#it’s weird to see this sharp uptick | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

truearchangel · 2 months ago

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Considering the state his body was in, he was actually quite glad to have the demon catch him. There was a good chance if he hadn’t that Michael would have just hit the floor. Crashed with the way his body was drowning under the weight of what had been done to him. Too much taken, and the last thing Michael enjoyed feeling.

He does not, however, expect to be taken to a bedroom or dropped onto a bed.

His head was still spinning, trying to register what exactly was going on around him, and as his body started to regenerate itself he did begin to focus properly. There were those weird tendril things still grabbing onto him, yanking on his wrists, pinning him. He hears the words that Alastor is threatening and sees the clear reaction to his blood running through him. Heaven above, was it acting like an aphrodisiac or something? Out of all the things he thought his blood could do, that was not one of them.

Still, he keeps silent, keeps his body locked and tense as he focuses his attention back in on the Radio Demon. He’s at the end of the bed, disrobing of all things, and the feeling of something touching him indecently steals his attention briefly. His gaze snaps down quickly, takes in the shadow slipping beneath his vest and shirt, popping the buttons and ruining his Heaven tailored clothes. It was the shadow that was darting beneath his pants that really started to have him panicking though.

The slight uptick, the stress of his heart beating faster.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

The bed dips and he raises his head back up, taking in the sight of Alastor finally joining him, the bowtie getting tossed aside before those long clawed fingers start undoing the buttons on his shirt.

One At A Time.

And he sees it.

The speed at which he reversed their positions would have frightened any other living creature. One moment Alastor certainly had him right where he wanted him and the next Michael had snapped. His wings had broken out, had freed him from the things having a game with him and the halo sang to life above his head to banish them entirely. His hands grasped Alastor’s shirt and he flipped them over, pressing the Radio Demon onto the bed beneath him as he sat on his waist.

There wasn’t anything sexual about it though, any arousal that might have flickered through him was vanished at the small sight of the necklace that he got. Still a bit anemic he waved a bit, teetering to the side as his head spun but he stayed firm at where he was above Alastor. Uncurling his hands from the fabric he was clutching, Michael pulled that deep red shirt open a bit and looked down at the necklace resting on his chest. Angelic silver, plain, two angel wings as the cross.

His own magic still burning in it.

He would recognize it anywhere, there was no way he could mistake an item he’s had over a billion years. A necklace he had given to the person most important to. An object that failed at what it was meant to do. Just like him. Failing, falling, drowning with nothing left to catch him because he damned the only person who actually saw him to this God Forsaken pit. A person who, when they died, their corpse should have taken this cross, not their soul.

It didn’t make sense. Even though he was certain at what he was looking at, it didn’t make sense.

His fingers brushed the cross gently, almost as if he was afraid of shattering it and he let a bit of his magic start to bleed into it again, strengthening the weak protection ward still on it. Still the same as it had been before, still clean and beautiful looking, as if it was actually taken care of. Never allowed to be stained by whatever its owner did.

Raising his gaze at that though he let his eyes focus on the Radio Demon’s face. Watching, seeing, and–he can. He can see it. If he removes the red hair, the deer features, the golden bloodied sharp fangs, he can see him.

‘ you have to become what even nightmares fear. ‘

When he had said that he didn’t mean like this. What even was this? This–eldritch horror show that he had conjured up. It was insanity even for Alexandar. But–he lived? He actually lived? He did what Michael told him to do and he beat all the odds. He was one of the strongest and fiercest creatures down here.

He was a living nightmare.

Michael created this.

And his heart stops in his chest a second time.

The tears flood his eyes, unwilling and unyielding, there was nothing he could do to stop them as they ran freely down his face. A river weeping for the soul beneath them, a Guardian Angel crying for the person they failed.

“I’m sorry.”

Words he said, words that were never heard, but were certainly heard now. Not that they matter. Alexandar doesn’t remember him. He wasn’t supposed to.

And that thought hurts just as much.

He wants to run, he definitely wants to leave this room, he should get off of his charge but his body is frozen. Petrified with the emotions running through him. Even his own wings react, trying to curl in tighter on himself.

A heartbroken angel.

The reactions were predictable. It's one of the reasons he grabbed that specific wrist in general. Anything to stop him long enough incase the situation turned worse. The warning fell on deaf ears. There's nothing that was going to stop him in this instant. He had grown tired of everyone else just walking in, walking up even and getting what they wanted from the angel.

The anticipation right before, and the moment of. Both fueled him as he finally got a taste of what he craved. Michael was pure ecstasy. A warmth that enveloped him with a feeling that felt so familiar. Comforting even. He wanted more. His entire being surging with energy, with power from Heaven its self. Michael's was absolutely better than Lucifer's. It didn't even compare. The pure and refined taste could easily have him intoxicated. It did have him intoxicated. In his own little world, almost trapped even by the feeling.

“Al… I’m going to pass out.”

Something in him snapped back to this plain of conscious, slowly loosing his jaw, but not before taking a few more licks from the bleeding wound. "Mike…" The word left his lips, but he couldn't tell you why. In the state he was in, he was unaware himself of what he had just said.

Arms reached out, catching the smaller being. His tendrils still laid wrapped around him, not willing to let the angel go just yet. No, he wasn't done with him. Not with how wonderful he was feeling at the moment. He took his leave, shadows engulfing both of them, until they disappeared.

Eyes gazed at the other the entire time. Why did he feel so familiar? His only explanation was from biting Lucifer. They were twin brothers after all. It would make sense. As they slowly manifested into a more secluded room, not his own, but not anyone's in particular. One no one would bother them in. "I'm not done with you, angel." He hissed out, breathing a little more heavily that he would have liked. Michael's blood continuing to have effects on him.

The two other tentacles slowly came into view. One coaxing to wrap around both of Michael's wrists to hold him up better on display. Lovely, the angelic being in front of him was lovely. Weakened even from just a little attack. "I can feel our deal hasn't been severed. Little angel, you should know what that means for you." It gave Alastor the opening to taint this angelic being further, being a fool to give up this chance.

The one black length that was wrapped around his waist moved up under his shirt, wiggling touching any skin it could find, while another went the opposite direction, from his waist down to his hips and wrapping around one of his thighs. In this process, the radio demon had tossed his coat to the side, popping the bow tie of his being, allowing for his undershirt to show. One button being unbutton showing off a little of a silver chain flickering beneath the fluff of his chest.

"Your brother also looks lovely this way. But just like his blood, you outshine him. Come now, Let me see more of you. Show me how quickly you'll succumb to me." His eyes glowing once again, riding his high and the lovely sight in front of him.

#( I ended the kinky so quickly but under RM just incase )#suggestive cw #( but like .2 seconds )#shiningxfates #○ — 「 verse 」 the sword of god.

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jgroffdaily · 3 years ago

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The author of a March 2007 feature on Spring Awakening, Brian Keith Jackson, tweeted a link to his New York magazine article. Excerpts:

As spring nears, bringing with it warmer air, a sharp uptick in life lust, and the Tonys, the Spring Awakening juggernaut shows no sign of slowing. The production, which gestated for seven years, is the Little Miss Sunshine of Broadway. Based on Frank Wedekind’s once-banned 1891 play, it’s also the most touchingly wholesome rock musical ever to feature simulated teenage intercourse. These kids channel love, friendship, and compassion along with a healthy sense of repression and rage. There’s a real sweetness on that stage (not to mention one real coupling), and now the young actors are effectively pop stars.

Among a generation not exactly known for flocking to musicals, they’ve set off a whole new wave of swooning, YouTubing fandom. Brian Keith Jackson spoke with them about the show, their lives, and what they listen to when they’re not singing “The Bitch of Living.”

2. Jonathan Groff Plays Melchior, the male lead, and one of the more heartbroken characters. Age 21. Has been with the show for a year. From Lancaster, Pennsylvania—grandfather was a Mennonite preacher. Moved to New York in October 2005. Has been a waiter. On his family seeing him onstage: “The only time it was a little awkward was when it was Off Broadway. I asked if they wanted to sit onstage [where a few audience members sit], but I put them on the side that doesn’t see my ass, because I thought, That’s gonna be weird. But the problem was while I was doing the hayloft [sex] scene with Lea, my parents were right over her shoulder.” Preshow ritual: “Spend time with Lea.” Typical night out: “Go home and watch the DVR of American Idol.” Favorite book: “A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving.” On his iPod: “Rufus Wainwright. I don’t know what album it’s on. [Singing] ‘Men reading fashion magazines.’ Do you know which one I’m talking about?” Want One? “Yeah, that’s it. [Singing] ‘My phone’s on vibrate for you.’ ”

3. Skylar Astin Plays Georg, who’s crushed out on his busty piano teacher. Age 19. With the show for two years. From Rockland County. Dating Lauren Pritchard.On meeting a certain Long Islander: “When Billy Joel came, I freaked. He said, ‘I really love the way you play the piano.’ ” On days off: “I rest. I swear, I’ll join a gym soon.” Ideal night out: “Oh, my God. I don’t drink or smoke or anything like that. I’m kind of boring.” Favorite film: GoodFellas. Most difficult thing about dating a co-star: “Absolutely nothing.” [Lauren, below, concurs.]

5. John Gallagher Jr. Plays Moritz, whose parents truly, and tragically, don’t understand. Age 22. From Wilmington, Delaware. Has been with the production for two years. In a band called Old Springs Pike. Says Spring Awakening has made him a better singer in part by teaching him how to take better care of his voice. On meeting celebrities: “When it happens, you go home and think, Whatever, that was my job tonight. Then a few weeks later you say, ‘Wait a minute, I did shake Steven Spielberg’s hand!’ Kevin Kline was a huge one, because he was so nice.” Favorite movie: “The Last Waltz.” On his iPod: “Sadly, mine just broke. But I’m obsessed with this band called the Avett Brothers, from North Carolina.”

#jonathan groff #spring awakening #spring awakening cast #skylar astin #john gallagher jr #avett brothers #2007

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tigerdrop · 3 years ago

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in lieu of doing more strenuous hand-based activities heres the Dogboy Gordon In Heat Megamix ive been talking about. i wrote this over the course of a couple months in an effort to feel okay about writing horny shit again and i only just realized there are nearly 6 thousand words here. and they only really fuck for like 10% of that

ta-dah

ive thought a lot about gordon being stuck back at gordonhouse after getting kicked out of barneyhouse. i think its ripe for a lot of pining. (and yes, he is pining over the guy hes actively banging. hes being a big mopey idiot over the fact that he doesnt get to have his fuckbuddy around 24/7.) absence makes the heart grow fonder or whatever and gordons already at a baseline of "wheres benrey. wheres benrey"......and now i am about to turn it up to 11

so lets say......gordons starting to feel weirdly under the weather. sweaty and irritable and tired. hes holing himself up in his room a lot, wrapping himself up in blankets to fight off a chill and a sniffliness that wont go away. and hes gettin awfully moody, too. real fuckin testy. starting shit with freemind for no reason and snapping at og gordon like hes a teenager. and......hes nesting, almost, or at least, gathering up a whole bunch of blankets and pillows and anything that smells vaguely like benrey. (hes not really aware hes doing this last thing.)

basically, long story short, feetman is fucked up. hes pathetic. hes being a huge bitch. at least og gordon feels vaguely sorry for him, and expresses this by way of observing him and trying to treat it. for science. its better than freemind, who just loudly complains about him being a huge bitch and reeking up the place. theres something weird coming from vr gordons corner of the house.....a musky, heady, hormonal kind of thing that makes freemind act simultaneously territorial and irritable and more lascivious than normal. and that also piques og gordons attention, because having both of them be wound up little freaks at the same time is enough to make even the most resilient person pull their hair out

now gordon primes got his suspicions as to whats going on, but hes not gonna tell vr gordon that he suspects hes going into heat. that would compromise the experiment, and all that. so poor gordons just going thru all this shit not knowing what in the fuck is wrong with him and getting more worked up and irritable about it by the day. hes convinced that hes just got the flu, or something......except, uh, haha, jesus christ he is horny all the FUCKING TIME

he doesnt get it! he feels like shit all the time, so why is he constantly fighting off boners and having weird wet dreams and thinking about-- well. his fucking boyfriend, he guesses. (are they boyfriends?? he doesnt know. he gets a weird, sharp pang when he thinks about them not being boyfriends, at this point, but its not like theyve ever talked about it!) gordons half-convinced that hes just losing his mind from being stuck inside all the time and he really just wants to see benrey again. its, like, all he thinks about. (see? hes losing it. theres the proof.)

the sucks thing for everybody else is that gordon is also Extremely Vocal about how shitty he feels and how much he wishes he didnt feel shitty so he could go see benrey and how much he cant stand benrey for not being able to read his mind and come over when he feels bad. eventually freemind gets so sick of his shit that he decides to cut out the middleman and get benrey involved directly. "come take care of your fucking dog before i call the aspca! animal neglect is a crime, asshole!"

(if pressed, freemind would adamantly reject the idea that hes being nice to gordon. but on some level, hes kinda sympathetic. the guys clearly miserable, and he just keeps asking for the same fucking thing. might as well humor him to shut him up.)

vr gordon is completely unaware of these machinations, however. hes just holed up in his room trying to work out what makes him feel better because, uhh, powerade isnt helping

jacking off doesnt do a whole lot for him anymore. like, it feels good, but its not very satisfying. gordon just ends up feeling more restless than anything afterward. and hes always stupid horny. more blankets. a box fan. less blankets. sleeping with one of benreys shirts pressed up to his face. grinding into his pillow when he wakes up hard from yet another weird dream. theyre all a little helpful, and he feels like hes working towards the right thing, somehow, but its never really enough to take the edge off

and then.....he tries......jerking off more. especially when he realizes that its bizarrely soothing to do so while he can smell benrey up close and personal on that stupid shirt of his. better still when he rolls onto his side.....and then his stomach.......rocking his hips into the mattress until he gets the idea to lift his hips a little. and......oh. cool. something kind of......clicks. in his head. as he raises his hips higher while he keeps his arms wrapped around a pillow and benreys shirt jammed against his nose. hes got that lil moment of realization that this is good, actually. this feels like a good move. and its making some of that discomfort melt away

and gordon thinks about.....how it felt. earlier. when they were with barmey. and benrey had him just like this, ass up, face down, and was spreading him apart and licking him open and making him submit and he groans so fucking hard that embarassment just rips through him like lightning. but his tail starting to wag a little faster.....electricity shooting through his belly......and he cant help but wonder. what if benrey had kept going? pulled back and-- maybe, replaced his tongue with his fingers, one at a time, curling them inside him and telling him how well hes behaving and-- and his dick throbs, hard, and gordon realizes he wants fingers inside of himself right fucking now, thank you, hes not fully certain how to accomplish it be he is going to fucking try

(sigh) so my guy figures out about the old fingers in the ass trick. and i need you to understand that i am fully convinced that this is one of those guys who has an uproarious reaction to getting fingers in his ass. mr repressed and uptight over here doesnt really get what the big deal is until he gets braver and pushes a little deeper and hes rock hard in an instant, goodbye, just like everybodys favorite creative writing exercise

and this is what he decides to do for a solid day or two without leaving his room, because, honestly, this is awesome. and the longer he spends jerking off the less time he spends stressing about the fact that his imaginations getting really vivid, here. sure, like, hes no stranger to weird dreams even before this, but this is the first time hes really letting his mind run wild and this dude is nonstop thinking about being bred and gordon still has no fucking idea that hes in heat. doesnt even occur to him

unfortunately this also does not solve his problems but at least it feels baller and it keeps him occupied. also, unfortunately, the increased rate of jerking off is causing a serious uptick in Dog Smells, the effect of which is turning freemind into a nightmare. its just not good vibes in this house. enter: benrey

now i need you to understand that when these two meet up again i want gordon to get Emotional. think about how genuinely excited he gets to see some of his pals in canon. the like......excitement and disbelief when benrey shows up outside his window throwing rocks at it before noclipping in. he forgets to even act pissed off at first. i think it would be super fucking cute for him to drop the game for a moment just out of shock, basically. his tails waggin, his ears are perked up, and hed probably tackle benrey to the ground if he wasnt also a sweaty, trembling mess whos been holed up in his room for days.

and benrey has No Fucking Idea what he has walked in on here. as far as benrey knows, freemind just demanded he get over there and take care of his dog.

(INTERLUDE: here is the part where i gin up a freemind POV of this exact scene. b/c i am out of my fucking mind

so. i had the thought of a freemind POV chapter where hes spying on gordon and benrey.....because. gordons in heat. ive talked about that scenario before too (literally so many FUCKING times okay i just need this dude to have the uncontrollable urge to be bred like a little bitch! and for benrey to take pity on him and make him feel better by nutting in him literally as many times as is physically possible!!!)

but i wanna manifest it in this specific way: from an outside perspective. voyeurism is great and also i have a one track mind and basically the only time i traffic in Other Guys in this fandom anymore is as a participant in gordon and benreys horse shit. Im not apologizing for this

lets say.....vr gordons behavior has been getting worse and worse for "unknown reasons" and freeman prime just sees it as a key observational opportunity for his research. while freeminds getting really irritated at how much its cutting into his normal way of life. for one thing, vr gordons room reeks, and he cant even escape it in his own room! and its turning him into a feisty, aggressive, and loud son of a bitch. but he cant even resolve it in his usual fashion at this point (baiting vr gordon into another competition/fuckfest) b/c gordons being a little sadsack holed up in his room and doesnt wanna play

but also.....he kinda just feels bad for the guy at a certain point. hes clearly really miserable and looks downright ill and all hes asking for is to see his boytoy again. (gordons convinced that hes dying, and feels the need to dramatically speak to benrey one last time before he croaks.) so freemind decides, in all his benevolence, to go over gordon primes head and drag the guy over there anyway. (with machinations, not his literal bare hands. what is he, a caveman?) he reasons that itll be a good opportunity to twist gordons arm into groveling at his feet later

and he spies on the two of them in gordons room.....why? idk. possibly something to do with investigating this relationship between a gordon and a barney that he had yet to fully analyze. tl;dr he gets trapped in their closet for a remix of that one barmey voyeurism chapter b/c why the fuck not

i just.....i dont know.....i think theres something really charming about a 3rd party not being able to fully make out what theyre saying or doing but piecing things together anyway.....like benreys weirdly soft tone of voice when hes talking to a super agitated gordon. as far as any of them know, hes not really like that. he either sounds bored or smug, but either way, its usually straight-up antagonistic

it would make freemind bristle to hear it b/c its almost a mocking tone, but.....it makes gordons shoulders drop and gets him to let go of some of that tension and thats probably fascinating to watch. literally soothing him like a stressed out dog, huh. smoothing back his hair and murmuring things in a low, even tone that freeminds enhanced hearing still isnt good enough to make out. (the guy mumbles, okay? he needs a fucking toastmasters meetup.)

it would equal parts horrify and fascinate freemind, in my onion. watching a version of himself fall that hard into the loyal pet role.....its pathetic! for all that gordon goes on about not being a slave to his instinct or whatever, he sure is doing a bad job of acting like it! its like watching himself, but worse.

and benreys having to soothe him like a startled animal b/c he doesnt even know whats wrong with himself, but theres something thick enough on the air that even benrey can smell it, and hes taking some stabs at the dark. especially with how charged some of the shit gordons saying is......"i cant fucking take it anymore", "you smell so good", "i dont know whats wrong with me, man, my dick hasnt gone down for days and im pretty sure i need a doctor-- no, a real one, not the other gor-- NOT a vet, JESUS"

and the whole time.....freeminds peeking from behind a closet door. watching them devolve from outright hostility into "gordon climbing into benreys lap and shoving one of benreys hands up his shirt and demanding that he fucking touch him already"

normally i dont think freemind would be averse to a little bit of voyeurism, here. if it was anybody else, hed probably at least engage in a little heavy petting. but this is getting weird, man. he cant shake the uncanny feeling that this is something too intimate for him to be watching. for one thing, gordons whimpering like a goddamn dog just from a little necking, and for two, hes never really been the kind of guy to watch people make out for 15 minutes before they get to the good stuff

its just kind of unsettling how much these two clearly really, really like each other at this point. its not like watching gordon prime give vr gordon a handjob as part of a "test". freemind expected more of a hatefuck kind of deal out of these two, what with how often gordons normally going on about how much he hates the guy, what a pain in the ass benrey is, how he just wishes benrey would stop jerking him around.....etc. freemind could shit himself right now. that lying bitch!

i imagine its also kind of painful, on a personal level, for him to watch this borderline-sappy shit. he cant even fathom being on the receiving end of that behavior, let alone from......well. theyve all got their barneys, right? and gordon primes basically doomed himself to incel status b/c he wont nut up and do anything about it. freemind just assumed they were all in the same boat: cursed to casual sex with their roommates/clones, forever, and unable to achieve any kind of intimacy b/c all 3 gordons are fucked up in the exact same way. since theyre all just diff flavors of the same fucking guy, right?

well, theres the evidence that hes wrong. and that vr gordons better than him, somehow. thats gotta suck, bro

anyway then he watches vr gordon get railed in the ass a bunch and jerks off anyway b/c its still hot. see ya)

“take care of your dog”. huh. hes got no clue what that means but, yknow, he does kinda miss his dog. hasnt seen gordon in awhile. and he immediately comments "wow. you look fucked up" in as blunt and unsympathetic a way as possible. but gordons so far gone that he cant even work up a good anger about it. he is pretty fucked up, man. and benrey sits on the bed and slaps his forehead with a palm to take his temperature (and that gets gordon to bitch at him, finally, that thats not how you do it, asshole) and judges that, uh, he is hot. in his expert opinion

and thats when gordon kinda grabs his sleeve and tugs it and starts tryin to say something. hes really bad at it, because he is having to perform the mortifying task of Owning Up To It, but eventually he manages to grind out that he needs benrey to touch him, please. just pet him. something. he feels really bad and he just needs benrey to scratch his fucking ears. this is the most gordon can cop to in one go, and it is such a sad struggle to watch, but benreys caught off guard by it and he feels weirdly bad for gordon upon hearing it so hes just like "whoa, okay" when gordon tugs his hand to his head

gordon groans the moment his fingernails start scratching behind the ears and digging into his scalp. even just that much feels really fucking good. its comforting, for one thing, and its benrey, for another, and the physical touch feels so fucking good right now that goosebumps are crawling down his neck. gordon cant help but lean against benrey and bury his head in the crook of his shoulder. he wants to hide his face from scrutiny and he wants to get closer but he doesnt know how to say what his fucking problem is

and benreys weirdly quiet. just kinda mumbling and shushing him intermittently, awkward and not sure what to do b/c this is a level of intimacy he was not expecting but gordons sure is responding nicely to a second hand in his hair

so having both of benreys hands scratching at his scalp is really getting to gordon. hes scritchin behind the ears and gordons tails wagging at a mile a minute. the feelings making goosebumps race down his neck and arms. he starts kind of mumbling something into benreys shoulder, how hes been feeling so fucked up lately, and he squirms a little closer. hes not really aiming for anywhere in particular but every neuron thats firing in him right now is telling him to get closer. make contact. he missed the fucking guy, what can he say.

and one of benreys hands......slips down to gordons face. his jaw. a thumb pushing into that soft little divot between his jaw and neck, like hes trying to push up into gordons fucking teeth. its weird and bizarrely intrusive, but benreys hand is broad and warm and gordon leans into it anyway, groaning with relief. its not like its not doing anything for him. kind of the opposite, actually. then he palms at gordons neck, and gordon starts breathing harder. he can feel his heartbeat rabbit-fast, pushing against benreys skin (and theres no way benrey isnt feeling that, too).

benrey eyes are lidded and his breaths starting to get heavier, too. naturally, yknow, since gordons practically draped over him right now, melting all the more the longer benrey keeps petting him. oxytocin is crazy, man, especially when a guys in the full throes of some kind of chemical meltdown of the glands. gordons eyes are screwed shut, tail thumping furiously against the bed, and hes panting at benreys neck like hes a fucking dog. he just doesnt know how to articulate what the fuck his problem is

benrey smells insanely good to him right now, and gordon just blurts that out. benrey gives him some shit for it, but when gordon only makes a weird noise in response and fists his hands in benreys hoodie, it makes him shut up real quick. hes squeezing out words about feeling like he needs something, but its clearly a fucking effort. its almost pitiful

so. gordons crawled right into benreys lap, too impatient after days and days of feeling like this (you know, being in heat, in so many words). hes been pounding off like crazy, that brand new collar of his strapped to his neck nearly every time b/c hes that desperate to feel… well. *benrey*. he cant fucking jerk off to thoughts of anything else - porn doesnt do it for him, and his fantasies slip right back to the same thing every single time. its frustrating! hes bisexual, for gods sake! its not like hes normally immune to the wiles of the Phat Ass White Girl, but lately he just keeps ending up on his hands and knees and whining benreys name into his pillow and he couldnt focus on a girls rack if he tried

point being. hes being awfully fucking demanding. (and also, hes wearing the collar *right fucking now)*. he shoves benreys hand up his shirt and shivers the moment he makes contact with gordons burning-hot flesh. and hes demanding that benrey touch him already, jesus, hes losing his mind! and benreys just crooning at him, “bossy, huh,” but hes scritching gordons ears and palming at his side and nosing at gordons neck and gordon starts to feel like hes melting into it. his protests at being talked down to are perfunctory at best

benrey licks a stripe up gordons neck and starts muttering his stupid horseshit right in gordons ear and it makes gordon clutch his shoulders so tight, claws digging into the meat of him. benreys kind of into it, though, and it just makes him laugh, low and harsh and right in gordons ear. that just makes gordons problem worse. he lets out quiet, nasal whines on every exhale, like a literal fucking dog.

he starts teasing, like, “haha, you’re *gagging* for it, bro,” but gordon doesnt respond with the defensiveness he expects. instead, its like opening a floodgate - he is, hes fucking *desperate*, okay, his dick hasnt gone down in days and he wants benrey so bad he cant see straight and he cant stop thinking about him and all of this comes tumbling out of him at once. gordons trying to press himself as close to benrey as he can physically get, legs straddling benreys lap and arms clutched tight around his back. and when benrey prods a little more, tells gordon to say what hes been thinkin about, gordon starts to pant, squeezing his eyes shut. but he cant bring himself to do anything more than choke and stutter on the words

hes half-hard in his underwear already (and, lets be be clear, he was only in boxer briefs and a tank top to begin with. hes sweating buckets and its the least amount of clothing he could get away with wearing around the house) and his tails thumping a mile a minute and hes so far gone, just from benrey talking down to him and kissing his neck and scratching his ears. but hes not budging yet, so benrey slides that hand on his ears over to his ponytail and *yanks*. tells him, “speak.” gordons dick twitches rapidly, and he lets out a sharp sound, and he finally says it: he needs benrey to *fuck* him, jesus

benrey lets out a harsh breath at that. “yeah? thats what puppy wants?” and the nickname should blister him, make him feel to embarrassed to continue, but gordons too desperate to care. he just starts spewing a litany of “god yes”s and “please”s. hes getting harder and harder, pressed up against benreys belly, and benrey can *feel* it. “good boy,” he mutters, and those claws dig harder, that panting gets louder and harsher

he slips a hand around to gordons back, rubbing slowly for a moment as if to soothe him, and then slides it under the back of gordons boxers. and lower still. starts rubbing at gordons hole. that gets a quiet “oh god” out of gordon.

gordon cant help himself - he rocks forward against benrey, just a little, rubbing his bulge against what he realizes is benreys *extremely* hard dick in his sweatpants. hes not the only one whos got it bad. but he *is* the only one whispering, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” as benrey pushes a little further, makes as if hes about to breach gordon dry. the poor guys so needy that he probably wouldnt even argue!

but benrey just stares at him, wide eyed and flushed, mouth hanging open a little. gordons so hot for this that it surprises the both of them.

anyway after some boring position finagling benrey coaxes gordon onto his hands and knees, running a broad hand down gordons shaking back. and he pulls back gordons tail, exposing him. its so fucking humiliating - gordons got his face buried in a pillow, and his ass in the air, and hes never felt so *vulnerable* before. he wants to argue, he wants to lift his head and look back to make sure that everythings, like, okay back there - benreys staring at his entire asshole, okay, and he wasnt exactly anticipating benrey making a house call to fuck him in the ass - but every time he lifts his head, or starts to say something neurotic about it, benrey chides him about it. clicks his tongue. tells him, “hey. dogs dont talk” or “i said *bow*, bro”.

for all his insisting that hes a real guy, that hes not just a dog, gordons feeling less and less like a human and more like something in thrall to his instincts. the condescension rankles like it always does, but doing what benrey tells him to feels good. feels natural. presenting himself like this feels like what hes *supposed* to do. it doesnt stop him from running his mouth entirely, but it helps to mitigate some of the embarrassment.

and then… benrey *licks*. gordon tenses and gasps. he doesnt know how benrey can stand it, its gotta be, like, unhygienic! but that didnt scare him off the last time they tried this, and its not like gordon hasnt thought about it since. hes thought about it a lot, actually. but hes been too neurotic to ask for it. benreys not stupid, though. hes a good dog owner (at least, so he thinks) and hes gonna take care of his dog. so he licks again, and again, pressing a little harder against gordons hole on each pass with the broad side of his tongue until he dares to breach it with the tip.

gordons rock hard again in an instant. his dick hangs between his legs and drips onto the sheets. he digs his fingers into the pillow now, tearing holes in its surface with those sharp nails of his, and he makes embarrassingly high noises that he muffles into into the pillow, too. hes tense, hes so fucking tense, he should be clamping down and making benreys task really fucking hard, but theres bright pink sweet voice dripping from his hole and benreys rubbing the side of his thigh in an effort to soothe him and both of these things work in tandem to get him to relax. and benrey works his tongue in further, further than a human ought to.

the tip was one thing, but it gets wider as benrey pushes it in, and its just as good as it was before - better, even, because now its just the two of them, just a master and his dog, and benreys the only one he wants to see him like this. bent over and whimpering. he cant— he cant stomach the thought of anybody else doing this to him. hell, there was a point once where the idea of stomaching *benrey* doing this to him would have made him laugh. but here he is. benreys fucking him open with his tongue and pressing against something thats making him see stars and gordon just wants *more*. he says it so sweet, too, voice growing hoarse and raw as he begs benrey to just fucking do it already, he doesnt wanna come like this!

gordon gets so worked up and emotional about it that benrey takes the time to scratch behind his ears again, shushing him and telling him to chill. benreys got him. hes been a good dog, and good dogs get treats. hearing the words “good dog” makes gordons entire body flush. thats all he wants, really. he wants to be a good dog. he wants to be *told*. he blurts out, “oh my god— say it again,” and benreys like, “huh? say what? youre gonna have to be more specific,” clicking the last syllable. it makes all the hairs on gordons head rise and prickle with shame. the best he can do is mumble it into his pillow.

benrey hears it, though, and tugs at gordons collar from behind, just enough to raise his head. “whassat? you want me to call you a good boy?” gordon cant bring himself to answer that directly, but his stupid body betrays him by making him whine. jesus christ, yes, thats all he WANTS! he needs benrey to be good and nice to him for once in his fucking life and give him what he wants instead of taking, taking, taking! but benrey just tells him that hes gonna have to earn it. gonna have to be *real* good for him. gordon could fucking snarl at that, but benreys pulling back to rub his dick between gordons cheeks and against his hole and that shuts him up pretty fast because hes *so close* to getting what he wants and hes not about to fuck it up now by running his big dumb mouth

and then… he starts to push in. that sweet voice has loosened gordon up enough to take even benrey, who, uh, is definitely the bigger of the two, in that regard. he goes slow, uncharacteristically so, and gordons chest heaves with the force of how hard hes breathing. a quiet string of “oh god”s spills out of him as he tries to crane his neck back to watch. the head breaches him with a strange popping sensation, and benrey groans, loud, as the rest of him slides in with little resistance in comparison. “good,” he pants in turn, “youre takin it so good,” and—

and gordon comes, in weak, aborted spurts. it snuck up on him. he clenches so fucking tightly that it winds benrey a little. he breathes out, “whoa. did you—” but gordon just begs him to shut up, keep going, hes not— hes not done yet, its always like this, its not *enough*. his dick barely even flags afterward, it just hangs there, achingly hard and dripping with cum. benrey cant even find it in himself to make fun of him. he wants it so fucking bad, doesnt he? and he feels so good, so fucking tight and slick around benrey that the only thought running through his head is “gotta take care of my dog gotta fuck my best friend gotta nut in him and make him howl”. so he pushes himself alllll the way in until theyre pressed together, skin to skin.

then he starts to move. slow, careful thrusts, more for benreys benefit than gordons. if hes not careful, hes gonna blow his load, right then and there, and hes trying to make it good for gordon, too, okay? unlike *some* of them, hes not gonna bust in two minutes and then spend the next half hour crying and trauma-dumping to the guy hes still got his dick inside of.

once he thinks hes got a grip, though, benrey starts fucking him in earnest, and that changes gordons vocalizations from weak little whimpers into something louder. less restrained. hes given up any pretense of being quiet so that his other selves dont hear that hes snuck his boytoy into his room. just loud, wordless moans on each thrust, initially muffled into the pillow but soon spilling into the wider room when he turns his head to catch his breath. the only words hes managing are “oh god” and “please” and “benrey, benrey, *benrey*”, and benrey just responds to him like, “yeah? thats good? fuuuck, bro, so good for me,” all short of breath and barely able to speak himself

he wants to see gordons face. he *needs* to see gordons face. needs to see what hes doing to him, needs to see that cute fuckin blush of his. so he tugs on gordons collar again, bringing him to his hands and knees properly instead of that bowing position. and then further still - pulls him back so that benreys on his knees, and gordons on his knees in turn, on his lap, cock still buried inside of him and fucking him in short, hurried thrusts. “paws up,” benrey tells him, and gordon does it. instantly. no resistance. just folds them at his chest like a real dog would.

“whos a good boy?” benrey croons, right in his ear again. gordon gasps, “i-i am!”

“yeah? youre a good boy?” nod, wail. “whose— whose good boy are you?”

and gordon chokes on his response. he cant say it, he *cant*, he doesnt want to be benreys but he does, he *does*. he doesnt want to be benreys because its not fucking fair! he cares so fucking much! so much more than benrey does, it feels like, obsessing over the guy like hes wrapped thorny vines all around gordons heart and he cant so much as shift in his seat without feeling the tug and the ache and thinking of benrey again. and benrey doesnt care, he never fucking cares, except—

except he showed up at gordons house, in his room. without even being asked. like he knew something was wrong. and he— hes always talking to gordon, shooting him stupid texts just to make him laugh. scheduling *date nights* for them. date nights where, yeah, maybe they couldnt see each other in person, and maybe they always end in some kind of depraved sexual act, but its not like gordons not into it. hes frighteningly into it, actually. and hes *so* into hearing benreys voice, low and crooning, right in his ear, and seeing him lean on an elbow and smile at him afterward. its— its practically genuine. and benreys always making excuses to talk with him, do things with him, watch stupid fucking movies that only gordon cares about and stream with him on twitch to help boost his subscriber count and—

and—

oh god. maybe he *does* care. that might be more terrifying than the alternative.

then benrey yanks the collar again. presses the whole of gordons back against his front in one hot, unbroken line. and asks, “i said, whose good boy are you, bro? *speak.*”

“benrey,” he blurts out, a ragged moan, “d-dont make me sa-AY it, oh god—”

“no?” benrey stills suddenly. his hands keep gordon stuck in place, unable to move or bounce or feel benrey shift inside of him. “thats, uh… thats too bad, friend. this trains for good boys only. good dogs go to heaven 2. no bad dogs allowed. gonna have to, uhh, escort you off—”

“im not a bad dog!”

“i dunno, gordo. bein’ kind of, uh… disobedient.”

(sorry. thats all i got . byeeee)

#this is so far from finished b/c A) im a coward now and B) typing qith my left hand sucks so i dont wanna do it right now. Sorry #writin stuff

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emptyglossing · 5 months ago

Note

Big activist groups wasted time on bad ideas like "police defunding" and carrying water for street violence & theft, bad-as-outlined and specifically against the interests of minority Americans (who want more policing not less because crime is awful and hurts them the most, just also accountable policing).

I find the phrasing here really weird. At least for black people, in 2020, they supported defunding at 70%. In 2022, there was a sharp drop, but support was still at about 50%.

Similarly, it's strange to say that minorities want more policing full stop. I did find one poll from 2020 that states that 20% of black people want police to spend more time in their area, 61% the same, and 19% less. But at the same time, the two other polls I link to seem to suggest that black people can disaggregate police functions. They favour restricting access to lethal weapons, ending stop and frisk, and stopping police from dealing with a range of non-violent offences. A fair summary seems to be separating a number of functions normally given to the police from it, while preserving a rump police to deal with more serious matters. Perhaps an issue for abolitionists (a position that has higher support amongst blacks than whites), but not obviously for defunders.

Now, this doesn't contradict the point exactly. It might be that defunding the police is not in the black interest, even if they are or were in support of it. People often don't know what's good for them. But then it seems strange to say that they 'want more policing not less', since now it seems like one is resting the legitimacy of the intervention not on interests (objective) but on wants (subjective). Maybe there's some implicit mixed approach. But either way, I'd want to see what type of policing minorities actually want rather than just vague generality.

(Additionally, there's another rhetorical shift in the next comment. It goes from defund is bad because either minorities don't want it or because it will harm their interest in not being victims of crime to it is bad because we will never be able to defund the police, any attempt will be met with some unspecified harm dealt by the police to the population, so we must live with it.)

(Additionally additionally, while it was never said that defunding was massively unpopular -- only social justice racial reckoning whatever -- I will note that in 2020, defunding was actually at 46% and by 22 has dropped to 35%. Certainly a minority position now, but at the time not obviously one. I'd also be interested in seeing how much this is explicable by the uptick in crime or propaganda against the defunding movement.)

(Additionally additionally additionally I also find it super weird how someone seems to give a mild defence of defunding and the response is to say that abolition won't work. Like, sure, I'll agree that abolition won't work. But a lot of things have been defunded. And if the class composition of the social justice movement is what is said [a bunch of well off white people], then it seems like they'd be pretty successful at getting defunding working.)

How exactly was so just dumb about 2020?

Honestly its a book-worthy subject - Freddie deBoer wrote one for example - and I lack the spoons to do the topic justice. So just to quickly summarize my stance, in 2020 there was a massive wave of activism, originating in the George Floyd protests, that was both wrong-on-the-merits and actively harmful in what it did. Big activist groups wasted time on bad ideas like "police defunding" and carrying water for street violence & theft, bad-as-outlined and specifically against the interests of minority Americans (who want more policing not less because crime is awful and hurts them the most, just also accountable policing).

Many, many organizations got convinced that ~structural racism~ was Inside The House and organized large-scale inner-org ideological wars against their own staff, generally hunting ghosts since, no, progressive political organizations and liberal US universities are not the source of racial income inequality. People wasted millions of dollars, fired innocent people, made tens of thousands feel afraid to share their true opinions, and degraded organizational trust and effectiveness.

The scale of these things is, of course, small! Most people work in accounting firms or at State U and maybe had to put up with some dumb "racial reckoning" zoom calls. But A: individual lives are lived individually, for the people affected this was very bad. These organizations engaged is systematic discrimination against their racial & ideological opponents, in ways that were very hard to escape. And the results of these things stuck - political campaigning orgs and media outlets just got bad at their jobs because their staff was spending time on purity tests and building parasitic checkbox consulting orgs that are still around.

And most notably, it was awfully, ludicrously unpopular. It pushed all Americans who are not highly educated elite professionals (and generally white, generally women at that) to the right out of disgust. Which if your goals are like your own career or w/e I guess you don't care, but if you are an explicitly political movement I think own-goaling that badly is a demerit. This movement's contribution to the lasting appeal of Donald Trump is not zero by any means.

Hard to say what the counterfactual is because 2020 was uh quite a year. But imo if the social justice "racial reckoning" did not happen we would on net be better off.

(On top of all this, as deBoer mentions in that link, it is particularly annoying how many people in the SJ camp today pretend none of this ever really happened)

(And thank you for the question ofc!)

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stereksecretsanta · 4 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, obsessedbutonline!

For @obsessedbutonline, who listed fluff, angst, and ‘Derek giving Stiles gift’ as a few ‘Likes’. I hope I did those items justice. Hope you have a wonderful Christmas, Friend!

Read On AO3

*****

The Gift

The gift. He supposed it all started with the gift. Or maybe Star Trek. Derek wasn’t sure. It was Stiles, after all. One day, the younger man had been debating the cuddle rating of a Tribble, before diving into an analysis of The Voyage Home being one of the worst movies in franchise history (except for the whales, of course), and the next thing Derek knew, he’d found himself discussing how Moby Dick was one of his favorite books. The random jumps from one topic to another hadn’t been anything new for Stiles, but that had also been the year they’d legitimately gotten ‘together’ after their contentious circling of each other’s orbits, so when Derek had opened an inelegantly wrapped early edition of the novel on that first Christmas as a couple, he’d been rendered speechless.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d stared at the leather-bound copy exactly, but he did recall feeling a bout of inadequacy. He thought he’d hid it well though. “Stiles – “ he’d started. “I wasn’t expecting…This is too much.”

Stiles had shrugged like it hadn’t been a big deal, an eager grin on his face. “Nah, it wasn’t too bad. A classmate mentioned a prof who needed an assistant to help translate some Latin verses, and I thought I’d check it out. When I went, I noticed a copy of Moby Dick in his office, and you’d mentioned it was one of your favorites, so I offered my translation services for free if he would sell the book for a discounted price.”

Of course, Stiles had remembered that weird detail from a throwaway conversation. And of course, he’d been resourceful in procuring it. That was just who Stiles was. Now, Derek, on the other hand… well, he’d felt completely out of his league when he’d pulled out the gift card he’d picked up a day earlier from a comic book store. He hadn’t even known if that was a store Stiles ever visited. He really sucked at gift-giving. “Sorry, I didn’t …”

Stiles had yanked it out of his hands before he’d even finished. “I love it. Thanks, Derek!” The younger man had beamed excitedly, clutching that cheap piece of plastic in his hands as if he’d just received some personal heirloom. There had been no uptick in the man’s heartrate, so there’d been no lie in those words, but that hadn’t stop Derek from feeling bad.

And it was then that he had resolved to do better, that he would be thoughtful and meticulous in his gift selection the next time Christmas rolled around. Stiles deserved as much.

But he’d mentioned he was bad at gift-giving, right? As in, monumentally bad. Because the next Christmas, when they’d settled down on his couch after an intimate holiday dinner he’d prepared for the two of them, Stiles had presented him with a charmingly wrinkled gift bag. And when he’d pulled out a lovingly restored and framed photograph of his family from before the fire, he’d not only felt a slight lump in his throat at the sentiment, he’d also felt remarkably small and completely lacking in comparison. It was a good thing they’d come to a mutual understanding that their birthdays would be a no-gift zone, because Derek wasn’t sure he could’ve handled double the inferiority complex this time of year.

“I found a copy of the photo from the digital archives of the town newspaper. It was for some fundraiser committee your mom chaired, I think. I saved a copy, and googled around for some pointers on how to increase the resolution so I could print out a decent version of it,” Stiles had explained.

Derek had nodded absently, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of his mother’s face under the cool glass. His whole family had stared back at him, carefree and unburdened in the moment that photo had been taken, eyes all shiny from a sunny afternoon picnic. “Yeah, I remember. It was a Pets in the Park fundraiser for the local animal shelter.” There had been an ache in the pit of his stomach at the reminder of everything he’d lost, but it wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. Now, it had been dulled by time, and tempered by the meaningful relationships he’d found, foremost of which was the one with the man beside him. “Thank you,” he’d said slowly, slightly surprised that his voice hadn’t cracked at the pool of emotion swirling within him.

“Anytime, big guy.” Stiles had leaned in, his weight and warmth freely offered as a source of silent strength.

But when he’d pulled out his gift for Stiles, he had had that sinking feeling of failing an important test. He hadn’t even had time to wrap it properly, opting to place a haphazard bow on it instead. “Sorry, I didn’t know …”

Stiles had grabbed the cellophane-covered box with a puzzled expression. “A bath set?” he’d asked slowly. “Is this your way of telling me I stink?”

There had been amusement in the younger man’s tone, devoid of upset or disappointment, but that hadn’t stopped Derek from feeling upset and disappointed in himself. After Stiles had gone through all the trouble of giving him such a personal and meaningful gift, he’d reciprocated with … soap. “Remember when you were on break during Thanksgiving,” he’d started to explain. “That necromancer problem we had?”

“Oh, damn, do I ever! We spent the whole night trying to wash zombie goo out of bodily crevices I never knew I had!” Then, realization had set in as those rich brown eyes widened. “This is perfect, Derek! Thank you!” And just like that, Stiles had fallen on him with his usual gracelessness, and proceeded to express his ‘gratitude’ properly.

That had been last year. But this time around, right before Stiles had returned to campus for his final two semesters of college, Derek had stumbled upon the ideal Christmas gift, while they were cleaning, of all things. They’d been packing up and storing some of Stiles’ stuff before the younger man headed back to school when they’d gotten diverted by some dusty, old boxes in the Sheriff’s attic. Somehow, in the way of procrastination, they’d ended up flipping through old photo albums when Stiles had paused to tell him about a picture of his mother.

“Oh, there’s the locket my dad helped me buy for Mother’s Day when I was eight,” Stiles had said as he’d pointed to a picture of Claudia Stilinski, vivacious and beaming brightly at the camera. Anyone could see where Stiles had gotten his smile. “I didn’t have the greatest taste in jewelry, so it doesn’t look like much, but she was so excited when she got it. She wore it all the time.”

“It’s nice that you have a memento to remember her by,” Derek had supplied.

Stiles’ shoulders had slumped a little at the comment. “Yeah, I think we accidentally sold it during a garage sale not long after she died. Dad wasn’t exactly in the best place, and he just wanted to get rid of the memories because they hurt so much back then. Lots of regret now. Who knows? It might’ve found another home, or it might be in a garbage dump somewhere.”

And that comment had led him down the winding, convoluted path to where he was now: standing in front of a teenage girl with bright blue hair and an eclectic ensemble of a loose plaid shirt, artfully ripped leggings, and combat boots.

“A hundred bucks,” the girl re-stated, her tone indicating that this wasn’t a negotiation.

“One hundred? The pawn shop owner said you only paid five dollars for it.” He could be stubborn too, though deep down, he knew he wasn’t really in a position of power in this situation, much as that rankled him.

Ms. Blue-hair shrugged. “So? If you want it that bad, then you should be willing to pay for it.”

She had him there. Three months of diligently interviewing the Stilinski neighbors, and following a trail of multiple goodwill and pawn shops had led him to that very locket hanging from the girl’s neck, that very locket Stiles had shown him in that old photo of his mother. He gave the teen what Stiles had laughingly termed his ‘murder-brow’ look and pulled out his wallet. Of course, he would pay, especially after all the work he’d put into tracking it down, and because this was for Stiles. He didn’t have to like being swindled like this though.

“That’s a nice jacket, by the way.”

Derek looked up from pulling out the cash and froze. He glared at the girl, hoping the intensity of his stare would deter whatever she was about to insinuate. It didn’t work.

“No,” he said flatly as she watched him expectantly.

“Okay, I guess we’re done here then. Nice meeting you.” And with that, she turned and started to walk away.

Derek ground his teeth together to keep from outright growling and fought hard to not wolf out. He hated being bested like this. Life would’ve been so much simpler if he could just take the damned piece of jewelry by force and run off with it. Stupid morals.

“Fine,” he conceded with a clenched jaw after she’d managed to walk several feet away.

She turned with a triumphant smile as he started to shrug off his leather jacket. When he held it out with the wad of cash, she unclasped the chain without any further objections and handed it over. “Pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

(***)

Stiles’ name flashed on his lock screen just as he was pulling up to his loft.

“Hey, you back already?” he answered as he shifted his car into park. His regular visits to Stanford notwithstanding, he’d been anticipating Stiles’ winter break for a while, and the timing couldn’t have worked out any better with him finding the locket when he had. “I was going to pick you up tonight after you’ve had a few hours with your dad.”

Several seconds of heavy breathing greeted his words, and almost instantly, he was on alert, muscles tensing and heartrate increasing. “Stiles?”

“Yeah, Derek, I’m here,” a familiar voice sounded through the phone. “Sorry, just had to get around Scott to check something out. But no, I’m not home yet. Got sidetracked on my way into town. Can you come to the preserve right now? The trail just off Parsons. We’ve got, um, a problem.”

Since his return to Beacon Hills, the supernatural activity in the area had decreased significantly, especially with a solid pack established in the area now, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t the occasional run-in with creatures bringing in death and mayhem. This sounded like one of those times. Shifting gears into reverse, he responded without hesitation, “On my way.”

The trip to the preserve was quick, the route having been travelled so many times that he could probably drive it eyes closed. After parking in the lot off Parsons, he picked up Stiles’ scent almost immediately, along with a few others of the pack, and had no problems tracking the source down a few hundred feet off a popular running path.

Not surprisingly, Scott noticed him first, looking up from a patch of tall grass and nodding in greeting as Derek silently approached. Stiles stood more out in the open, back turned and head down as he tapped busily on his phone. Once upon a time, his quiet ‘stalking’ would’ve caused a flailing of limbs and a high-pitched yelp from the younger man, but of the familiarity borne from the years of closeness, Stiles simply turned, smiled, and greeted him with a warm ‘hey’ as if he’d known he was there the whole time. And all things considered, he probably had.

They’d never been a couple for overt displays of affection, but the way Stiles unconsciously leaned toward him, trusting and open, worked just as well in telling Derek how the other man felt. He usually did the same, subtly breathing in the scent of his boyfriend and feeling more settled in his presence. They hadn’t seen each for a couple of weeks, and he’d missed having Stiles near.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking around for the rest of the pack. Their scents were fainter, which meant they had been here recently, but had likely wandered off or left altogether.

“It’s Christmastime in Beacon Hills, so the usual. Y’know, carolers, Santa parades, sleigh rides, tidings of comfort and joy, and oh yeah, witches.”

Derek had never been bothered by Stiles’ sarcasm, though he wouldn’t openly admit that if asked about their first encounters with each other, but now, he found the trait rather endearing. “So, we’re dealing with a witch. How bad?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I was driving back into town when I saw a kid running across the road. Freaked me out, and barely stopped in time. When I went to check on him, he was crying and said an old woman had tried to take him. At first, I thought it was an attempted kidnapping, but then, he said that there was a lot of screaming coming from her big bag, and he was scared of getting stuffed in there with all the other kid. For this town, that triggered alarm bells. Stuffing kids into bags and lugging them around is not your regular run-of-the-mill kidnapper MO. I called my dad, and he came out here with a few units, but is running interference on the supernatural front. He’d mentioned that this was the third attempted kidnapping this month, so the deputies are on high alert. They still think it’s a regular human predator, so they’re canvassing the other side of the preserve right now, which means we can do our own investigation here. I called Scott, and the others are now fanned out, doing a search to see if we can catch a scent.”

“No luck yet,” Scott added as he strode over to join them. “Just a whole bunch of the usual smells, and with the people that use the running trails, it’s hard to pinpoint a specific one. We’re not exactly sure what we’re looking for.”

“I think I have a lead though.” Stiles held out his phone to show an etching of a stooped crone with a large sack. “We might have an Icelandic witch in the area, one that kidnaps and eats children, but I’m not a hundred percent. I hope I’m not right because … well, children! But she’s supposed to be active around Christmas. I need to double-check some books at my house to make sure though.”

Derek nodded, not surprised that Stiles had pretty much figured it out already. As human as Stiles was, he was arguably one of the pack’s most valuable assets, and truth be told, Derek felt quite proud of the other man’s quick wit and life-saving accomplishments. “So, you need to go home then?”

Stiles made a sound of agreement as he tucked his phone away and gave him an apologetic look. No words were needed to communicate how sorry he was that their reunion wasn’t what they’d planned.

“Okay, call us with any info,” Scott chimed in. “Derek and I will probably be more useful if we keep scouting the area. This is children we’re talking about. I don’t want anymore of them put in danger.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Alpha leader, sir,” Stiles replied jokingly, giving his friend a mock salute.

The years had matured Scott somewhat, enough that the erstwhile werewolf took his role and responsibilities somewhat seriously now. And for this, Derek was grateful.

Scott gave Stiles a shove to get him on his way, before shaking his head with a laugh and started to move back to the tall grass he’d been searching through earlier. “Go, you idiot.”

Stiles responded with the very mature gesture of sticking out his tongue. Then, Derek felt the younger man’s arm wrap lightly around his waist and pull him close for a quick kiss. The motion was casual, natural, and one that Derek returned without thought. “Sorry, not what we’d planned when I got back, huh? Let’s catch this witch fast so we can start our Christmas cuddle session, ‘kay?”

Derek raised an eyebrow at the comment. His boyfriend sure did have a way with words sometimes. “Christmas cuddle?”

“Hey, it is what it is.” Stiles shrugged innocently as he started to move away.

“I’m not calling it that.”

“Suit yourself, Sourwolf, but I’ve officially labelled it, and you can’t take that away from me,” Stiles said as he walked backwards toward the nearby trail. Derek half-expected him to trip on some invisible rock in the next few seconds. “Gonna say it all I want!”

He rolled his eyes as the younger man’s antics. “Go.”

“Christmas cuddle! Oh, and far be it for me to complain about seeing you in that t-shirt, but you do know it’s winter, right? We may live in California, and you may have some super-awesome internal wolfy furnace going, but I’m cold just looking at you. Where’s your jacket?”

“Go!” While he didn’t feel the chill as acutely, he didn’t need to be reminded about his fleecing by a greedy, blue-haired teenager.

After Stiles wave his acknowledgement and jogged out of sight, Derek turned back to join Scott. Their relationship may have started out roughly, but they’d fallen into a companionable pattern over the last few years. It was likely because of everything Scott had been through and his maturation, but Derek guessed part of it may have been out of respect for both their relationships with Stiles. Without much preamble, they quickly sectioned off their respective search zones, and fanned out into the thicker parts of the preserve. Derek had grown up here, had run and played amongst the trees and foliage so often that walking through it now stirred a sense of homecoming. Still, sometimes, there were things here that could still surprise him. Like the odd whiff of fear and panic he caught a few minutes after he’d split off from Scott. It was faint, probably non-existent for the newer wolves, but it was there, so out of place with the earthy scent of moss and soil. He started to follow it, his senses sharpening as he homed in on the potential prey. He hadn’t made much progress before he heard a howl off in the distance, and his entire body tensed, ready for action.

They’d found something!

Once he pinpointed the source, he was off, dashing through branches and over roots with a surety of stride that had been acquired from a lifetime of running these woods. He didn’t get very far though. He heard it first, a loud symphony of disembodied laughter all around him. Before he could stop and confront whatever it was, he caught a flutter of movement in his periphery, and then, he was flying, thrown through the air by an impact harder than anything in recent memory. He was out cold before he even landed.

(***)

He wasn’t unconscious for long. At least, he didn’t think he was, given that generations of werewolf evolution had refined his healing abilities to the point where he shouldn’t be. But however long it was, it was enough to find himself strapped to a board – or a crude table, perhaps – staring up at the flickering shadows of a stone ceiling. Or a cave? He honestly hated losing time like this and waking up in unexpected places, which, given who he was and where he lived, was an actual occupational hazard.

A whimper somewhere to his left drew his attention just then, and he tilted his head at an uncomfortable angle to take better stock of where he was, and with whom. Just within his field of vision, he could barely make out a small figure sat huddled inside a primitively constructed cage no higher than his hip. A wood fire burned beneath a big vat just a few feet away, thoroughly heating up whatever was inside if the bubbling sound was any indication.

“Hey,” he said quietly, if a little hoarsely, hoping the hunched figure would shift enough into the firelight for him to make out who it was.

The figure shuffled over, and Derek could see the tear-streaked face of a boy, probably no more than eight or nine years old. Stiles had said there’d been attempted kidnappings. It looked like one had succeeded.

“H-hello? You’re awake.”

“Yeah, I am.” He wasn’t good with children, barring the few cousins he’d played with when he was younger, yet that had been different. They’d been family. He knew this kid was scared, could hear it in the tremor of his voice and smell it in the dankness of the air, but he wasn’t sure what he could say to help with that. “I’m Derek. What’s your name?”

“A-Andy.”

“Well, Andy, if you give me a minute, we can get out of here and I’ll take you back to your parents.” He tried to sound reassuring, though he wasn’t sure it worked as well as he’d intended when he was tugging and testing the thick ropes tied around his chest, waist, and legs. They were tight, but he managed to slide a hand free enough to shift and start slicing away at the restraints with his claw.

“Just Mom,” the boy said quietly. “Dad left.”

“Okay, we’re going to find your mom then. I’m sure she’s really missing you right now.” He figured that keeping a calm tone and easy conversation going was as good a plan as any while he worked on the ropes.

Andy shuffled a little in his cage, his face dipping down again into the shadows cast by the nearby fire. “She’s working. She’s always working. She promised I’d get to see Dad, but she couldn’t take me, so I went to find him myself.”

Which might explain why the boy hadn’t been reported missing yet. There was some give to the rope by his right hip, so he tilted his head and tried to look over at the boy and hoped he properly projected the sincerity of his words. “That doesn’t mean she’s not missing you, Andy. I know she’s probably very worried. She – “

The stench assaulted him first, sour and rancid, before he felt the whole space shake with a reverberating thud. Andy quickly scooted back into the corner of his cage with a scared squeak, leaving Derek to turn and search out the source in the dim light. An old woman came into view near the foot of his table, posture bent and face haggard, each of her steps sending tiny shockwaves through the cave. Her long, gray hair hung in a greasy, unkempt mess, framing a crooked nose and a gap-toothed, mirthless grin. She resembled the picture Stiles had shown him on his phone, but the younger man had neglected to mention one thing. She was a fucking giant!

The whole cave suddenly felt cramped, and her looming presence caused his heartrate to spike. He worked faster on his ropes.

“Good dog. You’re too old and gristly for my liking, but if my lads want a pet, a pet they will get,” she said in a voice deeper than he’d expected. She patted his stomach dismissively as she passed, and he fought hard not cry out at the jarring, painful contact. “Now, where’s my little snack? Little boy for a little snack. Little boy snack.” She cackled at her own wit.

He heard Andy whimper again as the old, giant crone ambled her way over to the cage, and he wanted to tell the boy to be brave, to hold on because he was almost through his rope. Yet, as he was about to do just that, he caught the scent of metal and electricity in the air. It cut through the myriad of other unpleasant smells like an olfactory beacon, clear and crisp and a harbinger of something – or someone – familiar. He couldn’t help but smile a little at the arrival of the calvary, even as Andy shrieked when the witch pulled him roughly from the cage and shuffled over to the boiling pot.

Then, several things happened at once. First, voices that sounded like the disembodied laughter he’d heard earlier came from somewhere outside. This time, however, they were shouting out in distress, intermingled with the familiar voices of his pack. The cries gave the witch pause for a split second, just as he cut through the last of his restraints and pulled free. After that, he was up and leaping through the air, aiming to get Andy free of the old woman’s clutches and away from the fire. And he managed just that, wrapping his arms around the boy as he clawed at the large hand that held him. But he underestimated the reaction speed of the crone, and barely managed to turn his body to shield Andy before her other hand swatted his side. He landed with bone-cracking impact against the boiling pot, adrenalin enhancing his movements as he rolled quickly to avoid landing on the fire or getting splattered by the hot liquid in the toppling vat. He was pretty sure he’d probably cracked a few ribs, but they were already healing. Andy seemed none the worse for wear when he looked down, unhurt and safe in his arms still.

“My boys! What are they doing to my boys?” the witch wailed.

Derek tensed briefly, thinking the giantess would take her surprise and anger out on him. He readied himself for a fight, but instead, she turned and marched the other way, he and Andy seemingly forgotten. He eased himself up with a barely suppressed groan, and let the small body pressed against his chest slide down to his lap. He could hear the pack outside, the growls of the wolves and the foreign-sounding chants from Stiles, and he knew that they had it handled.

“You okay?” he asked as he gave Andy a good once-over.

The boy simply nodded, his whole body still trembling. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and hugged Derek as if his life depended on it. Not sure how else to respond, Derek hugged the child back.

That was how Stiles found them a few minutes later when he stumbled clumsily into the cave. After some coaxing, they both managed to talk Andy into finally letting go. Scott took it from there, coming in to take the boy away to find the Sheriff, who had been called to the area when Stiles had triangulated Derek’s location. Stiles waited a moment after Scott had left before he turned and threw himself into Derek’s arms.

“Oh, thank every deity I just prayed to you’re okay. Had me worried.”

Derek squeezed the warm, lithe body clinging to him like an octopus, and bent down to briefly nuzzle his partner’s neck. He breathed in the fortifying scent that was simply Stiles and used it to ground himself after the crazy events that had just happened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m fine.”

“I know. You’re one tough son of a bitch, but the uncertainty always gets me.” Stiles pulled away and gave him a look with those ridiculously wide Bambi-like eyes that made Derek’s insides go warm. “And of course, you would go all superhero and save a child while we saved you. With the way the boy was holding on to you, I thought you’d replaced me with a cuter, newer model.”

Derek quirked up his lip into a lopsided, half-smile. “Never,” he returned easily. “If I did, I would at least try to get a good trade-in price for you.”

“Smartass.” As his comeback, Stiles smacked his arm with the back of his hand. He then slipped said hand into Derek’s, intertwined their fingers, and started walking out of the cave. “See if I ever send baddies back through an intercontinental gate for you again.”

“So, she wasn’t a witch?” Derek asked as he followed Stiles’ lead out of the cave

“Oh, no, she was a witch. The giantess witch, Gryla, and her sons, the Yule Lads. I don’t know how they got here, but I was working off of some quick and dirty research, so the best I could do was track down caves in the area, which is what the literature says she tends to favor, and find a spell to send her back to her native Iceland.”

Derek silently listened as Stiles explained what had happened, both grateful and proud – and not for the first or last time either – at the quick wit and resourcefulness of the guy he got to call his. They eventually emerged from the cave, and he immediately felt lighter the moment he could smell the fresh earth and foliage again. The sun was beginning to set, creating lengthening shadows of the redwoods and the oaks that stood like sentinels around them. And with that came a distinct chill in the air. He felt Stiles shiver at the lower temperature, and wished he’d had his jacket around to offer the other man. The jacket that he’d exchanged for …

With his free hand, he reached into his jeans pocket where he’d tucked the locket earlier, and –

Shit!

Without another thought, he turned and sprinted back into the cave. He quickly scanned the area and did not see the locket anywhere. His eyes then fell on the overturned pot and the still-burning embers of the woodfire. A dash of panic began to taint his actions, but he didn’t stop to quell it. Instead, he rushed over to the dying fire and started digging through the ashes. His hands burned and healed almost simultaneously as he dug desperately through the charred wood, an odd combination of frustration and helplessness clouding his judgement.

“Derek?”

He heard Stiles, but didn’t answer, mainly because his fingers wrapped around a clump of metal just then. He looked down at what used to be Stiles’ mother’s locket, the piece now misshapen by the heat and bearing no resemblance to what it used to be. He dropped the thing, both dejected and angry. This was supposed to be the year. This was supposed to be the Christmas where he would show Stiles how much the younger man meant to him by putting the care and thought into his gift that Stiles had always put into his. But everything… everything had been for nothing.

“Derek? What’s wrong? You okay?” Stiles approached and knelt beside him, looking ready to join him in whatever he was searching for.

He brushed the soot and ash off his hands, shook his head, and stood up. “Nothing. I’m good. Just thought I dropped something but I was wrong. C’mon, let’s go home.”

Puzzled, Stiles stood too, though he didn’t pry, and together, they made their way out of the cave once more, but not before Derek threw one last, longing glance at the pile of ashes.

(***)

“Oh, my god, I’m so stuffed,” Stiles said as he plopped down on the couch and rubbed his belly. “I might have to be rolled off to bed later because there’s no way I’m standing up.”

Derek smiled softly at the younger man’s dramatics, and joined him on the sofa. Christmas dinner had been an intimate one again between just the two of them, with Derek doing most of the preparation, while Stiles had ‘helped’. He didn’t mind though. He enjoyed their time together. The way they fit together, their ease with each other … it had all been hard-won, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. The younger man had chatted animatedly throughout the meal and Derek had let him go on, wanting to prolong the whole thing because, if he was being honest, he was dreading what would happen afterwards: their gift exchange.

“Merry Christmas, Derek,” Stiles said, as if reading his thoughts. He reached over to the end table and grabbed an unevenly wrapped gift.

Derek stared at the thing for a moment, just knowing deep down it would be a typical Stiles present, all special and personal. Why did Stiles even stay with him? He must come across as an unthoughtful, unappreciative jerk. Slowly, he unwrapped the gift, and revealed a collage of artfully arranged photographs. There were trees and flowers and butterflies dancing on sunbeams across open trails. They were beautiful, more so in that Derek recognized where they had been taken: the preserve.

“You sometimes talk about how you grew up in the preserve,” Stiles explained. “How it’s a second home to you, and how you have all those memories with your family there. I know the memories are special, so I went and took some pictures during summer break. I hope these help you remember all those good times.”

Derek blinked away the prickling he felt in his eyes. Stiles may have assumed he was touched by the gift, which was fine. He didn’t need to know what Derek was really feeling. He didn’t need to know that in that moment, he thought Stiles really deserved so much better than him.

“Thank you. It’s perfect,” he choked out. “I – “ He didn’t know how to continue. What else could he say? “My present isn’t –“

He stopped. Stiles looked at him expectantly. Not finding the right words, he leaned over to the coffee table and grabbed the last-minute gift bag he’d filled the day before. “Here.”

He looked away while Stiles eagerly dug into the bag. He knew what was in there, and he didn’t need to see the lackluster reaction the younger man would have at the assortment of Reese’s candies he’d find.

“Oh, this is awesome, Derek!” Stiles exclaimed excitedly. “Holy shit, there’s a half pound peanut butter cup in here! Hello, Heaven!”

Derek felt Stiles’ arms wrap around him in gratitude, but he couldn’t find it in himself to return the gesture. The younger man seemed to notice and pulled back. “Derek?”

He turned and took in Stiles’ questioning gaze. He couldn’t do this. They complemented each other so well in everything, but somehow, in this, they were completely mismatched. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked in earnest.

“What?”

“My gifts. Doesn’t it bother you that my gifts are so … so bad. Yours are always so … so perfect.” It felt good to get that off his chest.

Stiles gawked at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. “Huh? But I think your gifts are perfect. And that’s not a lie. You can tell, right?”

True, Derek hadn’t heard any change in the other man’s heartrate to indicate otherwise, but no one could like his choice of gifts that much. “I just ... I wanted to show you how much I appreciate you, how much I care about you, the same way to do for me, especially with the gifts you give me. But I can’t seem to do that.” This was uncharted territory for him, this admission. He wasn’t used to revealing his insecurities like this. Yet, this was Stiles he was talking to, he reminded himself. Stiles, who never had any shame in revealing his every failure and weakness, and who gave his trust without fear of being hurt. Derek owed him the same. “I found your mother’s locket,” he finally said. “The one from the album you showed me. I found it, and was going to give it to you, but I lost it when we fought that witch last week. I’m sorry.”

He stared at the coffee table. He stared at the discard wrapping paper of the collage he’d just received. He started at everything but Stiles.

And then, “That’s what you were worried about? Not being able to show me you loved me?” Stiles’ tone was incredulous, and it was enough for Derek to turn his attention to the younger man again. “You’re an idiot, Derek,” Stiles continued. “For the record, your presents are awesome. But that’s not the point. You drive three hours each way to visit me on campus every other weekend. You cook Christmas dinner for us every year. You help me pack for college each fall. You drop everything and meet me in a forest, no questions asked, when I call. You even spent all night picking zombie guts out of my hair. If that doesn’t say ‘love’, I don’t know what does!”

To put an exclamation to his point, Stiles pulled him in for a long, lingering kiss. “I love you, Derek Hale, and I know you love me. You don’t need to give me things to show me that. You show me every day in the things you do. And that’s more than enough.”

Derek looked at the man sitting beside him, stunned and at a loss. “I –“

“It’s more than enough,” Stiles re-stated firmly. “Now, stop your self-flagellation, and show me how much you appreciate my gift by kissing me.”

Stiles pulled him in again, and this time, Derek did put everything he had into that kiss because the weight of those heartfelt words were slowly sinking in. He loved Stiles. And Stiles … Stiles knew that. He groaned in appreciation at the true gift he’d been given as he pushed the younger man down onto his back, bracing his weight on his arms as he ground their hips together. Fuck it, he felt like he’d really won the lottery in finding Stiles … because Stiles was right, he realized as he deepened their kiss, tasting and teasing the smart, sarcastic, and silly man beneath him.

This … This was more than enough.

#obsessedbutonline #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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youarejesting · 5 years ago

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BTS365 Prompts

[Masterlist]

Please tag me in your work if you use my prompts. I want to see your work. Ever your Jester.

Tell me your birthday and I will tag you on your special day!

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April 23rd - 29th

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Kim Seokjin: DNA

You were visiting your friend. She had given you her address as you both had plans next week but you wanted to surprise her so you arrived early driving into the gated community. It was a whole town fenced off. Weird. You passed through security by dropping the name of your friend you were visiting and headed through.

You pulled up in a guest parking lot and walked to her house knocking. She grabbed you pulling you inside, “who knows you are here, did anyone see you?” “No but why is this place so cult-y I mean that rose business is everywhere the flags the buildings it’s even on that damn necklace you are wearing, if this is a cult I have to get you out. Don’t drink the kool aid”

She tried to rush you out the door telling you to get in your car and you both could leave, “look you have to go quickly out the way you came, if they find you I don’t know what will happen”

You were scared because she wasn’t joking there was no ‘haha just kidding’ no ‘April fools’ this was serious. She was serious. You went to race back to your car when you heard a chorus of howls. You were soon surrounded. By wolves? Pausing as they growled around you. A man coming out and leading you across town.

After the regular interrogation who are you, why are you here? You made it to a large building; it looked like a large frat house. You were led inside and to a door, standing there you smelt something pleasant, a soft jasmine, and cedar with a sharp fresh aqua. The moment you stepped inside you felt his presence, lowering your head like everyone else you felt weak. His back was to you and you didn’t know what was happening but the scent was all over the room and instead of being overpowering like axe body spray. This made your head fog up in the most pleasing ways.

“I heard you trespassed on our land sweetheart?” The word wasn’t spoken with endearment, as he pulled your chin up, your eyes caught his seeing a golden spark fill his dark eyes. He had stilled for a moment, your eyes scanned him over he was devilishly handsome and had broad shoulders, strong arms, his waist was thin and his legs firm. Your eyes met his once more realizing how you were blatantly ogling him. “Mine”

Min Yoongi: Pretzel

“Welcome everyone to the weekly CBM meeting, I see a lot of new faces so let's begin with introductions and why you are here?”

”Hello I am Kim Seokjin, I’m a werewolf, I have been coming here for three months because I accidentally shifted one night and my bonds broke, and they found me lying in the park and deemed it inappropriate. So now I spend every Wednesday for the next six months coming to Creature Behavior management”

“Hi I am Jung Hoseok I um saved a girl from drowning and swam her up to the beach but when I pulled her out of the water and shifted back I had no pants and her father beat me and I am here to prove I am good and I mean I get to meet new friends so it can’t be too bad right?” “I am Min Yoongi, a Zombie, strictly vegetarian, I just wanted a pretzel and apparently it’s considered inappropriate to threaten to eat someone if they try to push in line”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that and the zombie looked at you across the room swinging your legs back and forth on the chair. “I would let you eat me” You giggled watching his pale undead cheeks stain a dark grey. “My name is Y/N and apparently refusing to let a guy get you a drink at a house party makes me a tease and when you refuse their advances, they try to take you to the bedroom anyway, Yet when you refuse again publicly they accuse you of using your succubus powers on them. Then when you actually use your powers on them and force them to make out with one another, they don’t seem to like that”

“Ahh... my undead heart, you are my soulmate.” Yoongi laughed along with everyone in the circle muttering under his breath quietly but you still were able to catch it. “Marry me” “Okay bring the documents baby we can get married” You smiled and he lent forward licking his lips eyeing you up and down.

“How's next Wednesday for you?” “I will wear my best dress” You winked at him and he snapped his teeth back at you.

Jung Hoseok: Scale

Your father was a fisherman, and you spent your childhood years on the water. Sitting on the bowsprit legs dangling as you sang songs dreaming of pirates and mermaids and sea monsters. You would sing songs you made up and sometimes when you looked really hard you could see figures moving under the water. It was all the brilliance of a childhood imagination. But here you were years later a young lady home from the city, your father readied the boat some of the fishermen were new and some of their eyes lingered a little too long for your liking.

You sat on the bowsprit singing the old songs from when you were a kid, it was nostalgia and you remembered every word. Arriving at the usual fishing spot you swear you saw something move under the water. You grinned as your childish wonder had obviously come back to greet you.

You continued singing and playing on the ship sticking to the bow you loved looking over. The waves picked up but they did it so often you barely shifted. Your sea legs had long since been of use. “You might want to go in girl if it’s too scary for you”

You rolled your eyes standing and walking down the bowsprit like it was a tightrope grabbing the thick metal cord standing on the very edge. You were happily spinning around the cord when you definitely saw what looked like a torso. You saw it again. “Man overboard” You called across the boat. Everyone scrambled and you jumped in after him.

Just as you reached the area you had seen him he was gone, you turned to face a giant wave taking a deep breath.

You were pushed down hitting the side of the boat you tried to swim but the force of the wave was so strong. Arms wrapped around you and your eyes flew open seeing him the man in the water he looked oddly familiar. He swam quickly to the surface and held you there to breath.

“I never thought I would see you again,” he grinned and you felt the heat in your cheeks. “You used to sing all the time here, oh there is another wave hold your breath or whatever human thing you do” he tucked you against him and swam quickly under the wave.

You felt him rolling his hips against you and you tried to push him away, you had just met what the hell does he think he is doing. Looking down your eyes widened and looked away quickly. He wasn’t trying anything with you, the roll of his hips was how he swam. He was an actual real life mermaid. “Hang in there darling, I will bring you to the surface” he swam you to the boat.

Kim Namjoon: Pin

Watching the streets, the humans were getting smarter, locking themselves away at night, but what was this? A little girl walking the streets no more than four or five calling out for her mummy. Taehyung held his hand up telling his men to wait now wasn’t the time to strike; they had to be patient. “Mummy” she called crying, she tripped the scent of blood filled the air as she had scraped her knee. She cried hysterically and the door opened.

“Darling are you hurt?” The girl nodded, tears pouring down her face, her little heart beating hard from the hysteria. “Come to me okay” she whispered and the little girl got up and walked over. Taehyung signaled to his people and they dropped down from the roof into the shadows.

“They are coming Abigail bring the girl inside” “Where is my mummy?” She cried “please my mummy?” Men came out guns pointed at the red eyes glowing from the shadows, “is she human?” “She is bleeding, vampires don’t bleed” “Come inside sweetheart” the woman said and the vampires started to attack each human was captured and tied, each dragged back to the castle. “We brought dinner sir?”

“Shut that child up” Namjoon waved his hand and Taehyung did just that and the room fell silent as her body fell limp on the floor. “Okay not only did you steal my prey you snapped my neck?” The little girl shouted and with a loud crack her neck sat normally on her shoulders. She stood up, form changing from a child to an adult. “I spent years perfecting my skills of shape shifting to lure people out and you want to steal my kill.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened, “Restrain her” and she was taken to the cells except being a shapeshifter it didn’t last long even if it was bars of silver. Namjoon was in an important meeting when a cat jumped onto his desk and transformed into that woman again. He leaned back in his chair pissed, she talked too much. His hand gripped around her throat tightly and she smiled unaffected despite the little uptick in her artificially beating heart.

“You can’t kill me” she scoffed “I can damn well try”

Park Jimin: Zipper

Running through the forest on your early morning jog, you let your mind wander. The music in your ears takes you away to another world as you put one foot in front of the other. Before long you realized something was wrong you weren’t on the path.

The tree’s were dense, the air cold and your music cut out your phone battery dying, something was seriously wrong. Walking along scared this is when someone either dies or the early morning jogger finds a dead body, it’s always the joggers. What did they ever do?

The sky darkened and it started to rain, an hour lost became two, three, four until the small glow behind the rain clouds disappeared and it rained on through the night. You were cold but you kept stumbling around looking for the path looking for something.

There was a light in the distance and you strode over without hesitation, behind you it sounded as if someone was singing it was beautiful too beautiful for a creepy night in the forest. You continued toward the fire but the singing got louder.

The voice was angelic and it almost pulled you away but the thought of warm fire kept luring you in. It was a camp, there was a fire and a big pot over it, there were people walking around. On closer inspection the people looked unnaturally long and thin and all you could smell was a bitter rotten scent. You almost stepped into the camp when you noticed hoof prints in the mud. All too soon you realized the singing had stopped when a hand covered your mouth you couldn’t move your body frozen.

“Shh, don’t make a sound or they will kill you” the angelic voice whispered gently singing and walking you backwards. You were entranced by the words flooding your mind and making your head spin. The figure behind you tripped and you fell with an audible groan.

“Run” he grabbed your hand taking off through the trees, those things roared and you heard loud hooves and grunts that seemed so close to you.

The man in front of you was wearing a cloak and had such an agile form he moved like a serpent or cat so smooth and graceful. His body Zipping in and out of the trees, unlike you, who stumbled and tripped hitting every branch along the way. The screech behind you sent chills up your spine and you started to turn to look behind you.

“Don’t look at them! just keep moving we are almost there” Wherever there was you were unsure. There was a weird feeling like you had just dived into warm water and you felt safe and he slowed down.

“We are safe here, come inside you are all wet I will get you some clean dry clothes” he returned and you saw just how beautiful he was. “Please don’t look at me, I know I am nothing like the men you are use to, tall, strong, bearded protectors like that with broad shoulders and big muscles, it’s just Fae are smaller with weird features so I am just”

“Beautiful” you whispered your words shocking him.

Kim Taehyung: Honesty

Kim Taehyung had lived in the elven city all his life and was a little odd for an Elf. His features were a little different for any normal elf as well, his ears stuck out a little more and his features weren’t as pointed as the other elves. He had a strange view of the world and didn’t think the same way as everyone else. For one he was too playful for any young adult elf, he was expected to be more mature for his age and two he had a wolf companion. Mind you it was a tiny thing, a runt of its litter and super fluffy with dark fur that shone in the sun. All this wasn’t passable for a common elf but to make matters worse. He was Prince Taehyung, the middle child he had one older brother and one younger sister.

Walking into the city you were confused, Your parents wanted to unite the kingdom’s and have you marry someone of the royal family. You hated it, of course you had been disciplined every day to act like an elf but you didn’t want to live your life stifled by propriety and poise. You reluctantly waved out the window and stepped out in your frankly too big dress, your father greeted the other elven King and you saw the first Prince step forward and kiss your hand like a gentleman but you hated it he was textbook royalty and just as you hid your disdain behind your lace fan another prince ran in his hair a mess of twigs and from his knees down was just mud and grass stains and following his muddy footprints was a tiny fluffy wolf trailing his own paw prints across the marble floor.

“Please forgive my son” the queen turned to her son and gestured for him to leave and he bit his lip looking upset. “How about we adjourn to the dining room for some refreshments?”

“I would like to bide in my room, if you could kindly escort me whilst on your way to your Quarters? I need some time to collect my bearings after such a long journey?” You used your fake princess act and the younger prince nodded looking slightly alarmed at his family, his mother nodding earnestly and he swallowed, gesturing down the hall.

“I deeply apologize for my current disheveled appearance, I was in the garden” “Your hands seem clean?” You said curiously “I was wearing gloves” he grinned “Ah gloves” Once out of sight you bent down “And who is your tiny companion?” The wolf jumped up placing his dirty paws on your dress.

“Princess!” He looked ashamed “Your gown” “Oh well, it is dirty now, what's a little more?” “Princess I must implore” His voice came out more like a deep childish whine and you couldn’t help the elated feeling it brought you. “Implore all you wish, but I will not yield”

“Stubbornness is unbecoming of a Princess” “Do you know much about being a Princess?” “Sadly my knowledge in that area is limited, but, I believe it shan't be different from the wonders of being a prince.” “You too recite somber balladry and compressing yourself into derisory bodices”

“I don’t know what you just said but it sounded fancy” He smiled sheepishly. “Can we drop the act, I feel you hate being royalty as much as I do” “If I am honest there are not enough fanciful words that can express my loathing for being born royal, I am a laughing stock of the village Prince Taehyung thank the stars he is the second brother he is as odd as he is odd looking”

“I think you are handsome, more so than your brother, I would love to bask in your very presence and gaze upon the pleasantness that is your beauty. Perhaps we should switch places and you can be Princess y/n” “Your room Prince Taehyung?” He grinned

“I see Shall I escort you, to your room Princess y/n?” “How kind of you but I am simply at the end of the hall, do not trouble yourself?” “When we have composed ourselves and our outfits, Can I have the pleasure of escorting you around the uh courtyard perhaps?”

“Perhaps the library instead, if I am caught outside once more the queen will have my head” He took your hand and flushed a little as he pressed his lips to your hand softly. “I will be eagerly awaiting?”

Jeon Jungkook: Batman vs Ironman @yungisseesaw

It had been years since Jungkook’s people and the Human’s world became one, it was strange like two alternate timelines crossed over joining into one. The humans were not so welcoming for the first few years and so growing up Jungkook had people stare and judge him for his differences.

Jungkook was now a Young adult and a big time nerd, he spent his time watching superhero movies and playing video games, going to the arcade and funnily enough playing DND with his friends, all of which were human. Jimin and Hoseok were roommates and they had a really cute neighbor who Jungkook had seen only a handful of times over the fence a few times which meant she didn’t know he was a centaur. So while the others went to get pizza and movies Jungkook was home alone. Him and cars didn’t really mix well, not only didn’t he fit, they made him nauseous. You had chosen that moment to invite yourself over, except in a towel. “Hello, Hoseok, Jimin, are you home, I know you said to use the key for emergencies, but my hot water ran out”

“They aren’t here?” Jungkook said hiding behind the couch she turned and squealed “They went to get pizza and movies” “Oh well is it okay if I borrow the shower, I am freezing”

“Of course go ahead?” You went upstairs and he frowned curling up on the couch trying to curl his feet up and cover himself in blankets and pillows to hide his legs from her. “We are home?” Hoseok shouted and they laid out pizza boxes and drinks. “Why do you look so pale?”

“Y/N, is in the shower right now, her hot water ran out and she asked to borrow your shower” “Dude, you finally talked to her face to face, how did she take it?” “Well I was kind of hiding behind the couch?” They looked down at the fort he had made around himself and they smiled sadly.

“Wow that feels better” “Hey, Y/N, what do you think of centaurs?” Jimin grinned dodging Jungkook’s hand as it was swinging with vengeance “Hmm uh I have nothing against them, they are people too” “Would you ever date a centaur?” Yoongi added that any girl for their best friend had to get through them first.

“I mean yeah, I don’t know how the business would work but if I like someone it’s for who they are and not what they look like, any of you could come out right now and tell me you were one of the Cenpeople and I would still love you all just the same.

Yoongi seemed to approve and ripped the blankets off of Jungkook revealing his horse lower half and his weird four legged lounge pants. “Hyung!” Jungkook tried to grab at pillows and the blanket to cover himself back up but resorted to burying his face in a throw cushion sniffling in shame and embarrassment. His ears were bright red.

You looked over at him and sat on the couch across from him, “Do you know what I have a problem with Kookie, that you think that Iron man is the best rich orphan powerless superhero when clearly it is Bruce Wayne”

“You two are still arguing about that?” Namjoon scoffed “They have been going on about it for three weeks now” Jimin grinned “It’s like their odd way of flirting I think it’s cute”

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littlestsnicket · 4 years ago

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there are a number of things about the gamestop rollercoaster that are of interest to me, but how short selling works is the only one I’ve actually figured out.

short selling DOES NOT cause stock value to drop in any meaningful way. i know the way people are explaining it, it seems like it should, but it really doesn’t. even when you’re shorting more than the “free float” (the stock that is readily available for trade), it does not significantly impact the price. the mechanics of this is a bit over my head, but my simplified understanding is that even if the total amount of short selling is above the free float, that is still not a large percentage of the total trading. (i know it’s hard to believe that, but stocks get traded a lot, and it is pretty clear in the concrete evidence that this is the case, and the scale at which this stuff happens is why it works the way it does and, as a result why people’s simplifications turn out completely wrong.)

there is a specific claim i’ve seen multiple times on tumblr that short sellers pushed the price of GME stock from $20 to $3. as far as I can tell, this is completely made up. per the arstechinca article, The complete moron’s guide to GameStop’s stock roller coaster, you start seeing a sharp uptick in the amount of short selling of GME in the middle of 2019.

here is a graph of the stock prices from the beginning of 2019 to present (this is from macrotrends.net, I could only get yahoo finance to give me data through the 2020, but that part of the data does match up) (additional note, you have to go back to 2016 to see GME stock priced at $20):

the GME stock price is already at $5 by the time there is significant short selling. It does bottom out at around $3, but it goes back up to around $6 shortly after and stays relatively steady around that price until august of 2020, where the stock starts to increase because a well respected investor (Ryan Cohen) bought a significant stake in the company and the announce a new CEO.

this is NOT a defense of hedge funds or their business practices, but it is really fucking important to use facts and have a basic understanding of what you’re criticizing. short selling is, as far as I can tell, one of the less destructive to other people and businesses they do. (not like high frequency trading, which causes weird unpredictable bubbles and crashes which are bad for everyone except the high frequency traders. and if i were a betting person, which i am not, i would bet that high frequency trading is really the root of why the GME stock prices got so out of control, and why a bunch of uninformed day traders are going to lose a lot of money in the next few weeks while “wallstreet” remains largely unaffected or comes out ahead.)

i swear this anti short selling thing has more to do with elon musk’s personal vendetta against short selling than anything else.

#stock market #short selling #GME #gamestop #sorry for not including links but i did name my sources if you want to look into them further #please don't be mean to me i don't know why I did this

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goblins-riddles-or-frocks · 5 years ago

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Moffat Dracula Review

Plot Summary For People Who Don’t Want To Watch It:

Dracula corners Jonathan, Mina, and Sister Agatha Van Helsing in a secluded convent in Budapest following Jonathan’s escape from his castle. The castle sequence itself is explained in flashback as Jonathan recounts his experience, leading up to the realization that he himself had died during his stay there.

Realizing he’s now become some form of undead creature, he attempts to kill himself via a stake but is unsuccessful. Despairing at this, he invites Dracula inside the convent in exchange for a true death. Agatha and Mina are able to stay safe within a circle of sacramental bread but everyone else is massacred.

When Mina sees Dracula disguised as Jonathan approaching them, she invites him inside the circle. He of course reveals his identity immediately after. Agatha bargains her own life for Mina’s, so Dracula allows the other girl to go free.

Some time later, Dracula sets sail for England aboard the Demeter, a Russian ship with a strangely high number of wealthy passengers and a bluebeard’s cabin no one is allowed to enter. He quickly picks off the passengers one by one, meanwhile himself leading the effort to find the murderer onboard.

This culminates in the remaining passengers finally searching the ship— and the mysterious cabin which is revealed to have been hiding a sickly Sister Agatha inside. She explains that Dracula is a vampire and together with the passengers they attempt to kill him by setting him on fire. But it is unsuccessful. Agatha urges everyone to escape on lifeboats because she intends to blow up the ship with her and Dracula in it before it is able to reach England.

Dracula does not die but remains dormant under water. He reaches Whitby roughly 100 years later and is immediately captured by the Jonathan Harker foundation, lead by Agatha’s descendant Dr Zoe Van Helsing. He leaves captivity fairly quickly however with the help of Frank Renfield— a lawyer he hired over skype.

Zoe is revealed to be dying of cancer. Dracula offers her his blood to heal her but it doesn’t seem to work. It instead gives her a bond to communicate with her dead ancestor Agatha, which gives her more insight about the vampire.

Meanwhile, Dracula begins preying on Lucy Westenra, a young socialite. Despite leading a seemingly perfect life, she is wholly apathetic and disgruntled with her situation. She allows him to feed on her in exchange for the high a vampire’s bite can give her. He attempts to turn her into a vampire but she’s burned horribly once she’s cremated following her funeral.

Her death leads Zoe and Jack Seward to where Dracula has been staying. During their confrontation however Lucy returns, and after learning about her appearance, begs Jack to kill her, which he does.

Zoe asks Jack to leave so she may speak to Dracula alone. She surmises that all of Dracula’s weaknesses are actually ineffective. The only thing he fears is death, and humanity’s willingness to die, She then... resolves to sit down and die right there. But at the last moment Dracula drinks her cancerous blood which should in turn kill him... they make out while dying... The end?

If that sounds like it makes no sense, it’s because it doesn’t.

Final Thoughts:

The plot was nonsensical and the pacing was very poor and completely unstructured. The story itself bore little to no resemblance to Dracula at all, to the point where I wonder why they even bothered to keep the names.

Most of the characters were new, and the few that were ported over from the Stoker novel had hardly anything in common with their original versions, Dracula included.

Jonathan was the most in character of the bunch, if he was fairly more genre savvy while stuck in Dracula’s castle. Mina’s characterization seemed to be confined to a single flirtatious letter, an endless well of trust for Jonathan, and constant sobbing. She was more of a liability than anything else.

Agatha served the role of a genderbent Van Helsing, though her manner was entirely lifted from the Coppola film. This could’ve been very cool if they hadn’t randomly made her a nun without actually committing to it at all. She was not really portrayed as having any actual lived experience as a nun in the victorian era. And faith as a concept was only touched on for her to dismiss— hilariously casually given her position.

I think the actress’s performance was fairly decent, and she def grew on me in the second episode when she’s not actually in a convent to constantly remind us how dissonant of a nun she is. But it would’ve been nice if they would’ve either committed to actually making her a nun, (a legit vampire hunting nun could be so cool!) or just abandoning the concept altogether. Because the way it was presented just felt like window dressing.

Also I’m not normally averse to shipping Van Helsing/Dracula but having to genderbend one of the two just to do it is like... hm. Also the weird tension they had going on was very badly executed in general.

Speaking of Dracula, he had to be the weakest part of the show. He was written in the smuggest, most infuriating way possible. And it might have worked with another actor but this dude just did not have any gravitas or stage presence whatsoever. And it certainly was not helped by the fact that his costuming and makeup were so fucking lackluster.

Despite being the linchpin of the story, he had no goals nor any particular drive. He was just out there doing Stuff for Reasons and none of them were compelling. It seemed like he was just killing to kill and the writing was not good enough to actually carry any of the vague themes about how he’s looking for new brides (why?) how he’s searching for a The Perfect Fruit (what???) or anything at all really. He had no depth whatsoever beneath his stupid quips and self-satisfied demeanor.

There was an interesting implication that he needed to choose who he drinks carefully in order to maintain his own personality/sanity/sentience and that without blood he’d… apparently just become like any of the zombies we saw in the show. And that is such a cool concept! But it was not really explored, nor was it written all that well. Even though it could’ve been (and I think was maybe intended to be???) an excellent source of existential dread!

But yes, in general there was hardly any depth to this show. They played almost every possible card they could for shock value, and included many unnecessary and frankly underwhelming esoteric concepts that went nowhere. There was so much gore and random effects. We had zombies, vampire infants, and Dracula legit wearing people’s skins. The lore didn’t make any sense either, apparently people just… being unable to die despite their body’s so called death is a common occurrence? It wasn’t clear whether Dracula even had much control over who he changes and whether or not they become proper vampires. The entire thing just seemed poorly thought out.

There were a lot of easter eggs and references to previous Dracula adaptations (and even some unrelated vampire media). I definitely noticed nods to the Hammer Horror movies and the Lugosi film, which was fun. The biggest noticeable influence however would have to be the 1992 Coppola movie. I have never seen a show try so hard to be another movie lmao. They even went so far as to make a spiritual successor to the film’s main theme that’s about as close as you could probably get without actually licensing the music.

However, while the Coppola film at least had skill with regards to the costuming and cinematography to carry its aesthetic, this show simply did not. The costumes, the makeup, and the special effects were all lackluster. The set was nice enough but was not shot in a way to really leave much of an impression.

The first episode was abysmal— mainly due to Dracula’s awful performance (those disgusting fungus covered fake nails, that age makeup, that ACCENT) and the entire awkward af scene where he terrorizes a convent of nuns while naked and covered in blood. But it was at least so bad it was funny.

The second episode was the most tedious to me because it was less offensively awful so I couldn’t even enjoy the badness. There was definitely a sharp uptick of quality whenever Dracula was offscreen for any notable amount of time though. The passengers were rather boring but I liked the crewmen. And Agatha honestly killed it for the latter half.

The last episode was by far the worst and yet the most entertaining because they just stopped trying at that point.

Renfield was amazing and an absolute delight every time he was on screen. Dracula found him over skype for God’s sake, how can that not be fantastic? He actually utters the words “Dracula has rights,” and his argument somehow actually fucking works.

And even Dracula himself was far less insufferable with the shift in dynamics. By being forced to cope with the modern world, he could no longer act like such a smarmy, self-assured know it all. Seeing him freak the fuck out at the sight of helicopters was genuinely fun.

Lucy’s handling was misogynistic af though. It was bafflingly, needlessly awful. And the way she was vilified at the very end was appalling. They almost had an interesting deconstruction wrt her utter malaise for her life, and the implication that she actually resents her beauty. But then of course she gets burned alive, and then is treated horribly for it by the protagonists.

Even though it’s clear she has no idea what’s happened to her body, Zoe doesn’t even bother to explain it to her. She just makes her take a selfie of all things so she can see what she really looks like. It didn’t seem like the show had a shred of sympathy for her, because “oh, clearly she was a narcissistic bitch and she deserved what she got” or something like that??

The utter indifference everyone has to her death is baffling. It was an afterthought, that seemed like its only purpose for existing was yet again just shock value. The scene, after her death, immediately shifting the focus back to whatever weird personal rivalry that borders on sexual tension Agatha/Zoe and Dracula have going on.

But all in all, this adaptation had me baffled, frustrated, and cringing through most of it. It was unintentionally funny quite often and I honestly enjoyed it, but for all the wrong reasons. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to melt their fucking brain.

#netflix dracula #netflix dracula spoilers #moffat dracula #bbc dracula #long post #I ramble sometimes #tldr: it was BAD #all the salt #this is 1800 words #*writer’s cap*

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sheriffofmagic · 5 years ago

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Im always a big slut for hurt/comfort, so if you made it Vang0Chainz I would perish. Also Burger Chainz trying to enculture Vang0Bang0 by having a movie marathon that turns into a sleepover. Also what if Burger knew Vang0 before he lost his memory but promised Vango that he'd never tell him who he was before. im also tipsy lol im jus throwing spaghetti places. i love your blog btwww

I was going to go to sleep but i saw this ask and had to start writing immediately (must have some weird dumb pavlovian response to vang0chainz) anyway this is super dumb hopefully, maybe you’ll enjoy it. it’s almost 5am and i didnt proofread this so its definitely a huge mess but uhhhhh here’s the trash you ordered

---

“Will you stop fussing?” Vang0 says, snappier than he intended.

Burger Chainz pulls back from where he’d been inspecting Vang0’s hurt shoulder, a mix of hurt and embarrassment on his face.

“It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been shot,” Vang0 continues, “at least… I don’t think it is. Muscle memory or somethin’. Anyways, I mean it. I’m fine. And you hovering over me like I’m about to drop dead isn’t helping.”

Vang0’s not fine, obviously. He’s been shot which, muscle memory or not, stings like a bitch and more than anything makes him mourn for his jacket which there is no salvaging from the burn marks. A shame really, the chrome color had nearly matched that of his hair. He’d been thinking of turning it into his signature look, perfect for merchandising. Oh well. He wasn’t dead so that was a plus of sorts....

They were at Vang0 and Burger’s place (technically Vang0’s but Burger was there so often the distinction hardly felt necessary anymore) and, aside from the bullet wound, this was a pretty typical Saturday night. The TV providing a low din of noise to fill the empty spaces of whatever inane conversation was taking place between the two of them. Tonight was more tense than usual. Vang0 Bang0 was not a strong man. High charisma, low constitution. All that. Hiding pain wasn’t exactly in his repertoire but ignoring it? That he might be able to manage, especially if it stopped his massive cyborg friend from pulling the kicked puppy look for the next couple of hours.

Night City wasn’t exactly known for it’s premium broadcasting, most nights after midnight channels tended to switch to the same things. Classics. Vang0 didn’t care much for it, looking back at the past, even the fictional past, wasn’t really his thing. Burger Chainz, though, Burger Chainz loved them. Tried to hide it, Vang0 knew, but he’d referenced them often enough that Vang0 picked up. Vang0 was observant like that, even though he pretended not to be.

All this to say, it was after midnight, Vang0 was the one in pain, and yet Burger looked like he was the one on the verge of a breakdown. Vang0 took pity on him, the kind he only indulged in when the streams were turned off and the hour was late and he could pretend he and Burger were just normal friends, “What’s this one about again?”

Burger looks startled for a moment then glances briefly between the TV and Vang0, “Uhh, it’s a rom-com. He’s emailing another kid from his school but he doesn’t know who it is.”

Vang0 bites back a sardonic comment about how if this kid really wanted to know who his secret admirer was he could cross reference the dialogue patterns and… yeah maybe he can see why he’s not the most fun person to watch movies with and- oh. Burger is still talking.

“-things were different back then, ya know? People weren’t so… nice.”

Vang0 laughs, “You think people are nicer now?”

He gestures to the wound in his shoulder and Vang0 rolls his eyes (Eye? Can monochrome robotic eyes roll?) “Well, not bad folks maybe. Criminals still aren’t great. Prone to violence and all that. But normal people? Yeah I think they’re better.”

“Well aren’t you optimistic.”

Without missing a beat Burger replies with a wry smile, “Well, I have to be don’t I? With you around. Gotta cancel out that negative energy.”

Burger goes back to watching the TV, a slight uptick in the corners of his mouth. Vang0 can only look at him half dumbstruck, half distracted by the pain (getting shot really does hurt).

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Burger Chainz glances toward him, unsure, “Mean no offense. Just- you kind of assume the worst. About situations. ‘Bout people. Sometimes, even ‘bout yourself, if it’s not outta line to say.”

“It is.”

“Okay.” An awkward silence. Punctuated by the sounds of the film, too loud to be filling this space. This isn’t the conversation Vang0 wanted to be having. Not now. Not ever, if he could help it.

“How is it wrong for me to assume the worst? Huh? People do the worst all the time. We see it every day. You see the world we live in? You want me to be optimistic here? After everything I’ve gone through?”

Burger finally looks away from the screen, for once there’s no tension in his brow, only sureness. “I don’t want you to be anything other than yourself but goin’ through life thinking every shadow is out to get ya isn’t much of a way of livin’.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to remind you of all people that I have good reason to be distrustful.”

“You don’t. I-” he sighs, “I just wish you’d be willing to things as more than just black and white.”

“Oh forgive me if I’ve had some encounters,” he gestures to his shoulder, “that paint Night City in a bad light.”

Burger hesitates, “Does it hurt?”

“Obviously.”

“Right…”

They lapse into silence again, both of them staring at the screen but Vang0 can tell from the rigid set of Burger’s shoulders that he’s not really paying attention. He’s too on edge.

It’s not until after the emotional turning point of the film that Burger Chainz breaks the silence. The kid’s friends have all abandoned him, over something stupid Vang0 presumes despite not having paid much attention to what was going on. The kid was angry. Alone. And then the resolution starts and he’s so not alone anymore.

“It can’t all be bad though, right?” Burger asks tentatively.

Vang0 raises an eyebrow at him though which he means to convey Uh well, it is. In case you forgot I was shot by a person in your dumb city just a few hours ago. But which Burger Chainz apparently interprets as… honestly Vang0 has no clue how that man’s mind works.

“I- I mean. It’s not all bad all the time. Aside from the getting shot thing. Not great.”

“Can’t forget the memory wipe.”

Burger’s eye darts around the room, “R-right that too but- But. It’s not all bad. I mean, it’s pretty bad but think about it. You have an apartment and your fans and a sorta job and Dasha and- and me.”

He pauses.

“And that can’t all be bad. I’m only sayin’- the whole world ain’t out to get you, only part of it.”

This shouldn’t be comforting. At all. It should be unsettling. It should make Vang0 want to laugh bitterly and spout some brilliant sardonic response about the world being a cruel place that doesn’t care about people like him. But the music in the movie has shifted to something more hopeful. But it’s the late hours of the night where things like hope are less dangerous to feel. But Burger is looking at him with a soft look in his eyes. Like he really believes what he’s saying, the sap, and like he wants Vang0 to believe it too. He doesn’t but for just a second, Vang0 wants to. He wants to believe in a world with gentleness, the one Burger seems to be able to see where no one else can.

He sighs. Not a defeat. Not an agreement because Vang0 never yields. But an acceptance.

Vang0 tries to release the tension from his shoulders as much as he can, schooling his face into something less jaded. If anyone deserves to believe the world isn’t all sharp edges it’s Burger.

He looks between Burger and the screen, “So do these kid’s friends suck or is that just me?”

There’s a flash of disappointment across Burger’s face, but he’s never been one to push especially not with Vang0. If he drops the subject, Burger will follow. The flash is gone in an instant and a small smile grows across Burger’s face, any residual tension drifting away with it.

“Definitely not just you, they suck. You might’ve missed it but earlier they-”

And he semi-listens to Burger re-explain the plot of the movie he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to but he finds it capturing him more now. His attention is locked somewhere between the play-by-play and the actions occurring on screen. It’s the resolution now and everything seems to be coming together just a little to easily. The friends are back and the school is welcoming and the crush is confessed and everything is wrapped up too neatly for Vang0 to feel satisfied. There’s still a panging ache in his shoulder. His head is still chattering away as it has been since he woke up. Still there is that faint voice urging him to pull away. To focus on what he’s good at and make content and be alone and convince himself that that is enough. But the volume is so low that the old pop tune playing over the credits doesn’t feel abrasive. Burger is leaning in towards him slightly, conspiratorially, as if talking about this dumb classic is as important as mission details. There’s a smile on Burger’s lips that reaches his eyes. And Vang0 is content, for this moment, to pretend that happy endings are enough.

#this is... bad #but i tried and that counts for something #i was t*psy when i started writing this and am no longer t*psy if that gives and perspective #answered #burgerbang0 #vang0chainz #Anonymous

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mssjynx · 5 years ago

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Hi! I’ve been reading a bunch of your stuff lately and was wondering if i could request #24 (nsfw) with either Ohmcat, Ohmtoonz, Minicat, or Daithi de Wildcat

alpha / beta / omega au

daithi de wildcat drabble

24. You keep glaring at me and I have to confront you about it.

warning: nsfw

a/n; this is my first smut for ddw!!! i dont know how im writing them!! i dont know if this worked!!! be honest and let me know what you think :)

hope you enjoy! i hope they were both in character

The party was shit. The alcohol wasn’t good and the food tasted bland. The smell of weed and cigarette smoke polluted every corner of the house and Tyler really did just want to go home. He was buzzed on shitty vodka, having thrown back a few shots with Marcel before the alpha had gotten caught up dancing with Scott.

Now Tyler was sat on the couch with a beta whose name he didn’t remember practically sitting on him and chattering away in his ear. He could barely listen though she didn’t seem discouraged. He could guess she was high off her mind and, honestly, he was glad that at least she was enjoying the night.

Bored, as he had been for the past hour, he cast his attention around the room, snorting to himself when he noticed a very drunk Brian swinging a very sober Brock around in a hazardous dance. When he flicked his attention over his shoulder, he met bright blue eyes with surprise, not expecting to find them staring right back at him.

What only furthered Tyler’s confusion was the anger hiding in that glare. Daithi had his arms folded, eyes sharp and irritated as he glared Tyler down for a few more seconds before turning back to Anthony and Evan. The beta didn’t look back at Tyler, but the American could see he was still angry, foot tapping on the floorboards and fingers clenched in fists at his sides.

What he had done to deserve such anger, he could only wonder, and he settled back into the couch. Ten minutes later, as the girl he sat with pulled him to his feet and tugged him towards the dancefloor, he noticed Daithi again, brows furrowed and a displeased frown twisting his mouth. He kept Tyler’s eyes for only a minute before turning away and Tyler couldn’t help his own irritation flaring. He hadn’t done anything to piss Daithi off, he didn’t deserve to be a target of the Irishman’s anger at all.

With a determination to fix this problem, the alpha placed a hand on the girl’s back and dipped to speak into her ear as he pointed to the dancefloor. Ryan looked extremely out of place where he swayed, not one for the centre of attention or drinking or dancing. “Go dance with him, I gotta sort something out,” he explained and was relieved when she clapped her hands with a giggle.

Placing a kiss on his cheek, she pranced off in the direction of the omega and Tyler laughed to himself as the nervous man got an armful of a pretty high beta. Lingering to watch for only a moment before he swung his head around, he met those icy eyes and this time, locked them down.

“What’s got you lookin’ so pissed?” he demanded as he stalked up to the Irishman. It was mildly dissatisfying when he found that the both of them were pretty much the same height and there was no intimidation or reluctance in those bright eyes.

Still, nothing infuriated him more than the way Daithi folded his arms over his chest and turned his head away. “Nuthin’,” he snapped, voice thick with his accent; a giveaway that the beta had had his own fair share of alcohol that night.

“You’ve always been a shit liar,” he responded, falling back against the wall to stand beside his friend. “What’s wrong?” He wasn’t a sensitive guy, anyone who knew him knew that.

“‘M fine,” he replied and Tyler rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m dating the Queen,” he snarked back, huffing a sigh and grimacing at the fresh scent of weed. “It smells like shit in here.” Daithi let out a hoarse laugh, nodding in agreement. Then, with the sudden need to pee, he pushed off the wall. “I’m going upstairs,” he declared and stepped over to the doorway. When he heard no movement behind him, he turned back and frowned at where Daithi still leaned against the wall. “You comin’?”

Surprise rose those thick brows before he was pushing off the wall and following Tyler out into the hall and to the staircase.

“Where’re we goin’?” Daithi slurred and Tyler snickered when he stumbled on the stairs. “Fock off,” was the quiet snap he received.

“Need to piss,” Tyler explained. “Do you wanna stay down there?” He turned as he asked the question, meeting Daithi’s glance. At the short shake of his head, he smiled and felt a tickle of relief in his chest when the beta returned the grin. “Exactly.”

They popped each door open, dawdling their way down the hall until they came across the nice clean bathroom. Daithi shuffled to the mirror, frowning at his reflection as Tyler turned to the toilet and flicked the lid up. In silence, they relieved themselves, switching places and rinsing their mouths out in the sink.

“So what was ‘er name?” Daithi asked as they stepped into the bedroom beside the bathroom. Bland; Tyler assumed it was a guest room.

Tyler flopped down onto the bed and sighed happily. “Who?” he asked, brain feeling fuzzy from the few drinks that were still coursing through his body.

“T’e girl you were with,” he said, and Tyler turned to where his friend sat on the desk chair. He didn’t meet Tyler’s eyes and confusion flickered through the alpha’s thoughts.

The girl. On the couch, stunk of weed, chattering in his ear. He snickered, reliving the image of Ryan awkwardly catching the girl as she tried to spin into his arms. “Don’t remember,” he admitted as he yawned. “She was probably too high to tell me.”

All Daithi replied with was a short, “Hmph,” as he continued to spin around on the chair.

Tyler flopped onto his side instead, watching his friend spin, kicking the carpet to push him around. “What, you think she was cute or somethin’? What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asked and Daithi only glanced at him for a moment before he was turning his attention to the ceiling.

“No,” the Irishman declared. “She looked annoying.”

“Oh?” Tyler muttered, frowning at both the Irishman and himself. What else could have pissed the Irishman off? In his drunken state, it really was too difficult for him to consider it and he gave away a huff of defeat. “Why’re you pissed then?” he asked straight up and frowned further when Daithi didn’t meet his eyes at all.

“I told ye, I ain’t pissed,” the Irishman snapped, but the anger could be heard in his defensiveness and without the stench of weed around them, Tyler could scent the irritation. “I couldn’ care less about who ye take a fancy to,” he continued, stopping the chair and glaring at the wall.

For a long few minutes, the two remained in their silence as Tyler turned those words over in his brain a few times. “I couldn’ care less about who ye take a fancy to.” Why did Daithi sound like he was lying through his teeth? But why would Daithi actually care about who Tyler took interest in if he wasn’t telling the truth?

It felt too silly to think about for the drunk alpha and a laugh bubbled out of his throat. “You jealous or some shit?” he laughed, cracking a grin as he met Daithi’s eyes. “You wanna come sit on my lap?” The words were teasing as he giggled but no smile pulled at the beta’s mouth. He gave the alpha a pointed glare before turning to face the blank computer screen on the desk behind him.

Tyler’s grin fell.

“I was kidding,” he said. “What, do you actually like me or some shit?”

Perhaps being blunt wasn’t exactly the right route to take while handling this as Daithi’s shoulders tensed. “Fock off, I don’t,” he spat and Tyler couldn’t ignore the uptick of his heartbeat if he tried.

He gaped at the back of the beta’s head, eyes wide and mouth agape. Daithi was actually jealous of that girl? He wanted to be the one cuddled up to Tyler, flirting and taunting? Did he want to kiss Tyler? Did Tyler want to kiss Daithi?

He couldn’t help flicking his tongue out to lick his lips at the thought, his stomach flipping in a weird way. The immediate “no way” didn’t come to mind like he thought it would and the drunk haze that occupied his mind made it seem far less of an internal crisis as it should have been. He simply pushed himself to sit upright and exhaled.

“Daithi, c’mere,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

Slowly, the beta turned and glanced over his shoulder. He wore a suspicious look in his eye and didn’t turn the chair as he glared. “Why?” he demanded and Tyler snorted.

He lifted a hand and beckoned at the Irishman. “Come on, fuckhead. C’mere,” he repeated and smiled at the sigh that the beta released. He swivelled himself around and slowly wheeled himself to the bedside.

“Whot?” he asked, brows still furrowed.

Closer, it was easier to see the pink that flushed Daithi’s face, the guarded look in his eye. His eyes were less blurry and the nerves on Daithi’s face only made the beta look cuter (in a weird, unusual way).

Without thinking into it, he let the weird urge that flipped his stomach and buzzed his nerves take over. He reached up, not too fast as to scare Daithi off, but quick enough that he was able to catch a hold of the beta’s shirt before he could back off.

Letting the contact linger between them for a moment, just to make sure the beta wasn’t going to freak out on him, he then pulled Daithi forward, sitting up in preparation.

“Nogla,” he scolded when the beta leant back slightly. “Get your ass-”

With a grunt, the beta pushed off the chair and clambered onto the mattress, situating himself above the alpha’s lap. Close. A hand on Tyler’s shoulder. His own hand on Daithi’s thigh. He felt the world spin around them and all he needed was to catch the flash of uncertainty in those pretty blue eyes before he made a decision.

He yanked at his shirt, yanking him close, and flinched when Daithi’s lips crushed against his. The dull pain of contact didn’t linger though as Tyler caught the Irishman’s jaw and fit their mouths together properly.

And honestly, it was weird. Daithi’s lips were chapped, he was big and clumsy on Tyler’s lap and he seemed uncertain with every touch. But Tyler could feel the fire beneath the beta’s skin and the craving to break it free was overpowering. He pulled back, watching Daithi blink dazedly.

“Daithi, kiss me,” he commanded. “Properly.”

Then he pulled Daithi down to sit on him and sealed their mouths together once again. Two seconds. Slight adjustments. Daithi’s hands tightened on his shoulders and his mouth melted against Tyler’s in a way that had heat and excitement erupting in his lower belly. Their mouths moved together with a lack of experience, but from fleeting kisses Tyler had shared in the past with girls he’d met in clubs or out on dates, he knew well enough to lead Daithi on.

With warm cheeks, he licked lightly at the beta’s top lip and couldn’t stop himself from moaning when Daithi arched his hips forward in response. Fuck, was all the alpha could think as the seam of Daithi’s lips parted and before Tyler could comprehend any of it, Daithi was sucking lightly on his tongue and sighing into his mouth.

He arched his own hips up, only a subtle motion to grind his arousal up against Daithi’s, but the action only reminded him how many boundaries lay between them. His hands slid around to the underside of Daithi’s thighs, slipping up to his butt which he squeezed out of curiosity.

The breathless moan Daithi pressed into his mouth was far too erotic and something primal took control of Tyler as he locked up. Holding Daithi against him, he rolled to the side and pressed the beta down into the mattress. Hips caught between Daithi’s legs, mouth still locked on the beta’s, he growled and nipped at the beta’s bottom lip.

“Fuck,” Daithi breathed as they drew back for air, but Tyler didn’t wait for a critique, diving back in and licking into Daithi’s mouth. He braced himself on one arm, his other holding the beta’s thigh upright to give him more space between Daithi’s legs. Everything felt right when he rocked his hips down, grinding his arousal into the Irishman’s heat and gripping his thigh hard enough to bruise.

When the beta could no longer breathe, he tipped his head back and Tyler didn’t chase his mouth despite how much he craved to. He let Daithi breathe and instead lost all of his focus to the expanse of pale skin revealed before him. Another grind of the hips, a breathless whine from Daithi; he dropped his head to the slope of the beta’s neck and locked his lips onto the skin.

“Oh hell,” Daithi murmured, hand sliding up the back of Tyler’s neck to grasp his hair as the alpha began sucking hard, deliberate marks into the beta’s throat. His hips didn’t stop their grinding as he rocked his arousal against Daithi, dragging as many different sounds from the beta as he could. The pleasure surrounded them in a hazy, stinking up the room so much better than the weed downstairs.

Tyler forgot all about the party. He forgot all about the girl.

All he had space for in his mind was Daithi’s body beneath him and the heat that seemed to devour them. “Tyler, ye’re gonna leave a mark,” Daithi groaned as Tyler bit as skin he’d been teasing with his tongue. The alpha only grinned, sucking it between his teeth and lavishing it with his tongue. “Fock-” The beta’s gasping curses were the best encouragement Tyler could receive as he worked his way down Daithi’s throat.

It wasn’t long before the need and the heat was getting to his head and he was bucking his hips down to meet Daithi’s grinds, putting torturously not-enough pressure on either of their arousals.

The second thin fingers started grabbing at Tyler’s shirt, he pulled up off the beta and yanked his shirt up over his head. By the time he’d wrestled his belt off and shoved his jeans and boxers down his thighs, Daithi was on his back, jeans on the floor and shirt thrown behind him. His cock was swollen, bent up to rest against his stomach where it leaked precum.

Tyler felt his mouth watering as the fresh scent of arousal and Daithi filled his nose. “Fuck, you smell amazing,” he couldn’t help but growl, taking Daithi in his hand and sliding his fingers over his length.

He watched as Daithi’s eyelashes fluttered, eyes rolling back as he fell to the mattress. He didn’t seem strong enough to hold himself up as his thighs shook where they bent either side of Tyler’s hips. Pressing in to occupy that space again, Tyler was glad for his large hands as he slid his own cock alongside Nogla’s and took both of them in his hand.

Immediately, Daithi was gasping, teeth burying in his bottom lip as he bucked up into the contact. “Yes, yeah, that’s good-” He choked on the words as Tyler flicked his wrist. The burn was a little much without lubrication and he hummed in thought for a moment. Without a care for modesty, he spat into his palm before smearing the little beads of precum leaking from their arousals down their cocks.

It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do, he decided as he dipped down and caught Daithi’s bottom lip between his teeth. Settling over him, he flicked his wrist again and felt the beta’s pleasured sigh wash over his mouth.

“Fuck,” he murmured, before slipping his tongue into Tyler’s mouth as the alpha jerked them both off. It was impossible to keep his hips still as the cold touch of his hand drove pleasure through the both of them. Daithi’s hips stuttered with every pump and Tyler could hardly stop the moans and growls that threatened his throat.

He kissed Daithi deeply, rolling his hips and moving his hand hard and fast. His own climax was tense in his guts and he could feel the taut muscles of Daithi’s thighs growing tighter around his waist as the beta sought out his end also.

“Fuck, Tyler- Don’t- Don’t stop,” the beta whimpered, mouth and body pliant as Tyler kissed him and ground against him.

His only response was a somewhat animalistic growl as he thrust his hips forward and slid his thumb and finger along the very sensitive skin beneath the tip of their cocks. Daithi spilled first, bucked up and moaning into Tyler’s mouth as the alpha chased his own release and came onto the beta’s stomach.

Every tense muscle in his body released and he made an effort to at least flop to the mattress beside Daithi instead of outright squashing him down into the mattress. But almost instantly, the beta was curling into him and pressing his red face into the alpha’s neck.

Tyler couldn’t help his flustered blush as they both lay together panting.

“Holy fock,” was all Daithi managed to say and when he managed to draw himself back and meet Tyler’s eyes, there was no mistaking the little glimmer of happiness and pleasure that hid there. Tyler only scoffed, reaching up for the beta’s bruised neck and pulling him forward into a kiss.

It was softer; modest and sweet as they enjoyed the laziness of the moment and the bass of the music from the floor below. By the time they pulled away, Tyler was feeling light-headed and Daithi was grinning widely.

“Wanna come home with me?” the alpha asked and Daithi’s grin was enough of an answer that he could ask for.

And if in the cab home, Tyler had to kiss Daithi to keep him quiet while he worked his hand into the beta’s pants, then no one but he and Daithi needed to know about it.

#anon #daithi de wildcat #banana bus squad #bbs #fic #fanfic #drabble #alpha/beta/omega #alpha beta omega #a/b/o #abo #omegaverse #alpha! tyler #beta! daithi #sm/ut #ns/fw

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wunderlass · 5 years ago

Text

Time of Your Life

For Candy & Milkshakes, though angstier than this event was meant to be. Hastily betaed by @queenrikki - my haste, not hers.

It’s a good day in a long string of good days. Truth be told, Max Evans doesn’t have bad days.

The afternoon sun has burned the fog away from San Francisco Bay, so when he sits out on his apartment balcony with his notepad and mug of tea there’s a blue sky overhead and a distant view of the hills rising up behind Sausalito. One day they might be able to afford a better view—actual water, or the San Francisco shoreline—but then Liz always teases that they need to move to Poet’s Corner, where the houses are low and trees obscure the view.

She knows Max’s dream is to live in a Victorian, and they’ll probably have to leave Berkeley to get it. It’s another thing she teases him about: like him writing by hand instead of on a laptop. She calls him her old-fashioned gentlemen, but he’s learned how to ballroom dance with her so it seems to be old-fashioned in a way she likes.

He can take her teasing with ease. Anything to bring a smile to her face, to coax sparkling laughter from her like champagne.

This balcony has turned out to be a productive area for him. He’s written two novels on it since they moved in, and sold one of them. He’s not setting the bestseller’s list alight but it’s a steady income to supplement Liz’s paycheck, especially with how simply they live. It goes a long way at the farmer’s market, where he heads in the morning to pick up produce for dinner. Liz likes to refer to him as her house husband, with the way he does all the cooking and taking care of the apartment, though she glows with pride whenever she reads the reviews for his books.

He’s not capturing the feeling of home in his writing he’s been striving to since he was a teenager. But he’s working on it. The day he can say he’s been able to suspend how he feels about Liz in ink is the day he’ll have succeeded. For now, he keeps trying, pushing his characters through tests and troubles he’s never really faced in his life, leaving them chasing the home he managed to secure for himself so long ago.

His mug is empty, so he heads inside to set the kettle boiling for a refill. A pot of chili simmers away on the stove—his father-in-law’s recipe, solemnly handed over on their wedding day. Arturo had been worried that with them being so young when they married, they weren’t capable of taking care of themselves or each other. This was his way of making sure Liz didn’t starve while they tried to live on student grants, barista wages, and the occasional sale of a poem. Max had gradually persuaded Arturo to hand over many recipes in the decade since, but this remains a staple.

Even if it’s far smaller than what they could afford back in Roswell, Max likes their apartment. Sure, it’s a 1950’s box, but the balcony makes up for the lack of indoor charm. Liz is all the charm he needs. He’s lined the walls in cheap IKEA bookcases, all of them filled to the brim and overflowing, and it feels all the cozier for it. They don’t need more than they have, and he’d rather spend their money on the things that count. Things like traveling: where books haven’t swallowed wall space, Liz has insisted on photo frames of their adventures, right back to that original road trip after senior year. Six weeks across the US, cataloged through Polaroids and an old disposable film camera, followed by other journeys: Canada, Mexico, Europe.

Liz’s face smiles at him from one the of Polaroid images, right next to his own, her arms curled around him with the Grand Canyon in the background. It was when he’d first started trying to grow out facial hair, abandoning his razor when they left Roswell behind, and the fuzzy results made him cringe when he looked back at them, but Liz loves this photo. It had been the first one taken after he told her the truth: who he really was.

She’d accepted him, no questions. Well…there had been many questions, but that was Liz, rattling them off a million miles an hour trying to understand his physiology. None of his answers changed how she felt about him. Nor did they stop her accepting his spur-of-the-moment proposal on their way back to Roswell at the end of summer.

Nobody had approved—Rosa was the most vocal opponent, but even she’d come to the wedding in the end. Approval didn’t matter. Max had loved Liz his entire life and would love her forever. And because of that time he’d got a little carried away and accidentally forged a handprint bond with her when they were first becoming intimate, he knew she felt the same way.

Their wedding photo takes pride of place over the fireplace. Maria Deluca took it, by way of a gift. Rosa found Liz a vintage beaded gown in a thrift store, an ivory that goes so well with her skin tone. She doesn’t wear a veil and her hair is in a simple twist, curls escaping from it to frame her face and neck. Next to her, Max is in a borrowed grey suit, his hair much shorter than he wears it nowadays, slicked back with gel and hope. His facial hair had grown in enough by that point that it didn’t look like the desperate attempts of a teenage boy, though to his own eyes now he looks drowned in the suit. Doesn’t matter. What’s clear from the photo is how happy they both were. That hasn’t diminished at all; not through three degrees, six half-drafted novels, and eighteen countries.

The kettle comes to a rolling boil and clicks off. Max goes through the motions of brewing his tea. This break has really been to allow his mind to work through a sticky plot point, one that wouldn’t be solved staring at a blank page.

A comment by a reviewer in a prestigious newspaper column recently suggested that Max’s writing is callow because he gives his character happy endings. He doesn’t see the problem—why take readers on a journey alongside characters, have them grow to love them like friends, and reward them with nothing at the end of it? Liz told him to pay the review no mind and to write what he wants. But this time, he’s been contemplating ending on a tragic note. What if there is no happy ending to be found? If he wants to be one of the greats, maybe he needs to consider showing that sometimes struggles are futile.

The break has cleared his mind. That’s not the right path at all. He writes to give people hope. He writes, however unsuccessfully, to provide a lifeline to people who need it, a shining beacon of everything that life, love and happiness can be.

On that note, he hears the turn of the key in the door. His own shining beacon is home.

The morning birds wake him, their timing ever cruel. The moment before he’d see Liz again.

In truth, Max doesn’t know what Liz Ortecho looks like anymore. He carries the memory of her face in crystal clarity within his minds’ eye, but that’s the face of a teenage girl who left Roswell ten years ago and never looked back. What changes time has brought to her, Max doesn’t know. Social media has its temptations but he’s resisted them, in the knowledge that he doesn’t have the right to seek her out.

Not when the memory of her face is tangled up in the blank face of her sister, twisted together by his own guilt.

Despite this, in his dreams he’s begun seeing a Liz that doesn’t exist, living a life with a version of himself that doesn’t exist either. A simple, happy life, the kind of life Max hoped for as a foolish teenager. Where his dreams have always been vague jumbles of shapes and sound, fleeting with the morning, over the last few weeks they’ve become sharp and clear.

He sees Liz, in the kind of detail he never thought himself capable of imagining. He watches them share a life: he’s been able to do more than look at her at night, sharing casual, affectionate touches, kisses and caresses. Tumble into bed with her with all the accrued intimacy of a decade together, knowing her body as well as his own.

Other details linger from his dreams, making them feel as tangible as the real world. He knows how the pot of chili is going to taste. He’s never been to California, or seen the ocean, but somehow he’s able to construct an entire cityscape from nothing, the memory of salt and fog on his skin and in his lungs. If he was still writing his imagination’s sudden uptick in activity would be a boon, but he hasn’t felt the urge to put pen to paper for months.

He should be asking the question why now?, but he knows why. This is a fresh form of his guilt, tormenting him with what might have been. A decade ago they’d been making plans to leave Roswell together and go on that roadtrip. This is his imagination throwing in his face all that might have been, with barely over a month to go until the anniversary of that night.

He wants to return to sleep, hoping that even if time has moved on in that other world, he’ll still be mid-kiss with Liz. It’s another way his imagination is excelling itself in fleshing out the details of how she feels, tastes, of the noises she makes. And because he wants it so badly, he’s locked out, condemned to wakefulness.

Instead he gives up, getting up and going through the motions of another day.

Those motions bring him to the Crashdown at lunchtime, nursing a coffee he won’t drink. Arturo is too busy to talk to, but Max won’t ask about Liz this time. The words feel too heavy when it’s so close to that day.

He doesn’t order any food but he swears he can taste chili as he leaves. He wonders if Arturo would have been the amenable father-in-law he seems to be during the night.

All Max wants is to make it through the day until he is tired enough to go home and sleep. He doesn’t want to have to wear the mask that helps him pretend he is fine. And yet, here Isobel is outside the Crashdown, making a beeline for him.

The mask goes on. He wonders if she will ever notice.

“That’s weird,” Isobel says as she approaches. “I haven’t been here in ages, but today of all days…” She drifts off, shakes her head.

“What do you want, Isobel?” He sounds as tired as he feels, even to his own ears.

“Lovely to see you too. Maybe I just wanted to say hello to my brother in passing since he never seems to go anywhere or do anything these days?”

Max flinches. He’s been going out less and less, turning down the invitations he’s always accepted out of obligation, out of the need to pretend that his world hasn’t shrunk to a little patch of gray disinterest. “I’ve been busy.”

“No you haven’t. And I need your help as a volunteer to decorate the school reunion.”

Now Max really regrets getting out of bed. “I don’t remember volunteering.”

“I’m organizing it, of course you’re helping me.” But she’s distracted, her gaze flicking back to the Crashdown behind him. She absently plays with the wedding band on her finger. He’s never seen her do that before. “Do you remember Liz Ortecho?”

Max stiffens. He hasn’t mentioned her name in years. Isobel definitely hasn’t. “Of course I do,” he says between gritted teeth.

“I had the weirdest dream a few nights ago. She was in it.” Max doesn’t ask for more details, but Isobel volunteers them anyway. “I wasn’t married, but you were. To her.”

Max holds his breath.

“It was so vivid,” she continues. “Like, you weren’t even here in Roswell anymore, but I was. Alone. I didn’t like it.” She shakes her head, as if shaking the feeling away. “As if you’d ever abandon me like that.” She smiles at him and it’s all he can do to force a smile in return.

She’s right. He wouldn’t. Even if it meant giving up Liz.

When he continues on his way, climbing into his cruiser for an uneventful tour of the city, he isn’t unduly concerned about the similarity of his dream to Isobel’s. If it was anyone else, sure, but they have the twin connection. They’ve never spoken about their dreams before, but is it so strange for their dreams to blend together at night?

This new dimension should make him feel guilty. In this dream reality he is forcing Isobel to be lonely, abandoned in Roswell—though why his imagination doesn’t have her finding Noah, he doesn’t know. But these are only dreams. In the daylight, she has Noah. She has Max and Michael, and she is loved. Max doesn’t have that.

If he has to chase it at twilight, he will, Isobel be damned.

There are no bookshelves in the bedroom. Liz’s rule, although it doesn’t stop Max’s nightstand being stacked with a precarious pile of them, each bisected by receipts and ticket stubs and whatever else was to hand when he needed a bookmark. Liz’s nightstand is neater, even if it’s not exactly neat: she has her own disheveled collection of papers; the case for her mouthguard; baby wipes; lube.

He’s propped up against the headboard reading while she brushes her teeth in the en-suite. He gets glimpses of her as she paces: hair tied up in a loose bun, a camisole and pajama pants that speak more to comfort than enticing him. Not that it takes much to entice him, and knowing Liz is comfortable around him only adds to that effect.

He waits for her to finish spitting and rinsing, flicking off the overhead light so she’s lit only by the glow of the bedside lamp. She clambers into the bed beside him, burrows into his side. He can read like this, with her head resting on his shoulder, as they first discovered on the senior year road trip. Something about him being awake and reading helps soothe her to sleep. They’ve never figured out why, but it’s the same for Max, who struggles to sleep any other way these days. The times she’s gone off to conferences to present her research, he’s had to return to Roswell to spend time with Isobel, because being alone in their home without Liz’s presence is the opposite of soothing. They have a rhythm and being without her throws it off.

“Max,” Liz murmurs into his chest.

Evidently tonight she doesn’t intend on going straight to sleep.

“Hmmm?” He closes his book, marking his place with a fridge magnet they bought in Mexico City, and places it on the nightstand.

“Do you ever wonder about starting a family?”

She must be able to hear his heart pounding. He’s wondered. Of course he’s wondered.

“We don’t know if that’s possible,” he says gently. It’s why he’s never dared raise the subject before.

“I think it’ll work,” she replies, raising her head so she’s looking at him. Big brown eyes, glowing in the lamplight. “I’ve looked at our DNA and there’s no reason to think it won’t.”

He chuckles. He can’t help it; of course Liz has done the research before coming to him. “Is that so?”

“I think if we can conceive, then the pregnancy should be viable. Conceiving may be the hardest part.” Her expression turns playful. “But also the most fun.”

He can’t argue with that.

Max’s mood is more sour than usual. He’s felt fragile since he woke up, like he’s on the verge of a meltdown: he doesn’t know if he wants to cry, or throw things, but being around his brother isn’t the best way to find out which it will be.

If only he’d not been taking the first step towards creating a family with Liz when he woke up.

Michael hasn’t been arrested for a few weeks and it’s making Max concerned. Even Isobel has commented that he seems to be preoccupied, going to the Pony less (because it turns out Isobel keeps tabs on Michael too).

When he emerges, it’s not as bad as it could be. He’s not in the drunk tank. He isn’t being ticketed. No, he seeks Max out, something that hasn’t happened in years.

His voluntary presence in the sheriff’s office draws stares from everyone when he saunters past the front desk.

“You don’t have any outstanding warrants,” Max tells him when Michael reaches his desk.

“I know. If I did, I wouldn’t be here,” Michael replies, like he’s talking to an idiot.

“Then why are you here?”

Cam’s out patrolling and the Sheriff is in her personal office so they actually have privacy. Nevertheless, Michael lowers his voice to barely above a whisper.

“You wouldn’t happen to have been having weird dreams?”

The pencil in Max’s hand snaps in two.

“What have you done?”

Liz is sleeping in this morning. It’s the weekend and without an alarm set, she will doze for hours. It’s always tempting to stay curled up with her, but Max gets restless too easily, so he’s up making pancakes. Hopefully the smell will entice Liz to emerge from her cocoon.

He plates up and sits himself down at their tiny dining table. It’s next to the kitchen wall, right below a set of photos from their youths: Liz and Rosa’s quinceaneras, Max and Isobel with the family dog, Max and Isobel and Michael out in the desert the year before they graduated high school. Michael has a guitar in his hand and a smile on his face. It’s a rare photo of him, and a rare example of him smiling. Possibly the last time Max ever saw him this way.

All Max knows is that something happened to Michael at the end of high school, something that left his hand mangled and his hope in tatters. He turned his back on humanity, preaching to his siblings that there was nothing good to be found on Earth, and sought comfort at the bottom of bottles of whiskey and acetone. The two only seemed to curdle his bitterness and there was nothing Max could do or say to reach him. No, Michael had taken Max’s happiness with Liz as a personal affront and walked away from him.

Max hasn’t seen Michael for a few years: not since he was arrested for credit card fraud. The charges were shaky but Michael had nobody to bail him out or pay for a decent lawyer, so off to the state penitentiary he went. Isobel visits him in there sometimes, but Max isn’t welcome. Michael’s sentence keeps getting extended because he can’t stay out of fights, though he’s managed to evade suspicion of being an alien. Probably because people don’t know he’s from Roswell and don’t associate him with the legend.

Liz pads into the living room wearing one of Max’s t-shirts, which hits her at mid-thigh. “Those smell amazing.”

She hasn’t brushed her teeth yet so kisses his forehead rather than his mouth, not that Max cares. She grabs her plate and sits opposite him, digging in with relish.

“I’ve been thinking,” he ventures. “We could get a dog. You know, if the baby thing doesn’t work out. I know it’s not the same, but a dog would be nice.”

Max likes dogs, and they always like him. He thinks he wants a dog even if the baby thing does work out.

Liz smiles sympathetically and covers her hand with her own. “It’s going to work out. One way or the other.”

“What do you mean ‘alternate universe’?”

Michael sighs. “It’s complicated if you aren’t already into multiverse theory and—”

“I don’t need the physics explaining to me,” Max cuts in. “I need you to explain why you think I’m experiencing one when I sleep.”

Michael holds his hands up sheepishly. “So I may have been collecting spaceship pieces in my trailer, and I may have recently been experimenting a little with quantum mechanics using subpar equipment.”

“In your airstream.”

“Yeah.”

“And you started having these dreams yourself?”

Michael shoves his hands into his pockets. “Can’t say they were much fun.”

“No. You’re in prison there.”

“Anyway, I’m working on untangling it all so it’ll go back to normal real soon.”

That’s the last thing Max wants. “No,” he says, too sharply and too quickly. Michael’s puzzled frown demands more of a response. “No more experimenting. If this is bad as it gets, I can live with it. I don’t want you making it worse.”

Nor does he want his nights with Liz snatched away from him. Not now he knows how real they are. It’s not his reality, but it’s one he’ll willingly disappear into for as long as he can.

“I know what I’m doing,” Michael protests.

“Clearly you don’t. Leave it alone.”

All Max needs is time. Time with Liz. Time in the life he should have had.

Max hasn’t felt the twin connection to Isobel for years. Somewhere along the way they’d stopped using it, long before Max left Roswell.

It comes screaming back at the most inconvenient time. Liz is unwrapping a trio of pregnancy tests, ready to find out if their first month of baby-making was successful or not.

And Max is on his knees, groaning with the surge of pain that runs through his head.

Liz is in front of him immediately. “Max! Max, are you okay?”

“Isobel,” he pants out, and Liz scrambles for the phone, dialing his parents.

It doesn’t take long to get an answer. Isobel has been hospitalized. It’s unclear why: his mother is hysterical, in a way he’s never heard her become. But Max is booking flights back to Roswell, ready to find out what’s going on.

Liz can’t come with him. She has to stay and work—her project is at a delicate stage.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he tells her.

“I won’t use the tests until you return,” she promises.

Isobel is waiting for him outside the Crashdown. There are dark circles under her eyes and she holds her left hand like it’s heavy, rubbing at her wedding ring.

“Did you see it?” she asks. “When you were dreaming?”

“What happened?” When he woke up, he was still on his way to Roswell, having only just said goodbye to Liz.

“I couldn’t bear it,” she says. “No Noah, no Michael, no you. What a horrible reality.”

Max can’t agree. “So the other Isobel—”

“It wasn’t the other Isobel. It was me. She put a mask on her loneliness and went on like it wasn’t killing her, so I made her do something about it. To bring you back.”

He staggers back, as if she’s actually punched him rather than done it verbally. “What?” He shakes his head. “We can’t influence—”

Isobel squares her shoulder. “I can. My powers are mental. I found a way.”

How does Max even begin to explain what Isobel is interrupting? “That’s not our world, Isobel. We have different lives—we can’t interfere in them. You have a good life here. You should focus on that.”

“What good does that do me if the other one haunts me when I’m awake?”

“How can you say that? We aren’t killers in that reality. Isn’t that better?”

He’s never been able to figure out why, what the little differences were that made all the difference. No camping trip when they were fourteen meant Isobel didn’t have blackouts, and for some reason that meant Rosa Ortecho never died. Isobel’s loneliness seems like a small price to pay for that, compared to a universe where Max is a killer and still has to bear his guilt alone.

“No,” Isobel insists. “I hate it. If I have to keep going back there, I’m going to do everything I can to keep you in Roswell with me. Even if I have to get inside your head and make you stay. I can’t cope alone, Max. Not when I know what I could have had.”

“Isobel’s okay,” Max says to Liz down the phone. “Sedated. She didn’t mean to harm herself, they think it was accidental.”

“That’s good. Though she can’t have been doing all that well—”

“No, I know. Mom and dad haven’t noticed anything, but…” It’s Isobel, and it’s his mother. Neither are very emotionally available people.

“Stay as long as she needs you,” Liz urges.

“I need you.”

“I need you too. But you’ve always been good about me running off to help Rosa. It’s your turn.”

Max knows what he needs to do, for the sake of the other Max. But even hearing her voice over the phone is like a hit of opium. As much as the other Max relishes any form of contact with his Liz, it’s nothing to what Max feels in this reality. He’s been denied her for years and every morsel, every scrap she throws his way, is a slow drip of what he needs through his veins.

How can he give her up?

Isobel isn’t responsive in the hospital. He sits with her a while, holds her hand, strokes her hair, but she doesn’t wake up.

Does she dream of her life in the other Roswell, where she has a husband and her family around her?

Seeing Isobel persuades him. In both realities she’s not in a good way, and only one person seems to know how to fix it.

Michael is hard to pin down, even if he supposedly lives and works in the same place, so Max leaves him a voicemail.

“Do what you need to do to make the dreams stop, Michael. For Isobel’s sake.”

“Max?” Liz’s voice is soft, happy. “I know I said I wouldn’t use the tests—and I haven’t!—but you should know I’ve been feeling kind of nauseated today. And yesterday. And the day before that.”

“And you’re excited about that?” he teases, but he can feel a bubble of happiness rising within his own chest. “Isn’t it a little early—”

“Not necessarily.”

He pauses. “Take the test, Liz. There’s no point waiting until I come home.”

“Okay. I’ll call you back when I know.”

It feels wrong, sitting outside Isobel’s room, almost vibrating with happiness, but he can’t help it. He has a good feeling about this.

He’s wrenched awake. It’s the middle of the night and there’s no reason for him to be awake, but he is, and he feels adrift, like he’s been cut off from something.

His phone blinks on the nightstand. A message from Michael.

Fixed it.

Liz is gone. The other universe is lost to him.

He hadn’t thought it possible for this universe to feel more barren to him until this morning. The desert dust is ash under his boots, the rolling emptiness around his home a valid reflection of what he feels inside.

He’s on a later shift, doing traffic stops on the highway, and he knows despite the Sheriff’s best efforts they’ll probably have unwelcome company park up with them. First, he has to go to the warehouse the school reunion is being held in and lug boxes and tables around for Isobel.

Her dark circles are gone. The spring in her step has returned.

He made the right choice.

Later, on the dark highway armed with a torch and his weariness, he indicates for a car with Colorado plates and a broken light to pull over. Gets hit with a mouthful of fire.

And then there she is.

“Liz.”

#roswell new mexico #fic #echo #candymilkshakes2019 #liz x max #tw implied self harm #very non specific

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