’s Alexandrian period (330-320 BCE).

War is groaning.

We remember the screams of the fray, hurled spears and swift-stabbing swords, but a man can only exert his full strength for a few dozen breaths before he must shuffle back and fght with grimaces and shouts alone, until his vitality returns. As battles progress, soldiers take longer pauses between assaults. They pant beside horses under the relentless sun. The purr of exhaustion rattles from their lips. And of course, they weep. That is war’s true music, nothing so much as a hard day’s work by a thousand of the lowest slaves. Labor and terror.

Today the groaning belonged to one side, populated by Greeks, Persians, Egyptians and others, bound to the service of our Warlord. With five comrades I pulled our earthladen pallet, ropes over our shoulders and shields ahead. We growled out our steps, like in the marching drills. As we six pulled, six more pushed the pallet from behind, and together we were one of four units, an entire lochos of the army, made of survivors and ill-tempered men, suited to the riskiest work. We were building a ramp.

The defenders of Pir Sar knew exactly where to aim their arrows, but they lacked coordination and enthusiasm, argued after each volley, and warned us of the next with early, scattered shots that gave us time to hide behind shields, javelin-scarred stones and the sturdy dead.

Yet men died. An arrow caught Phillipos under his ear, sending him straight to breathless, open-eyed sleep. A javelin took Argyros in the chest while he straightened one of the shields we’d planted to shelter us. He gurgled and rolled down black, tamped dirt. Stray missiles danced down the growing earthwork until the sun touched the mountains. By the day’s last volley, fatigue had conquered all terror. I sat in my shield’s long shadow to break out water and dried figs.

Phokas crawled to me, holding up a bit of bread. We traded half portions with each other. “Who wants to die hungry?” he said. “Even if you wanted to think of some fine fuck from your youth or pray your last, hunger would throw ox shanks and olives into your dreams and wine to wash it down. Petty things.” Then he ate: three bites.

“I don’t know what I’d want to think while I died.” An arrow struck my shield. It sounded like rain on an old roof. “It’s a distraction.”

“Theophanes, you really know how to make me feel like a brother.”

“I hated my brother.”

Phokas squeezed my arm and laughed, just like when I met him, after they’d made our lochos out of the remnants of two others. He’d invited me to his tent then. I knew he wanted to take honor from me like I was a staring, frightened boy.

The volley struck: long, black, killing raindrops.

I pressed my heel against his belly. A little kick would send him over the shield. He’d get rained on. “Think of death so nobly, and you’ll want it,” I said. “It’ll tempt you to make mistakes.”

“Yet the gods hate cowards.” He wound my forearm into his armpit. I forgot he was a strong wrestler. He could rip my elbow out of joint with a shrug.

I let go first. “They hate heroes too.”

We fled after the meal was done.

—

After night’s cool mercy, dawn hid in wine-colored clouds. We could be swift and comfortable. By noon, the ramp was fit to carry one catapult at a time. Pir Sar sent a sortie: over a hundred in a crooked line, dispersed by rocky terrain on the spur that held their fortress. We twenty-four set a phalanx on smooth earth of our own making. My shield touched Ariston’s; our spears wheeled into place, Greeks together.

Athenian strategy, Spartan muscle, even Persian iron — conquered Persian iron. Oh yes. I yelled “Ha-Oh!” with the rest, and thrust at the first wave in a single beat, creating upon the ground that storm the Asians failed to summon with ill-timed arrows. There’s much to love about battle, in the little techniques: shifting to the overhand grip so, when you thrust with a spear, the weight of a skewered body doesn’t wrench you forward. Stamping the ground twice, to advance as one force. We made a line of corpses for the rest to cross, but they thought better of it, hid behind rocks and harassed us with javelins. If a man shook his cramped shield arm they’d cast fast for the opening. We could only wait; advancing to the rocks would break our formation. We were back to the groaning war. Twenty-four warriors became twenty, sixteen, then eleven.

They saw our Horse Companions before we heard their crashing hooves, coming up from behind. We jumped aside for them. The Warlord was with them, set apart by a white high-crested helmet and his black horse, called Ox-Head.

Later they’d drink to their victory, omitting talk of we eleven on the ramp. Catapults loosened the enemy walls enough that enemy archers could no longer safely shoot from its vantage. The spur was ours. Even camp followers scurried up to loot the dead.

One of them turned a body over with a practiced yank to the hip. She knelt and stared at the dead man’s ruined face with the strange blue eyes of the Alinas. She ignored the sharp sword at his side. She was alone, and that was unusual, too. Followers usually worked in families, or beside soldiers who were their lovers, masters, or relatives.

Phokas must have noticed this. He swaggered over. “His things are mine,” he said to her. “I killed him on the ramp.”

“Take them.” She spoke calmly, in a Persian accent.

“I will!” said Phokas. “I can be generous. What can I give you? You haven’t even loosened his linen.”

“Nothing.” She stood and flexed her fingers singly, in a peculiar order. I glanced at my sword hand for a moment. When I looked up again, I was a dozen paces closer between them. Yet they ignored me.

“You won’t find anything on him that I can’t give you, though with more warmth.” He laughed at his own wit and crouched like a wrestler.

“You’re going to enslave me,” she said. “I’m not your enemy.”

He reached out to her, but my left hand intercepted his. I pulled; my sword entered his belly upward, from below the cuirass. I didn’t remember the thrust, but the end of it: failing tension in his arm, wetness on my legs from his blood. Yet I worried that he’d scream, so I put the next strike through his lung, entering from the notch of the collarbone. He made a soft sound, like a bubbling stream.

The noise carried my thoughts to an absurd place: a memory of Thebes. I’d visited with my mother and her family. We went to get my brother married, but really spent most of our time visiting famous places. I was very young.

We stopped at a spring. “Herakles came here,” said my mother. “He killed his family, but washed the blood away. So the gods gave him a new purpose. The water still tastes like blood.” I took a sip. Salt. Iron.

My brother elbowed me. “Ghosts love unburnt blood,” he said. “They suck it up like that and talk to the living.” That gave me nightmares for a year.

The spring sounded like Phokas’ death, so even as I dragged his body to a cliff’s edge I thought of those dreams, where pale men and women drank by a blood-flled trench.

The woman was with me. “I’m Maya,” she said and, as if to complete the introduction, she pushed his legs over the edge. The rest of his body followed.

“I can’t pay you to keep this secret,” I said.

“You’re not going to kill me, since you did it to save me. Nor will I abandon the army. My uncle lives near Vitasta — the Hydaspes in your language, where Zeus-Ammon must go to open the gates of the East. I don’t want to travel alone. I can reassure you with my service,” she said. She made a peculiar gesture and touched my arm. I felt as if it connected two pieces of a torn scroll, which when read together revealed my weakness, my shame. What else could I do?

Find out what happens to Theophanes and Maya in Tales of the Dark Eras, available now in ebook and print from DriveThruFiction!

#Onyx Path Publishing #White Wolf Publishing #Mage: The Awakening #Mage The Awakening #Chronicles of Darkness

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ylla · 8 years ago

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Farhenheit or Centigrade

Series: JJBA Ships: avpol Tags: Grinding, Dirty Talk, Anal Sex, Handcuffs, Groping, Teasing Rating: E

AO3 LINK

ALRIGHT, tuffle-puff commissioned me for some avpol, and who am I to deny such a polite request (not to mention avpol being like, one of my very favorite JJBA ships ever). I hope you enjoy it, I worked damn hard on it. This went through at least five rewrites before I got something I really liked down. If you like what you see, and want to commission me, feel free to message me, and we will work something out!

Also, big apologies for the terrible French. I can't speak a lick of it, and I had to rely on google translate.

As always, remember to comment on the fic, kudos the fic, and bookmark the fic to see more of the same fic content.

"Putain été," Polnareff grumbled as he dragged himself home. The city was in the middle of the nastiest heatwave in recent memory, and Jean Pierre Polnareff, who in his infinite wisdom decided that he should walk the five blocks to the gym and back, was the only man stupid enough to be out in it.

His boyfriend had offered to drop him off at the gym on his way to the grocery store, but Polnareff had shot him down. It was just a little heat! Anyone who complained about it was being a big baby. Clearly, the joke had been on him, because he was melting by the time he reached the gym. He had been the first patron of the gym that day when he arrived, and was still the only soul there when he was finished with his workout. The guy working the front desk even offered to give him a ride home, stating that it was so dead, no one would notice. Plus, you know, the gym might be considered liable if Polnareff died from heat stroke on his way home. Of course, pride caused Polnareff to refuse. He'd be fine, he was sure of it.

Flat-top drooping, basketball shorts and tanktop sticking to his skin, a pool of sweat in his beat-up Nikes. Polnareff had made a big mistake; this was easily the shittiest hill to die on. He would succumb to dehydration or the heat before making it home, he was sure. Just collapse on the sidewalk and expire, corpse frying like a big piece of raw chicken in a skillet. No one who loved him would know what had happened to the sexy Jean Pierre Polnareff. Perfect strangers would find him hours later, after the cursed sun had set and reasonable people would finally leave the cool confines of their homes to enjoy the outdoors, only to stumble upon a perfectly cooked idiot on the ground.

This was a weird line of thinking, and Polnareff did his best to push it out of his mind. When his apartment complex rolled into view, he nearly wept out of joy. The brisk air from the lobby made his knees almost buckle, damn near making him look like an even bigger fool to the people milling around. He was one to walk the 4 flights of stairs to the apartment, but he was just goddamn tired today. Which was unfortunate for the people that shared the elevator with him. They visible recoiled from him as he took his place in the middle. The Frenchman was mildly offended. He didn't stink did he? Was he that sweaty? The answer to both of these questions was a resounding 'Yes'.

When he opened his apartment door, he actually did sob little. Mostly because Polnareff was dramatic, but who cares? Iggy wasn't in the immediate vicinity, and Polnareff was pretty sure Avdol was still out shopping. The cold tile of the living room floor was the oasis to his overheated traveler. Polnareff sank to his knees and laid face first onto the ground, groaning into the stone. It took him a few minutes to kick his shoes off, but once he was successful, the relief was immediate. As was him succumbing to exhaustion; he passed out on the ground before he could truly appreciate how it felt against his skin.

It felt like only minutes passed before he was woken by something tugging his hair and what felt like someone's foot poking him in the head. Polnareff turned his head and cracked an eye open. His boyfriend, Mohammed Avdol, stood over him.

"Bonsoir, Jean," he deadpanned, "I see that your workout didn't go so well."

"That went fine, it was the walking to and from that kicked my ass," Pol whined. There was an attempt at rolling over, but something still incessantly tugged at his hair. "If that's Iggy chewing on my hair, I swear-"

Avdol started laughing, "It is." Av made shooing motions, which earned him a snarl from Iggy, but Pol felt the toothy grip in his hair relinquish. "Come on, let's finish cooling you off," Avdol walked into the kitchen, "I bought those popsicles you like."

"Thank god," Polnareff groaned as he got to his feet, following Avdol into the kitchen, "I'm so damn hot."

Avdol busied himself with pulling out two popsicles out of the freezer; Polnareff swiped a water bottle and started guzzling it down like he hadn't seen water in 50 years. In his enthusiasm, he splashed water all over himself, causing his white tank to cling to his pecs more than it already had been.

"Mo, give me the goods," he panted after finishing his water, "You got the best flavor right?"

Avdol hummed, "Alarmingly Blue Raspberry? Of course I did, we both know you refuse to eat any other flavor. Here-" When Avdol turned towards him, popsicle in hand, he stopped short, eyes glued to the accidental one-man wet t-shirt contest Polnareff had entered in.

Polnareff didn't notice, he was too busy ripping the wrapper off of the popsicle and shoving it into his mouth. It was just the right amount of cold he needed, and he couldn't but close his eyes and moan around it, sliding it in and out of his mouth. Typically, Polnareff mimed giving a blowjob on any phallic food in Avdol's presence. Hell, what kickstarted their relationship was a determined Polnareff deepthroating a banana for the 3rd time that week. But at that moment, any kind of obscene noises or actions he was making wasn't on purpose. He was too tired, too hot, too sweaty-

Warm hands started groping his chest. Polnareff opened his eyes and was met with Avdol's hungry expression. If it had been literally any other time, he would've already been naked, ready to be dicked down in the middle of their kitchen. But, at that moment? No way.

He held his half-eaten popsicle in his mouth and smacked Avdol's hands away. Avdol put them back, Pol smacked them away again. This went on before Polnareff spat his popsicle out in the sink, "Stop, I'm gross!"

"I don't care that you're sweaty."

They kept slapping at each other, before it devolved into full-on wrestling, pushing and shoving each other out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Both were equaled in strength, and neither used underhanded tactics to gain an edge over the other. They may play for keeps, but it was always on level.

Unfortunately, in his attempt to stop himself from getting more sweaty, Polnareff started getting way too hot again, perspiring even more. Hindsight's 20/20. Clothes were being pulled off, though Pol's were more difficult, since they were damp from sweat. Which made him curl his lip in disgust.

Stripped to his underwear, Polnareff was shoved backwards onto their bed; he hadn't even realized they had made it that far. Av peeled off his undershirt and tried to straddle him, but Polnareff hit him with a reversal. A power struggle ensued; Avdol tried to regain his upper hand while Polnareff proved to be a slippery foe (literally, because he was so sweaty, which he thought was gross as hell). It took quite a bit of effort, but Pol managed to hold down Avdol long enough to handcuff him to the bed. "There," Polnareff straddled Avdol, admiring his handiwork, "Now you can't grope me." The fortune teller was tressed up nicely, and Pol couldn't help but run a hand appreciatively over his abs.

Av arched an eyebrow at him, "Really, Jean? That was the only reason you handcuffed me to our bed? So I couldn't appreciate your chest?"

"Momos méchants et méchants sont menottés sur le lit pour expier ses péchés."

"Tu es stupide comme l'enfer."

Polnareff threw his head back and guffawed, "You choose to insult me, but you forget who's in control here." He punctuated that with a grind against Avdol's erection.

"Can I ask what-- your intent here is?" Avdol said, voice hitching as Polnareff continued his ministrations.

"Pour tester votre résolution," Polnareff dragged his tongue across his upper lip, "Let's see how long you last before you give in."

Both knew that the other had big needs. Both knew that they went through handcuffs like a person goes through underwear, since they're always too flimsy to withstand desperate, needy tugs. And both were very aware of how much Avdol loved Polnareff's big ol' honking tits and sweet ass (Pol's words; Avdol was horrified to hear them be referred to that way).

The slow, deliberate grinding against Avdol's dick was a special kind of sacchrine torture. Polnareff delighted in the low groans that his hip swaying elicted from his boyfriend. Ever the showman, he threw his head back, moaning as he cupped his pecs, rubbing his nipples between his thumb and forefinger. That earned him a harsh growl and Avdol thrusting up into him.

With a shit-eating grin, Polnareff cooed, "À quel point voulez-vous me baiser?"

"Si mal fichu," Avdol answered through gritted teeth, sweat pouring down his scarred face.

There was an obvious tent in the front of Polnareff's underwear, but it was nothing compared to the twitching cock he was grinding his ass against. He sucked on his teeth, damn if he didn't want that in him right now.

Either they had been like this for too long, or Avdol had been pent-up all day; Avdol grunted out, "Fuck this," and broke the handcuffs in one sharp tug. At first, Polnareff was a little shocked that Av had said the fuck word, but he didn't have time to think about that, as Avdol had thrown him onto his back and shoved his tongue down his throat. Not that he was complaining. Nothing was a bigger turn-on for him than riling up his boyfriend so much that he couldn't help himself.

Pol broke off from their sloppy, bruising kisses, "Lube."

Avdol reached back into their nightstand, grabbing the bottle as Pol ripped his own underwear off, cock springing free. Back between Polnareff's knees, Av coated his fingers and got to work. Preparation was quick; Pol was half-afraid that he would be giving a taste of his own medicine, considering how long he had Avdol underneath him. But there was nothing to fear, because as soon as he was ready, Avdol rolled him over onto his knees, and slid his cock into him in one slow, fluid motion.

Avdol began rutting into Polnareff like an animal. Their flesh slapped together, pairing with both men's moans to make a symphony of lewd noises. With a firm, but gentle hand, Avdol grabbed a fist full of Pol's hair, pulling him up until his back was flush with Av's chest.

A mouth pressed up against Pol's ear. "Je vais vous toucher où je veux, quand je veux," Avdol's voice was harsh and full of need. His hands found Polnareff's pecs, kneading them with strong hands. He made sure to pay special attention to his nipples; pulls and twisting, just the way Polnareff liked it. The Frenchman whined, arching his back up into the hands that groped him. Avdol had not slowed down his pace; he was flame incarnate and Polnareff felt his fire burn him from the inside out. It was heat that he wanted, needed more than anything else. The fire that was stoked inside him was reaching fever pitch.

Pol knew neither of them could last much longer. "Mo," he gasped, "Mo, I'm so close--"

Avdol tsked, "Prie pour elle."

"S'il vous plaît laissez-moi cum, me remplir," Polnareff whined again, his voice raising a few octaves as he felt Avdol's hand wrap around his cock, jerking it roughly. He didn't take long to finish, crying out Avdol's name as he spilled cum all over his closed fist. It would have embarrassed him, if Avdol hadn't pushed him down on his belly, rutting into him in a frenzy before choking out "Jean!" as he filled him up with one, two, three hard thrusts.

After Avdol finished riding out his orgasm, he slowly pulled out of Polnareff, as if he was was savoring how his boyfriend's ass felt. Polnareff was close to passing out again, dimly aware of Av moving him so he could be under a sheet and comfortable, and barely registered the mumbly 'I love you's' they exchanged before falling to sleep.

Polnareff woke up hours later to Iggy farting directly into his yawning mouth. Iggy jumped off the bed before Polnareff could grab him, cursing in French as he watched Iggy look back at him with a horrible smug grin on his dumb doggy face. The audacity. The setting sun still provided the room some light, Pol didn't have to blindly grope for the bottle of water sitting on the nightstand to wash out the taste of dog farts from his mouth. Somehow, Avdol had managed to sleep through his cussing. Small favors.

He made to get up, but found himself firmly glued to the bed and Av, who was still sleeping peacefully beside him. As much as Pol wanted to stay and enjoy the relaxed face of the love of his life, he was also disgusting and actually stuck. Extracting himself was proving to be excruciating, some body hair was being left behind with each pull. Finally, he got fed up and jerked everything away like a bandaid, shrieking in the process. His actions jolted Avdol awake, who in his panic, bonked heads with Pol. Both start groaning in pain, rolling around on their shared bed, clutching their heads. After a few moments of pained silence, Avdol started laughing.

"What's so damn funny," Polnareff scowled, rubbing the spot on his head where him and Avdol collided.

"Nothing," Avdol chuckled, pressing a finger to what was a growing bump on his forehead, "Just realizing how much I adore you, Jean Pierre, and how there's no one else I'd rather be a klutz with."

The expression on Polnareff's face softened, "Je t'aime, Mohammed."

"Je t'aime aussi, Jean Pierre," Avdol kissed his forehead. He stood up, stretching his arms, "Come on, let's go shower before we get dinner."

"We are NOT going out, I'm still cooked from earlier."

Avdol snorted, "We'll just order pizza. Now let's go shower, we're both disgusting."

Polnareff shuffled into the bathroom after his boyfriend. He knew this shower would inevitably lead to Round 2, but hey, at least this time, he wouldn't be so damn sweaty.

#jjba #jean pierre polnareff #mohammad avdol #avpol

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zevakritpel · 8 years ago

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Hell-bent: Chapter 3- It Ain't Over 'Till It's Over Buzzer Beater Mind-State

Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke

Pairing: Aokise, MomoRiko, Kagakuro, MuroMura, more???

u can find this on AO3 lol

Summary: Adult AU, Criminal Underworld AU. Where Kagami Taiga is a young heir suddenly targeted by 6 rather dangerous members of the criminal underworld (each with their own set of personal troubles), and Kuroko is a bodyguard with a dark past.

Warning: Violence, Strong language, a lil dark and angsty sometimes. Getting spicier ;^)

[Saturday. 03:23. Unbelievable Part I]

The way those hot sleepy fingertips just barely touch the skin of his exposed back, where his shirt had ridden up; the sensation of those long arms wrapped around him, clinging like a child.

The soft murmur of Murasakibara's voice tickling the side of Himuro's neck.

"You're so warm, Muro-chin."

That's not fair play at all. He dozes off for like an hour, and this is what he wakes up to?

Himuro tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry.

At times like this, when Tatsuya's too overwhelmed to defend against these brutal attacks on his already shoddy self-control, the smartest course of action is to get up and cool off with a nice cold shower.

"Yeah," he whispers back, neither getting up nor cooling off, instead opting to run his fingers through the tangled mess of Murasakibara's violet hair. Atsushi responds with a satisfied hum, which further incites a now unrestrained, over-tired Himuro to guide his hand along to the other man's shoulder, then push him back until they're facing each other.

"It's hot."

Ahh, this is hell.

He tries so hard to keep himself in check, to avoid taking advantage of this volatile human weapon, or slipping up and causing irreparable damage to himself, to Masako or Atsushi. But even Himuro has a breaking point, and this isn't the first time he's reached it, either.

Maybe one day he'll be able to say out loud everything he feels without restraint, but for now he'll just steal a taste....

He brushes his thumb against the slightly frowning lower lip, then presses gently until Atsushi obediently opens his mouth so that Himuro may slide the rest in even further. Murasakibara is watching him all the while with half-lidded eyes, somehow appearing both demure and sinister at the same time.

Himuro tilts his jaw forward and moves in to...

Well, it doesn't matter what he moves in to do, as he's interrupted by the sound of rapid gunfire at the front door.

[Saturday. 03:47. Unbelievable Part II]

A mistake has been made.

Man F realizes he has fucked up around the time Murasakibara Atsushi's massive hand makes contact with his face: nothing like some broken bones to get him to seriously reflect on the error of his ways.

The force of impact sends F flying into the nearest wall. His body crumples to the floor, where he lies gasping for breath as warm blood gushes from his nose. Either from the excruciating pain or the blunt head trauma, but to Man F's fading vision it looks as though the killer looming before him is surrounded by a menacing deep violet miasma.

...Okay, several mistakes have been made. For one, Man F wouldn't have had to come across this fucking purple abomination if he hadn't foolishly trusted that fucking dickhead, who just conveniently forgot to mention that the apartment of the so-called "easy target" belongs to none other than the Araki Group's infamous Reaper...

"He ....fucked us over.... that basta..rd...put us up to it.....we didn't...know..." Man F manages to cough out, blood dripping down his chin as he struggles to pick himself up. Before he can explain himself further, Man F's words yield to an agonized cry as Murasakibara digs his heel into the fallen man's groin.

"Huuhhh?? I don't care," Murasakibara hisses, increasing pressure with little stomps.

"You killed my fridge. How are you going to make up for that?"

That's what he takes issue with?!

Not the armed break-in, or the attempt on his life-

"I'M SORRY" Man F screams, rather sincerely. But Murasakibara isn't in the mood to hear apologies, not when the corpse of his massacred kitchen appliance lies useless and riddled with bullet holes.

"Ahh, settle down, Atsushi," says the Reaper's companion from the side, where he is handling F's comrade, G. He's not as immediately recognizable as Murasakibara, but there's something uncomfortably familiar about the elegant dark-haired, undereye mole beauty queen man currently striking G across the face with the back of a Glock 19. Someone's feeling a bit aggressive today...

F would try and get a closer look, but he is getting his ass handed to him by a nightmare human, which is distracting to say the least.

"We can't find out what our guests want if you play too roughly... ahhh, oops. I got blood on my shirt..."

To Man F's surprise, Murasakibara relents immediately, pulling back with a slight pout. F crawls backwards quickly until his back hits a cabinet under the kitchen sink.

Who is this mystery man, that not only addresses this monster so familiarly, but actually gets him to obey...

"Mmmm, I already know what they want. They're a message from Haiz-...."

Murasakibara pauses mid-sentence, then pulls out his phone and just stays quiet while he focuses on that.

"Atsushi...?"

"Mmm, one sec, Muro-chin. I just gotta let Sa-chin know about this, 'cause she told me she'd get me a box of okonomiyaki Maiubo next time she goes to Osaka if I.."

The killer continues to ramble on about things Man F doesn't understand. The only thing that's sticking so far is Muro-chin.....Muro......

An ominous shudder passes through Man F before he fully realizes why, though his answer comes soon enough, in the form of mystery man lifting his blood spattered shirt up enough to reveal what is unmistakably the tattoo of a black dragon etched against his white skin.

The realization hits Man F like a brick: Muro... Himuro Tatsuya, Madame Araki Masako's notorious 'pet dragon'.

Which is just great, really. The Dragon and The Reaper live together in this humble happy home F and G were told to attack, like sacrificial lambs sent as some shitty human warning message.

That's it, if Man F makes it out of this alive ... and honestly, if either of these two wanted him dead, he'd be fucking dead...he's fucking quitting this shitty criminal life and going back to school. Become a welder or something, he doesn't have the nerves to suffer through this again.

Well, before anything, he needs to buy Murasakibara a new refrigerator.

[Saturday. 07:09. The Best Way To A Man's Heart Is Through His Stomach]

"Ah."

Kuroko awakens to the smell of food wafting in from an open door. What an unfamiliar phenomenon...

The bodyguard finds himself sitting up on the floor of Kagami Taiga's bedroom, his back pressed up against a part of the wall directly under a window. He blinks a few times, adjusting his eyes to the few strays of morning light peeking from beneath drawn blinds; he's a bit disoriented by the fact that he managed to fall asleep after all.

Three whole hours, at that. How rare.

Conditioned from a young age to sleep lightly and in unnatural positions, Kuroko picks himself up off the ground rather gracefully. He stretches his joints out, pulling his hand back only to be greeted by the sharp, throbbing pain in his right wrist: proof of the punch he had finally managed to coax out of the young master last night.

Though the hit was blocked in the end, and clearly nowhere near Taiga's full strength, Kuroko still can't help but smile fondly at his bruised arm: there is hope of teamwork here yet...

The bodyguard tucks his knife back into his pants' pocket (he never falls asleep without at least a weapon at the ready for worst case scenarios), then proceeds to step out the room and make his way to the kitchen, following the trail of that delicious smell.

In the kitchen area, he finds Kagami Taiga, young master and heir to the Kagami Empire, hard at work wielding a frying pan full of sizzling sliced pork and vegetables. Soup and white rice have already been prepared and set aside on the kitchen table.

The real treat here is how...domestic Kagami looks, with the black apron draped over his tall, muscular frame, hands busy preparing an unnecessarily heavy breakfast.

"Good morning."

"Oh, mornin'-- geh, what's with the ridiculous bedhead? You didn't even sleep in a bed..."

Kuroko doesn't feel the need to respond to this. Having confirmed Kagami's safety, he does a quick check around the rest of spacious apartment, including the balcony and the outer hall. He also checks in with the guards stationed in the surrounding area of the apartment complex to see if anything abnormal has gone by unreported in the past few hours.

All clear.

So no one's making any hasty moves yet. Biding their time, perhaps they've matured...

After trying and failing to contact Aida Riko, Kuroko moseys on back into the kitchen, perching onto a nearby stool and silently continues to watch Kagami. The young heir is looking down, his brows furrowed and mouth turned down in a slight frown as he tends to his stir fry, just about finished. It's difficult to tell whether he's feeling or troubled or if he's simply focused on the task in front of him.

Somehow, to see him make such an expression...

Of course, it's only natural for the young heir to be stressed out in his current situation. In fact, after Kagami's initial bout of rebellious beahviour subsided, he's been surprisingly adaptive and well-behaved. He may grumble constantly that he doesn't need a 24-hour guard, but not once has raised a question about the arrangement.

Perhaps he really does know...

There was something Miss Aida had offhandedly told Kuroko shortly after his employment into the Kagami family, and her words are coming back up again for some reason:

"People have been dragging Taiga into their affairs ever since he was a small child, only to abandon or lie to him afterwards. I haven't known him for that long, and he comes off as a fucking idiot...but I can tell it really wears on him."

At the time, Kuroko hadn't thought much of it, but now he finds himself reflecting on his own ulterior motives for involving himself with the young heir. He hadn't expected Kagami Taiga to end up being so honest and so...

"...what."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're staring at me...do you have a problem?"

"Ah, I'm just impressed to see that Mast-..Kagami-kun can even cook for himself."

Kagami squints at Kuroko, visibly suspicious, and raises his spatula threateningly.

"...Are you making fun of me?"

"Not at all."

"Ah! You looked away!!"

"Please, Kagami-kun. There's no need to be so noisy in the morning; you're hurting my ears."

"Damn you, Kuroko...."

Kagami scowls as he slides a bowl of rice and a plateful of his cooking over to Kuroko, leaving his bodyguard to marvel at how his charge expects him to eat so much food this early in the day.

A hot home cooked meal...

Kuroko utters his gratitude in a soft voice before digging in.

[Saturday. 11:45 . It's Not Like I Care Or Anything Part I]

"Aawww, what's this? You're reading all the files I gave you! I knew this game would finally get Dai-chan interested in something other than himself."

"Do you really have to- Geh. What are you all dressed up for? Don't tell me someone's actually made the mistake of asking you out on a da-MMMMF"

"^_^ Actually, I've made plans to meet up with Ki-chan!"

"Wh-............ Wow. Isn't that great."

"Yep, and you're coming with me."

"Huuuuuuuuuuuuh?! Don't wanna."

"Hmmm.... but weren't you saying last night how much you miss him?"

"The fuc-....Oi. Satsuki."

"What, am I wrong? But if Dai-chan needs to keep hiding from reality, you can just wait outside until we're done talking. :) "

".....uhh, why the fuck should I? I have nothing to say to him, and his face just fucking pisses me off."

"....Isn't that what they call sexual frustration?"

"What was that?"

"I said, 'I wasn't going to mention this, but since you're being problematic I have no choice. Muk-kun texted me this morning with some very interesting news about a certain old...teammate of ours.'"

"What..."

[Saturday. 11:48. Enter Trashman]

Haizaki Shougo sneezes violently into the crook of his arm, the fifth one today.

Someone must be talking shit.

[Saturday. 12:12. Reconnaissance]

"Hey, Shin-chan," Takao begins cautiously, adjusting his focus as he peers through the lenses of his binoculars.

"I'm glad you decided to rely on me so soon, but uhh...is there a special reason we're doing recon of one of the major Kagami Corp. buildings?"

"Fool. Don't ask questions you already know the answer to" is the curt reply. As expected...

Takao isn't sure whether he should be worried or not (he really should), but he feels it's better to just shake off the dark instinctual sense of foreboding and enjoy the pleasant afternoon breeze.

Whatever happens, he can tell it's going to be very entertaining.

"Well?"

"Ahhh, it's hard to say. The windows are bullet-resistant and at this distance, even if you could--..."

As Takao dips his view down to the ground level, two very colourful somethings catch his eye.

"Oh... Hey!"

"What is it?"

"Those people ...aren't they your friends or whatever? The two we met last year at the...that thing?"

Midorima frowns deeply, very clearly unsettled by the mention of 'friends'.

"What are you blabbering about ..."

"You know, the flashy crying guy and the pink girl with the" [hand motion over chest].

"WHAT."

Midorima snatches the binoculars from Takao's hands in a panic, his bandaged fingers shaking. After a few silent moments, he lets out an irritable hiss: looks like he's found them.

"Tch. Causing a scene together, as always."

Shin-chan seems rather frazzled... Takao accepts this as a gift, and observes happily as Midorima peers down at whoever those people are, muttering petulantly under his breath. Those two must be something special to get him to lose his composure like this.

Sadlly the amusement is short-lived:

"Uhhmm, you guys can't be here?"

So says the security guard of the public library rooftop Midorima and Takao are currently sitting on, and so the two assassins are forced to apologize and humbly take their leave.

[Saturday. 12:14. Absolutely Flawless]

A brief hush falls upon the patrons of this expensive café, and everyone turns their heads in unison to get a better look at the couple of rare beauties passing by.

The woman is clad in a simple pastel blue sundress that falls just above her knees, leaving the rest of her lovely legs exposed. She carries herself lightly and with grace; her long, rose-coloured hair flows behind her as she walks. Her soft mouth, curved into a sweet smile that betrays only the slightest hint of mischief, does not go unnoticed by the watchful restaurant patrons.

Her companion is equally radiant: tall, with a slender (though still muscular) build, silky blonde hair, and well-dressed to boot . He's sporting red-rimmed glasses that poorly mask a pretty face with delicate features. Actually, he does look a bit familiar...

Especially dazzling under the bright rays of the afternoon sun, the unreasonably good-looking pair take their seats outside on the patio, chatting together quietly in some foreign tongue, which only strengthens their appeal.

"What could those two possibly be discussing? Where are they from?? What is the nature of their relationship???" This is the nature of questions circulating amongst the customers and staff of the coffee shop.

The two just take relaxed sips of their respective beverages (black coffee for the lady, vanilla latte for the man), seemingly indifferent to the sudden influx of excited whispers their every move incurs from the people around them.

"....Maybe we should have met up somewhere a little less...busy" Kise remarks dryly, eyeing the blatant stares from the surrounding tables.

"Haha it's fine, it's fine. As far as I can tell, no one here understands Russian, and the crowd will give us cover in case anything happens" Momoi chirps happily, though Kise detects a slight edge of weariness in her voice. They're both used to this kind of treatment, and usually it's not a problem, but somehow the ogling is always ten times worse when they're together.

So beautiful, it's a curse...

"Besides," Momoi begins with a tilt of her pink head, peering up at Kise cheekily.

"Isn't Ki-chan always operating under the public eye? Even doing business with the likes of C in broad daylight, from what I hear. How bold!"

"Wahaaaa~, and you're as scary as ever, Momocchi. Really, nothing gets past you."

Momoi takes this as a compliment.

"Hehe. But I'm surprised you were willing to give him the time of day. To go to such lengths...you must be in a hurry to start things."

"Of course I am... I've been waiting so long for this moment, to be called out with everyone again. And now that Kurokocchi's gone and broken the rules...I just..."

"You're hoping to talk him out of it." Momoi concludes, sitting back against her chair. She twists a strand of her hair around her index finger, regarding Kise expectantly.

"Mmm...something like that. But Kurokocchi can be crazy stubborn once he's made his mind up. So if he's taking this seriously, then I can't help but get fired up, even if it means putting up with...shit."

Kise sighs, resting his chin on his hands, and flicks his dark golden eyes up at Momoi.

"What about Momocchi? Seems like your challenges have got you ready for blood, too. That Aida Riko is right up your alley, right? In more ways than one..."

Momoi's lips purse into a guilty smile as she is reminded that she's not the only dangerously shrewd one here. Perhaps from their equally undying love for Kuroko Tetsuya, and from sharing such skills as super-analysis, effortless seduction, and obfuscating naïveté, Momoi and Kise have also developed an intuitive understanding of each other's 'tastes' and 'preferences'.

The difference is that Momoi's directly interfering with Kise's sex life, though it's unlikely that he's caught on.

"She's certainly more troublesome than I ever could have hoped. She's getting uncomfortably close to finding out about us, but I set up a nice tr- ooh, that looks so good!"

Kise looks over as well, and the two watch as a cherry cheesecake is served two tables away. Being stared at by not one, but two angels is a bit too much for the blushing recipient of said cheesecake to handle.

"Ahh, but I shouldn't be eating so much sugar..."

"Did you want to split one?"

"Oooh, okay!"

They continue to chatter in Russian, despite not having anything more clandestine to say, until their dessert arrives. Momoi immediately plucks off the cherry from the top and pops it into her mouth. Delicious.

"By the way," Kise sinks his tiny fork into the cheesecake and eats the bite slowly before continuing, dropping his voice to a disparaging tone.

"How long is Aominecchi going to lurk in the shop across from us? I think he's scaring off some of their customers..."

Momoi can't hold back a snort of laughter, though she recovers with an airy giggle and dismissive wave of her hand.

"Don't worry about Dai-chan, he's just feeling shy. He'll come around, I'm sure."

Kise makes a tiny skeptical noise, but doesn't press any further.

He'll have to deal with this on his own, nothing new.

[Saturday. 12:44. It's Not Like I Care Or Anything Part II]

Ugh, that's right. Those two get along annoyingly well...

Aomine shoves an absurd quantity of noodles into his mouth without looking, too busy glaring at the scene that's developing at the coffee shop across the street.

God, are they trying to draw attention to themselves? Honestly. When it comes to attracting crowds (along with all sorts of unsavoury people), Momoi and Kise individually are bad enough. The result of their combined forces is that much more frustrating.

...it's no wonder their missions were so successful when they were paired together, back in the day. Damn pretty- boys and... whatever the appeal of Momoi is...(???)

Aomine's noodle-devouring becomes more aggressive with each passing moment, alarming all nearby customers. As if he let Momoi fool him into coming this far, with those 'Haizaki Shougo on the move again' scare tactics. That asshole isn't even really a threat, so enough of this bullshit. Once Aomine finishes this meal, he's fucking going home to stare at his beloved Mai-chan and maybe take a nap.

The man himself is unsure as to where all this annoyance is coming from.

.........................he for sure.........has no idea.......

Not a single clue.

His phone vibrates, so he picks it out with his left hand (while still feeding himself with the right), to read:

[Satsuki: Lol he's already noticed you. Stop being pathetic and just come out to say hi.]

A vein in Aomine's temple throbs.

Definitely going straight home after this.

[Saturday. 12:47. Scar #33]

Ahh, that smarts.

Riko grits her teeth and tightens her grip around the steering wheel, willing herself to ignore the jarring pain in her shoulder. She's leaning forward so as not to dirty the car, but it's meaningless, really, what with half-conscious Koganei bleeding out in the passenger's seat.

She had known that following the sketchy information trail attached to the name Momoi Satsuki would lead to danger, but she hadn't anticipated being attacked in broad daylight, only moments after hearing mere slivers of information about 'Miracles.'

Still. These wounds are mere scratches compared to all the hits Riko's taken for the Kagami Family. And a little dry-cleaning and a couple band-aids (okay, so Koga might need some more...advanced medical attention, but he's fine) is a small price to pay for the crucial leads Riko gained today.

Her intuition had been right: there really is a connection between all the killers and criminals hired to come after young master Taiga. But there are still too many unknowns for Riko to begin to understand why this is happening.

Sure, there are plenty of people and groups who would love to get their hands on the young heir, motives ranging from ransom money or blackmail, to a grudge against the father, to culling this random heir that they feel does not deserve the inheritance. Typical stuff, really.

But with Kagami Taiga, there is an added element of what happened during his...messy childhood, the reason why he's been hidden until now, and the groundbreaking power his fiery red head holds. It's only natural for those privy to this knowledge to try and take action. To use the young master, or to silence him.

And these people are all those who have hired one of the five...no, six including Momoi...big names. So what does that mean, if anything?

Riko intends to answer all these questions soon, though it means she'll be shedding more blood yet.

"Nooo....too many...pigeons......nya..." Koganei mumbles feverishly, convincing Riko to stop mulling over conspiracies and just apply more pressure to the gas pedal.

Hang in there, Koga, buddy.

Notes (from AO3):

forgive me, akashi, my sweet pink heterochromic yan mafia princess...you weren't in this chapter, but i will do right by you yet

also not that anyone asked, but i'm dying to write saucy scenes for dark blue tsundere doof x blonde fake ass ho, but alas, pacing or whatever that thing is called that i'm bad at

also also today's shitty chapter title brought to you by: select, but not necessarily relevant line from PI's 'In the Zone'

LMAO I WANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR EVERYTHING I'M SO SLEEP DEPRIVED AND BLESS YOU ALL FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY BS

#kb fanfic #murasakibara atsushi #himuro tatsuya #muramuro #kagami taiga #kuroko tetsuya #kagakuro #midorima shintarou #takao kazunari #momoi satsuki #aida riko #momoriko #aomine daiki #kise ryota #aokise

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giraffles · 8 years ago

Text

Keep It Low

shhh it’s still day 4 somewhere in the world, right? don’t worry about it. today’s prompt was “favorite rescue” so here’s some one’s dumb ass getting rescued. :D again apart of Lights Will Guide You don’t look at me like that

warnings for all sorts of things including torture, mentioned eye trauma, choking, psychological torture, god just click the AO3 link for the whole list. zone is a douchenozzle here what can I say

Keep It Low (Young!Harlock/Warrius Zero)

"I'll never get over how he came running when he heard," Even behind tinted glasses, those eye glint maliciously, "So predictable. So romantic! I'm almost a little jealous."

you can also read it here on AO3!

"I'll never get over how he came running when he heard," Even behind tinted glasses, those eye glint maliciously, "So predictable. So romantic! I'm almost a little jealous." Harlock spits up blood. "What the fuck are you talking about?" Zone bares his teeth like the rabid animal he is, then lashes out for the hundredth time in god-knows how many days. Harlock has lost count, because it hasn't been easy to keep track in a windowless cell or the cloistered bunker. Getting backhanded to the ground still stings, but it's not the worst thing that's happened to him, objectively speaking; everything hurts from previous thrashings, and there's something wrong with his right eye. A couple ribs might be broken, though that's something he's used to by now. Zone may herald himself a genius, but he's hardly creative in the physical torture department, and that's a cold comfort. Harlock has old scars that come from masters of the craft, mementos of younger times when he got into more trouble, or put himself in between them and someone who didn't deserve it. He doesn't regret any of it. However, the current situation still sucks. There's a knee in already fractured diaphragm, causing his breath to catch and stutter, and then a hand wrapped around his throat. There's not much he can do but wheeze, with his wrists bound and no way out in sight. At the moment it's just a threatening display, but he's still wonders why Zone just hasn't killed him yet. Probably to fulfill some sadistic fantasy. He's certainly the type. "Your little army boy," Zone drawls, "The righteous prick who thought he could save you." Harlock would be tempted to correct him (the Navy and Army are two very different branches after all, you can't just interchange them like that) but there's that implication that has him reeling instead. There is only one idiot who fits that description, who would be reckless enough to come charging into such an obvious trap, and just the thought is enough to sink razors into his heart. This wasn't supposed to happen. "What did you--" "Ah, ah," Zone's expression is positively predatory as he presses down on his windpipe, "I'm telling the story here, aren't I?" Harlock chokes, and thinks better of struggling, if only to spare aggravating existing injuries. He hadn't entertained any ideas of getting out alive and no one else should have been involved. This was wrong, wrong on so many levels, and there's nothing he can do while pinned and abused. "It was so easy. He was so distracted, all it took was a single shot. Oh, not lethal, of course. What would be the fun in that?" Then there's a knife gouging a hot trail down his side, because the bastard wants the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Well, Zone can't have it, not while he's half conscious enough to resist. He's lying. He has to be lying, Zero would never make such a rookie mistake, to come alone and to fall victim to a madman with a shotgun. "I tied him up. There's a well out back, you know. Very old. It runs deep, even though there isn't much water left. But there's enough." "You f-fuckin'--" "Not done yet," The knife twists, "That was, oh, three hours ago, give or take? He's very dead by now. Maybe I'll even put your corpse down there too." It's hard enough to breathe as it is, but this is crushing. The weight of this revelation is almost too much to bear, too absurd to believe-- but Zone has that covered too. From his pocket he produces a torn piece of cloth, blue and gold and stained with dark blood, the insignia of a ship's anchor and pilot's wings. It's from a worn bomber jacket. It's from Zero's jacket. He snarls something, an insult, an unintelligible sound of rage and pain, and gets a blade in his leg for all his trouble. This time he does scream, because what does he have left to lose? Zero is dead. He's dead at the hands of a monster Harlock couldn't stop. It's all his fault, because he wasn't smart enough, wasn't quick enough, because he hasn't been the same since he found Tochiro and Emeraldas murdered in a not-so-safe house. Since then he's only been one part of three, left behind to try to make some sense of the world, and he's obviously failed. And now he's dragged someone else down to hell too-- someone who never deserved to die like this, to die for him. "I think, when I'm done, I'll pay everyone else a visit," Zone muses aloud, a hint of maniacal laughter slipping into his voice, "Lure them in. Break them down. That'll be very entertaining. Maybe I'll let you watch." He can't even come up with an answer to that, not when Zone is choking him to near unconsciousness. Funny though, how everything has now gone numb, with dark clouds on the edge of his vision and a shadowy figure approaching the scene. It's most likely a manifestation of death, with his oxygen deprived brain doing it's best to keep up with the torture and trying to fill in sensory jargon with familiar objects. It would almost be better if it just happened. If it all just stopped. Then it would feel like he was being eviscerated with every stolen breath. A sickening crack rings out and Zone falters. He then slumps, tumbling to the side and onto the concrete floor with a garbled moan. He doesn't move. "Fucking hell," Zero, dripping wet and one arm soaked in blood, stands not more than two feet away with a rusty pipe in hand, "What an asshole." Harlock is too busy trying to remember how lungs work to fully process what's happening. He's dizzy from both shock and emotional whiplash, and neither are very pleasant things to deal with. While he stumbles over words, Zero is rummaging around Zone's prone form. "But-- t-the well--" "I can swim, you know," Zero says with the utmost patience, "They do require that if you're a sailor." "He-- he tied you up!" "Those knots were the worst I've seen in my entire life." "He said he killed you," And god, he'd believed the bastard, "I thought you were dead." Zero huffs. "He's bad at that too. Anyway, I'm more worried about you right now." Zero has found the magnetic key to the cuffs, and wastes no time in pulling them off of him before tossing them across the room. The sound makes him flinch. Part of him is having trouble parsing that this is happening, that it's even close to being real. He must be half a moment away from waking up in a black hole again, but there are also startlingly cold hands on his, still damp from groundwater and cast pink in diluted blood. "You came for me," Harlock's voice cracks, and he feels like his rib cage is crumbling inward at the effort to speak, "You came here for me." Zero looks startled and concerned before his expression melts into something warmer. "Of course I did. I wasn't going to leave you behind." He's not sure what to say to that. He doesn't deserve an ounce of anything this man has given him, and yet he keeps coming back. A wiser person would have given up on the wreckage that is his being and ran far away. But Zero has always been defying the equation, hasn't he? Since Budapest, since Tabito, since rocky first missions together and rockier first touches. Ever so gently, Zero brushes back his hair, wincing in sympathy at what Harlock can only assume is the injured side of his face. "Is it that bad?" "Well, it's not pretty," Zero admits, which confirms his suspicions about his sight being permanently damaged, "But I think you'll live." "I can work with that," he murmurs back, "Can we get the fuck out of here?" Zero hauls them both to their feet, and he has to lean on him more heavily than he would like. But he's a solid, grounding force that Harlock hadn't realized he was missing until it wasn't under his fingertips anymore. His heart may never be steady again, but at least there's this. It's something to help with the ache, even if it doesn't fill the void, even if this is all they ever are. Even if they have to hobble out of there while using each other as mutual crutches. "Shit." "Yeah." "Fuck." "Mmhm." "Are you gonna be like this the whole way home?" Harlock grumbles, "I'm bleeding out, you could at least show a little sympathy." "I could always carry you." "Don't you dare." The snickers that bubble out from Zero are contagious as hell, and maybe there's something to be said about finding mirth even when you've been torn apart. Maybe it’s not too late to hope.

#captain harlock week #captainharlockweek #captain harlock #cosmo warrior zero #captain harlock fanfiction #cwz fanfiction #au fanfic #ao3fanfic #zeroha #godddddd writing torture is hard #pulling this out of my ass in a day is even harder #HAVE UR PAIN AND UR GAYS #PLS ENJOY #lights will guide you #giraffles

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