#local fool seals his fate

[kikikihermommy]

lamb to the slaughter

ii: the thirteenth guest

Timeline: [1980s] F13-III Content: 18+, possessive, canon typical events / violence, Jason isn’t an idiot, religion references Type: jason voorhees x f!reader | pc: pinterest | x-posted to ao3

Summer, 1984

“The purpose in a man's heart is like deep water, but one who has insight draws them out.”

Were the first words the town’s loonie spoke to you. Ralph was his name. 

You never understood why exactly he resented you, babbling about a death curse as he eluded your presence, time and time again. 

Sometimes you wondered if you bestowed this curse, but as far as you’re concerned, you can bleed and meet a terrible demise just like any other of your fleshy brethren.

Just like wicked men, crazy men were unpredictable, yearning for your trust to lure you into a greater evil, fueled by their passion of ulterior motives and deceivement. 

You figured such a concept applied to Ralph, so naturally, approaching him was never an idea. 

But with that massacre that happened at the reopening of Crystal Lake Camp? Maybe the old coot was the only sane one here. 

Yet his words persisted to dwell in your mind, maybe they tormented you so because you gave them power, or there was some sort of sick truth to the doomsayer’s claims. 

Your refound peace at Crystal Lake would cleanse you of your racing thoughts, just temporarily. 

Visiting the lush forest was probably not your best idea, especially after what happened. But the stillness of the water, along with the alleged suspect being in custody brought comfort. 

Everything has been tense recently, locals clamored about Camp Blood, and gossip spread from home to home. Like Ralph, some talked about a curse, and others claimed it was just unlucky. 

While luck was an ideology you never subscribed to, the lake revolved around superstition, turning both it and who occupied the lands into an embodiment. 

The camp counsellors would flip their lucky pennies, the results determining who could fuck off, and who would be on shift, as if their duty of care was a treacherous burden cast upon them. 

A bad omen. 

A simple flip of a coin sealed Jason’s destiny, from the day he was pushed into the lake, to now; a deranged and bloodlusted killer, distributing the very same bad luck and terror on new pupils. 

ki ki ki ma ma ma

An inner monologue of hate versus desire. Not one could hear, nor feel it coming. The steady steps crunching on foliage is jarring, and without much of a warning, the life would leave his victims eyes. 

Receiving no answers, just closure. 

Like a lamb awaiting their turn to the slaughter, your impending fate was approaching soundlessly. You were indirectly guilty, just for being. 

Yet the hair on the nape of your neck stood, and for a quick moment, the mourning doves stopped their cooes. 

The lake fell eerily silent, the sound of your breath becoming the main occupant.

Terrible deities haunted you in your dreams, often possessing humanoid characteristics, not resembling the mortal world at all. 

The only escape was in your waking hours, where evil blended into the masses, going unnoticed by most, preying on the weak and hunting the powerless. 

Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing he wore shiny black boots, overalls, and a tattered plaid shirt. If it wasn’t for the burlap sack— he could have fooled anyone.  

An evocative eye peeked at you from under the fabric, dark and cunning while they preached sin. 

You were that to a deer in headlights, your legs refused to move as you stared death in the eye. 

Instead of a car shooting towards you at the speed of light, providing the luxury of a swift death upon impact. It was a six-foot-something monster with a pickaxe, stalking towards you like a lion. 

You entertained no game of cat and mouse— maybe he liked it that way. 

Cornered against the old oak, and nearly automated, the beast raised the weapon he yielded, preparing to strike. 

Yet he froze—

Was he waiting for you to run?

His eye was barren, and offered nothing as his gaze slunk down— either to your chest or necklaces, you couldn’t tell. 

As a shriek escaped, you regained the consciousness desperately needed to flee, 

and for once, evil didn’t follow.  

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

Well, I guess I’m a fool for you: Part One.

AN: I originally posted this on an alt account because i was nervous about it but then I thought, fuck it, and I'll post it here

You had never accounted for being a part of Buggy’s crew. You never assumed that your life would plan out that way.

You were a ‘high born’ girl originally, a socialite, a member of high society who’s life was to be admired for the most part, until your town was ransacked by pirates. They kidnapped you hoping to use you for ransom, not accounting for the fact that your parents didn’t care as they had a first-born son to carry their legacy anyway. The pirates took you, used you and left you for dead on a random island far from your knowledge.

An old woman missing her children, that had already flown the nest had found you stranded on  a beach left to die, she took you in and saved you, clothing and housing you, sitting with you on an night helping drive the demons away that plagued your sleep. It was hard to trust but you managed it, even growing affection for the woman, maybe even more so than your cold mother.

All was well for a few years until your new found matron passed and you alone inherited her small and less than profitable lands, they were hard work but you wanted to support her memory the best you could. That is until the Buggy Pirates showed up.

The pirates ransacked the village taking whatever items of value they could from the locals, which wasn’t much, they took whatever hostages they could; including yourself, to see if there was any talent amongst the village they could use.

You were all lined up on the beach in front of the magnificent ‘Big Top’ Ship awaiting the captain. The dynamic blue haired man with a distinctive large red nose paced up and down the choice of ‘talent’ his crew chose from the sleepy village. He eyed each and every one of the individuals until his eyes rested on you, a sparkle in his eye as if he knew there was something special or different about you.

“Hello doll.” He said with a smirk, looking at your proud unwavering expression. He takes his gloved hand and squeezes your cheeks together, causing you lips to purse. “You look like a girl who can get things done.” He smirks devilishly and nods to his crew members to take you away to a cabin on the ship.

You are dragged away roughly by two of the crew members, your knees scraping against the wooden floor of the ship as you can barely keep up with how fast they are walking with you. They throw you into a cabin with no mercy and close the door behind you, locking you in and sealing your fate as a pirate on the Big Top, at the mercy of Buggy himself, you sit on the edge of your concrete like bed, your head in your hands and sob softly before wiping your tears and sitting tall and proud, you know this is your life but you are determined to embrace it. Where your parents failed you earlier in life you want to prove that you can make something of yourself, even if it means you have to be a ruthless pirate.

[ecosystem-administrator]

Envoy

Timeline: 4.2-4.3, Stormblood MSQ spoilers

A few journal entries from one Maxima quo Priscus, illuminating the course of an ill-fated diplomatic mission.

Journal of Maxima quo Priscus, 18 medihiems, 57 IE

I can scarcely believe how swiftly our fortunes have shifted. The uprisings in the provinces have set the Optimates back immensely, all their rhetoric now ringing hollow in the face of our recent losses. As we have long warned, the policies of brutal repression have inspired backlash, not dutiful submission to their so-called betters. Though the majority opinion is still in favor of expansion and subjugation, reports from the soldiers who have returned from the field are vividly illustrating the need for a more nuanced and considerate approach to treating with other lands and nations.

The Crown Prince himself, Zenos yae Galvus, reached out to us a week or so past, still in recuperation from the injuries he took in Ala Mhigo, and to all accounts the near-death experience has seen his attitude quite altered. The rumors of his actions in the field carry a tone of shocking brutality, but when he met with us he seemed calm and erudite, if notably distant and calculating. After hearing out our priorities and planned initiatives, he agreed to offer his support, and told us he would speak with his father about making overtures of peace to the provinces which have so emphatically declined to remain under direct rule.

Today, the official word arrived that Emperor Varis himself has approved, tentatively, a mission to go to Doma. We will attempt to secure a treaty of mutual non-aggression, under the condition that they forswear the summoning of Eikons and do as much as they can to keep the local beastmen in line, to be sealed with an exchange of prisoners-of-war. Of course, the prince insisted on appointing an ambassador of his own choosing; Asahi sas Brutus, a young man of much ambition and wealth and little actual accomplishment, will be leading the negotiations.

I can’t say I’m deeply impressed with his character, but he seems competent enough to present our case, and we would be fools to reject such immense progress on a technicality of leadership. The young lord will be allowed to advance his career on the coattails of our cause; we have put in too many years of work not to seize this opportunity for everything it’s worth.

12 finis-hiems, 57 IE

By any standard, our mission is going well; and yet I cannot help but find myself ill at ease with our ambassador.

We approached Doma from the air, offering a signal of peace that Asahi assured us the locals would understand, and indeed after some delay they reciprocated our overture and allowed us to land. Lord Hien met us personally, and while he treated us with an entirely justifiable suspicion, he was cordial enough and open to negotiation. We remain his guests while the official treaty’s language is drafted and agreed upon.

Asahi sas Brutus… I knew, of course, that he was the brother of the former viceroy of Doma when we took up this mission. He speaks often of his sister; our spies in Kugane spotted her in the company of one of Lord Hien’s retainers months ago, and it’s understandable that he should be eager to have her returned. …But I can sense no true care or sentiment behind his words, about her or about our mission. I did not survive the long hard years of political repression and upheaval by being unable to interpret the intentions that underly a person’s speech. Asahi speaks well and offers all of the Populares’ arguments smoothly, without fault, and he believes not a word of what he’s saying. Why join us, then? He is not undermining us, save perhaps that our counterparts may espy his insincerity; but even so, there is nothing in his demeanor that they could seize upon to offer a concrete objection to.

It may well be that he witnessed Prince Zenos’ change of heart and decided to tie his political ambitions to whatever the Empire’s heir is currently supporting. That’s probably the most sensible explanation, as he certainly doesn’t lack for ambition generally, and this is a venue that offers one of his ilk little enough competition. And the way he speaks of the Crown Prince generally…well. If he were more pleasant personally, I might offer when we return home to show him the venues where a man of his proclivities can find like-minded company. So it’s unsurprising, on the whole, that he would simply chase at Prince Zenos’ heel without a care for what he needs to say in order to remain there.

Still, I can’t help but feel uneasily as if there’s something more at work. Something I’ve missed seeing. All I can do for now is stay on my guard, to intervene if the negotiations begin to turn.

23 finis-ver, 57 IE

Months, years of postulating and theorizing could not have allowed me to predict this end. This mission was a sham from the beginning, and I’m ashamed to have been so taken in. The Populares have been used, and it is only by the grace and prowess of those we have looked down on that the situation is remotely salvageable.

I should explain, if I can calm myself enough to find the words. Lay out what happened, what must have transpired outside of my view. Crown Prince Zenos devised this plan to undermine our faction, or…perhaps the being possessing him? I’m still not sure I believe it’s possible, but the Eorzeans are quite confident that Zenos yae Galvus died in Ala Mhigo and was buried there. The plan was devised, nonetheless, and brought to the Emperor for approval, which was then duly given. It was always the collapse of the Populares that they sought to support; they had not “seen reason” as I had dared to hope. They selected Asahi and gave him his orders, sent us with a plausible excuse of an overture, and set it all up to fail.

Asahi’s true mission was to trigger a summoning from the Domans or their allies, fueled by boxes of crystals he claimed were brought as trade goods. Such a summoning would of course cause the negotiations to collapse, and we who chose to sue for peace would be shown up as fools for attempting to treat with “savages” who could never give up their gods.

In hindsight, the manipulation is plain as day. I was a fool to think that our views would ever be taken up in good faith; but even saying so, I cannot bring myself to condemn the path that brought me here. It cannot be a crime to have hope, to believe that one’s own countrymen can act like the reasonable and upstanding citizens they claim to be. If only they would stop proving me wrong.

For what it may be worth, though, thanks to the Eorzeans and particularly their champion who was in attendance at the negotiations, we have gained something from this mission after all. Up to this point, they were largely unaware that any faction within the Empire would be willing to negotiate with them at all; even by setting us up to fall so dramatically, our enemies have given us the opportunity to be seen.

And it would seem that they are as interested in peaceful negotiation as we are. One of their own, a young Elezen named Alphinaud, has volunteered to return to Garlemald with us, to bear personal witness and offer an outsider’s perspective. He seems quite politically insightful for a boy so young; I can hardly wait to introduce him to the core membership of the Populares and see what an actual Eorzean’s views can do to shape and reinforce our ideals. Despite the disaster that spurred it, this thin line of contact with the world outside the Empire’s borders may yet be of great benefit to our cause.

[hellsqueenlilith]

[ natalie dormer, female, she/her ] whatever you think you know about LILITH MORNINGSTAR, the 36/UNKNOWN year old, PANSEXUAL, LOCAL it is likely time for you to start reconsidering. the rumored DEMON (QUEEN) is often described as CONFIDENT + INDEPENDENT, but don’t let them fool you; they can also be LUSTFUL + ARROGANT, which often has them regarded as THE SUPREME. they are a/an ARTIST at LOCAL GALLERY, but it’s also said they are a/an QUEEN within the COURT OF HELL. whatever you hear, you can’t deny there’s more to them that meets the eye, and it’s time we start uncovering the truth.

Lilith was one of the two first humans ever created by God, she was made of Adam’s rib and was meant to always stand next to the man, let lower than he. It was something Lilith was built for and yet it felt more wrong to her than disobeying, undermining and simply loathing the man. To the point that God felt the need to create another for Adam and shun Lilith. Being alone didn’t bother her, it brought no fear, only opened doors for her.

With her freedom she was joined by others eventually, supernatural creatures that didn’t mind the shunned human who spoke her mind and took care of herself. It was eventually when another shunned came crashing into the world, battered and broken and seeing him, that her life changed. Showed that something bigger than her took hold, an actual love that she couldn’t deny, an interest and respect for the fallen angel, Lucifer. His beauty was something that had her in awe, it was the verge of frightful to behold. Speaking to him, it sparked something in the woman that Adam could never achieve. 

It was a love that should never have been, humans weren’t to know angels in such a way and Lucifer’s banishment was to leave him in isolation but she refused to believe a cruel fate like that could be for Lucifer. She and the fallen angel had more in common than any could suspect, knowing the pain of being used as one of God’s playthings, knowing they deserved more in the world. He and her had taken to the village that would now be known as Creation Peaks.

They had lived in a certain peace for a time, the two deciding to marry, as a sign of their undying love Lucifer even offered Lilith half his grace that he had in God’s view tainted. This act was the creation of the first demon, Lilith and it gained the attentions of Heaven who decided that Lucifer was far too content in his banishment and they set the village ablaze, sending warriors down to slay all that crossed their paths. It was a warning but to Lucifer and Lilith who cried out for blood it was an act of war. 

And every war required soldiers, with their grief and pain the two forged the earth around them to shift and change creating a hell scape for the incubation of their children. The birth of these children would grant them an army in which none have seen before. Laid thousands of eggs, they waited for their children to hatch to they could rage a war against Heaven. Though it was all in vain as the angels out numbered them and the war was being lost, to ensure the safety of Lilith and their children Lucifer surrender. Against his wife’s wishes, Lilith would have rather they all perished over giving up.

However this only gave her time, even with her husband locked away and her children and herself being cast out of earth with their kingdom of Hell. She wouldn’t rest till they got their brand of justice, over the thousands of years she has been ruling hell, watching over her princes and other children while ordering the breaking of her husbands seals. The last few are in sight and soon her beloved will be free.

[burnnouts]

@fallesto continued from here

HOME WAS WHERE THE HEART WAS - It was a famed expression, one that maybe at one point in his time in this world held meaning and sense to him - but now - it meant little. He had no heart, he had no home, he had nothing now. Foolish wishes had brought him the wildest dreams beyond a mortal reach, but each one had come at a price - a price he had thought he was more than willing to pay. His brother’s life for riches beyond his wildest dreams, it was a heavy price, but one he paid and thus his brother had perished. It was always bound to happen, he was young and reckless and took too many chances, he was always destined to die young - why not benefit from it at least. Yet his second wish, that for immortality for him and his beloved - it was that wish that had made him what he was today and it was that wish that he cursed himself for ever making. “It is not as I remember --”  He cast his eyes on his home. It once was the talk of all kingdoms for its beauty and for the man that once lived there, but now it was nothing more than a ruin. At least the walls still remained high and the gate sealed. He walked around, viewing it with his own eyes for the first time in years as he spotted a breach in the wall - a heavy sigh escaped him, no matter what - there were always fools out there who lusted for wealth and gold - not knowing that this place - was locked for a reason. He climbed through, with ease - this was his home after all, he knew each stone as if it were his own child. His merry band of bandits remained behind, to bring them with him beyond this wall would be to doom them all to there graves. He jumped down, his feet hitting the ground with a light thud as he walked forward - the gardens - they were kept it seemed, well maintained - it seemed the spirits still did the tasks they were commanded to do as he looked down at the soil - freshly turned as well and more than that - near the flowers and bushes - freshly laid graves of foolish bandits - it was the sign he needed to see - there was darkness still here and with that darkness the woman he had doomed to this fate no doubt lingered. “I believe I have already overstayed my welcome.”

"If the doom of this place is your doing, surely you can be its resurrection." Yennefer looked quite unbothered as she stepped through the hole in the fence--more concerned about the mud on her boots than the prospect of angry spirits and cursed manors. Nor did she look back at the men Olgierd had left behind. That he wished to spare them what lie ahead was surely a poor omen, and yet, Yennefer simply thought it wise: humans were, after all, so terribly clumsy and difficult to keep alive.

She had heard stories of this place, of course. Anyone who'd been through the area had heard the rumors, the ghostly tales and the warnings. And Yennefer made it her business to know what was happening in every corner of the land, to seek out dangers before they found her, and to stay one step ahead of whatever local chaos might be brewing. Of course, she did not usually take the time to stop and fix these problems either. That was Geralt's job, not hers: to rid the world of curses and monsters in exchange for petty coin.

This place, however, had caught her attention for another reason. Perhaps she was a romantic underneath it all, swept up in the tale of an old love gone so wrong, or maybe she simply wished to set free the woman that was said to be stuck here. Or maybe she just saw it as a challenge.

"Come along." She snapped her fingers, gesturing Olgierd to follow as she strode forward, toward the front door of his old home. "Let's get this over with."

[hippogriff]

“Oh, this’ll be easy! Now that I’ve got La Black Luna with me, I can get aaaaall~ the points I want!” The paladin unhooks his horn from the loop of his belt, holding it steady as it expands -- shifting with an ethereal glow, growing larger and wider, until it wraps around his torso. He beams at the floating balloons, confident in his ability to blast them to bits.

“Bye-bye, spooky cat things!” He gasps in a huge breath, then empties his lungs into the mouthpiece.

BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMM!

With the cry of a massive bird, the neigh of a thunderous horse, and the bellowing of a frightful dragon, La Black Luna emits a rippling wave of sound throughout the area. The ensuing pops of his foes are drowned out by the blast; as the chaos clears, all that remains are pieces of cat-balloon, littering the ground where they once floated about like tiny drones. Astolfo grins in triumph, returning his magic flute to its usual size and stashing it back on his hip.

“I wonder how many points I got for that!” Beaming with pride, the Rider checks his score-keeping watch -- only to find the number well into the negatives.

“...”

“EEEEHHHH?!” In targeting everything without discrimination, he ended up popping far more black balloons than white. Whoops.

[kushielsmercy]

Stay Your Hand (E)

Summary: Jaskier gets his cock slapped under a tavern table

“Geralt! Have you seen my -”

Geralt pushes the long-since discarded doublet into Jaskier’s hands, rolling his eyes at Jaskier’s noise of triumph.

“Ah, there she is!” Jaskier cries.

As usual, Jaskier seems to have no inclination to put the garment back on, seemingly happy to drag his fingers across the threads, cooing at its return.

“The barmaid is a pretty thing,” Geralt says, looking pointedly at Jaskier’s unlaced chemise as the bard slides into a seat at the corner table.

“She is that,” Jaskier agrees easily, casting a wistful glance back at the girl. Jaskier’s flushed and alight from his earlier performance, the glint in his eye promising every passing stranger that he might love them, if only they would love him back.

Granted, the flush might also have something to do with the five pints Jaskier had post-performance; whittling away the late hours by charming the local lasses as the crowd slowly trickled home. They’re all but alone now, the few lingering patrons all deep in their cups.

Geralt dodges when Jaskier leans in for a kiss. The bard’s breath reeks with the smell of stale spirits and dried sweat coats his chest, the byproducts of a long performance and longer evening. Geralt crinkles his nose but doesn’t pull away when Jaskier leans into his side. Jaskier sucked him off last week with kikimore guts still in his hair, there’s no high ground in sight.

Jaskier, unabashed, and nips at Geralt’s ear before saying, “Not as pretty as you, of course.”

He’s flirting without intent, flitting from one pretty face to another - enjoying the attention itself more than the person it comes from.

That’s what seals his fate. Geralt can tolerate another catching the bard’s eye for a time; he’s always been attracted to life’s finer pleasures. But he doesn’t get to ignore Geralt all evening, leaving Geralt to mind his things while paying Geralt no mind himself, only to now demand that Geralt give Jaskier his full attention and to say thank you for the scraps.

Geralt snarls, catching Jaskier by the hair and pulling, demanding the focus that wasn’t given freely. Jaskier whimpers as his head is dragged back, forcing him to arch his back, attention now firmly planted on his lover. Geralt runs a fingernail across Jasker’s lower lip, purposefully catching the soft skin on its edge.

Geralt’s given him a long rope, and Jaskier wandered off and hung himself with it. The rest of the evening will be on Geralt’s terms.

“Tell me, Julian. Have I lost your faith?” Geralt asks.

“What?” Jaskier says, the alcohol slowing his usual quick wit.

“Speak plainly, do you lie to me like you lie to them?” Geralt presses, nodding his head towards the now largely empty room.

“I don’t know what you’re -”

“You deny it?” Geralt says, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile, “Then if not a liar, you’re a fool, coming to me peddling tales of beauty, as if you see no difference between me and any fair maiden you bed.”

Geralt emphasizes his words by slipping his spare hand down the deep cut of Jaskier’s chemise, squeezing Jasker’s tit as he would a woman’s. Jaskier moans deep and low, closing his eyes to the sensation. Ale always made him somehow - impossibly - louder.

“Maybe I should invite the maid to join us,” Geralt pretends to muse, continuing to knead the hard muscle under his hand. “It hardly seems fair that you got to choose whoever you wish but I’m left with only this.” He pulled tightly on Jaskier’s nipple for emphasis. “Her bosom was lovely, maybe I should compare your breasts before making my decision.” He lets his hand fall flat against Jaskier’s chest, tapping his finger in feigned consideration.

Jaskier bites his lip and pushes his chest hard into Geralt’s hand, dragging his nipple down Geralt’s calloused palm. Geralt keeps the heel of his hand pushed firmly against Jaskier’s chest, leaving the bard to squirm against it, making him seek his own pleasure. Jaskier had come to him already half-hard - it didn’t take much to turn his easy need to desperation.

Jaskier thrusts up into empty air, desperately searching for friction. He whimpers when Geralt doesn’t relax his grip. The bitch hasn’t earned it.

“Gods be good, Geralt,” Jaskier says, coming back to himself. “Take me to bed.”

Geralt hums, “Just you?”

“Don’t tease,” Jaskier whines. “I have eyes only for you, my love. I know not of what other beauty you speak, she is stricken from my mind! I promise to never stray again, even for a moment, if only you take me to our room this instant.”

Geralt grins, slow and easy. “Why would I do that, when I could take you right here?”

Jaskier freezes. “You can’t - Geralt,” he objects, but then his breath catches, giving him away. “Someone will see.”

“Just as I had to watch you slip your hand up the barmaid’s skirt?” Geralt asks mildly, gauging Jaskier’s response. “Not in front of each other, Jaskier. Remember? That was your rule.”

Jaskier gasps and jerks forward, Geralt’s grip unrelenting in his hair. “I wasn’t, you can’t, it was just flirting, witcher.”

“And this is just me claiming what’s mine, bard,” Geralt growls, his breath hot on Jaskier’s neck. He releases Jaskier from his grip, pushing him back gracelessly. “Get yourself out.”

Jaskier flushes, stunned into inaction, like he’s hoping if he waits long enough Geralt will break and admit he’s been joking all along. Geralt meets his gaze steadily - challenging.

Ever so slowly, Jaskier lowers his hands down to his laces. His fingers hold none of their usual grace as he fumbles with the laces, muttering something about grommets. His hands tremble and he glances furtively around the tavern before taking a deep breath and pulling himself out under the table.

Jaskier’s cock is rather less conflicted about the sudden turn of events and he glares down, judging its poor taste.

“Good,” Geralt praises, reaching out and grasping Jaskier’s wrists. “Now hold yourself for me.” He guides Jaskier’s hands under his cock, directing them so that the bard’s hands are laid flat, presenting himself for Geralt to do as he likes.

“Geralt...what?” Jaskier asks, even as he allows himself to be moved.

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You broke the rules. That has consequences.” Jaskier whines but doesn’t move from position and Geralt savors how easily he’s brought to heel. “Count for me. Quietly.”

He doesn’t give any other warning before he lands a sharp slap on Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier crumples forward. A sharp cry escapes before he clearly remembers where they were and chokes the rest of the noise down.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, not quite managing quiet but doing a passable enough imitation of it. The game of Gwent across the room had transformed into thunderous accusations of cheating, bribery, and possible adultery, and it provided enough cover that no one noticed the bard’s suffering.

“Are you using your word?” Geralt asks mildly, straightening Jaskier’s shirt where a nipple had nearly made an escape.

“...no,” Jaskier replies, and ah, now that was quiet.

“Then get back as I had you,” Geralt says, “and count.”

Jaskier moves back into place, arranging his hands so that his cock is laid out. It’s pink and leaking and vulnerable and even with such willing prey Geralt can’t turn off his killer’s instinct. No sooner has Jaskier whispered, “one” than Geralt hits again, punching the breath out of Jaskier’s lungs. Jaskier takes a couple ragged breaths, visibly steeling himself before he recovers enough to whisper, “two.”

After that, Geralt keeps striking, steady and unrelenting. He is careful not to strike hard enough to damage, but he doesn’t spare Jaskier pain either. He works his way from base to tip and then back again, three up, three down, three up again. Jaskier will remember who he comes back to.

Tears are leaking out of Jaskier’s eyes by the time Geralt reaches nine.

“Just one more, then you’re done,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier’s cock out of his palms and holding the shaft firmly below the tip. It pulses in his grip, still hard despite the rough treatment. Geralt waits until Jaskier gives a small nod before bringing his hand down hard on Jaskier’s slit.

As soon as the stoke lands, Geralt throws his hand up over the bard’s mouth, witcher quick, muffling Jaskier’s shout. Geralt wraps his other arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, pulling the bard close to his chest and wiping away tears with his thumb.

“Hush, Jaskier. It’s done. You’re done. You did well,” Geralt mumbles, resting his forehead against the bard’s.

After Jaskier’s breathing has evened, Geralt reaches down, intending to tuck the bard away and take them both to bed. He’s surprised when Jaskier reaches out, always somehow stronger than Geralt expects, stopping him.

“If… if I was good, then don’t I deserve a reward? To make the lesson stick,” Jaskier asks coyly.

Geralt barely refrains from rolling his eyes at the obvious ploy; not Jaskier’s finest work by far. But then Jaskier’s tongue darts across his lip and Geralt has no choice but to notice how red and full the bard’s lips are from biting down to keep quiet. Well. Jaskier did ask to be taken to their room.

In one smooth motion Geralt stands and hoists Jaskier over his shoulder, hoping that Jaskier’s cock is hidden pressed against Geralt’s chest. He strides across the tavern towards the stairs, ignoring Jaskier’s squeaks of protest. Geralt can think of better uses for his mouth, and after that they’d see about a reward.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Superstitions and Curses

Pairing: mummy!Bucky Barnes x archaeologist!Reader

Warnings: slight dubcon, obsessive and soft!dark!Bucky, mentions of torture and being buried alive.

Words: 2163.

Summary: It wasn't your first expedition, but pretty much the first time when you had helped to bring an ancient being back from the dead.

P.S. Huge thanks to dear @navegandoaciegas who helped me get inspired again <3

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"Please, let me in."

You clenched the amulet in your hands, nervously staring at the door of a hotel room and hoping he wouldn't enter. Despite the fact that you were an archeologist, a woman who believed in nothing but science, you were ready to pray to all the gods if it would help to keep this creature away.

"I mean no harm to you." His husky, dangerously low voice made you lick your lips as you thought of all the things he whispered in your ear the other night. "Didn't you like the way I treat you, love?"

"It was a spell you put on me!" You furrowed your brows, making a step away from the door and bumping into a nightstand with a loud thud - the bottle of water in top of it fell down to the floor.

"A spell?" The man behind the door chuckled, and you could hear him breathing out loudly as he peered through the crack in the door, his hands pressed against the dark wood. "You know I haven't done anything of this kind. What you felt was the chemistry between us, don't deny it."

It was true. That night when all you wanted was to forget the events of the last couple of days, forget all about the whole reason why you came to this ancient country, you rushed to a bar to get drunk like a fish, hoping the next morning once you'd wake up, it would all be a bad dream and nothing more. That's where you met him, the man who you had seen laying in his grave just a couple of hours before. Of course, you didn't know it was him - he looked like any other man, enough flesh on his bones not to cause any suspicion.

Oh, but it was him. He had followed you in that bar, pretending to be a stranger eager to know you; fooling you, he soon slipped into your room where he made love to you, completely drunk and fallen under his charms. How stupid you were, trusting a complete stranger after what had happened that day.

It was several hours after when you woke up in the night, and the moonlight coming from the window lit the room a little: as you stared at the man sleeping soundly next to you, you saw the ancient symbols on his chest.

The next minute you were out of your room, hoping he wouldn't wake up in the next hour. It would give you enough time to reach the railway station.

Why was he following you? You could understand his reasons since you had pretty much broken his tomb and opened his grave, but why on Earth did he sleep with you? Why didn't he kill you? Was it some kind of a ritual? Despite the fact that you were specializing on local customs and traditions, you have never heard of anything of that kind.

"You can't get rid of me." He murmured behind the door, and you sensed something wicked, resentful in his voice.

"Why can't I? What do you want from me?" You asked on the verge of tears, your arms trembling - you very much doubted the amulet you were holding was of any use to you.

"Shhhh." He cooed softly, feeling you fear and somewhat content with it. "I promise I won't hurt you. Let me in, love. Let me in."

For a couple of seconds you froze, listening to the man breathing softly behind the door. Strangely, you could almost hear his heart beating in his chest as if he really were human, not a rotten corpse you saw in the coffin a couple of days ago. The night you spent together you felt like he was the most tender and affectionate man you had ever met. Why did he do it? What was his purpose? Why were you opening the door for him when he ordered you to do it with that hypnotic voice of his?

You realized he had entered your room once he touched your cheek with his hand, rough fingers brushing against your wet skin. Oh, apparently, you were crying.

"I know it is beyond your comprehension, but please trust me, My Immortal Beloved." He made a step forward as you shriveled and slinked back, staring at his perfectly blue eyes adorned with black kohl. "Do not be scared. Even though it seems horrifyingly wrong to you, things are exactly as they were meant to be."

Despite the fact you had a thousand questions inside your head, the words were stuck in your throat. You couldn't even scream, asking for help. Besides, it would be pretty worthless, wouldn't it? No one could protect you from someone who rose from the dead.

"You were meant to open my tomb and set me free. You were meant to resurrect my body and let my soul return to it."

When you reached the wall, your back pressed to it as if you wanted to slip through the stone, the man had inched closer to you and lowered his hand on your chest, the other one right in front of your face as he moved his hand, drawing a circle in the air with his palm. I see you. You are important to me, a sign of both trust and affection - you had seen it so many times on ancient drawings it was imprinted on your brain.

What? Why was he doing it? Why it was you who set him free? You were just one of a whole team of archaeologists and wage earners. You did nothing special, nothing that differentiated you from others - you weren't the one who physically opened it nor did you read any ancient spells locals were so superstitious about. You were as much in shock as all others when the mummy had suddenly disappeared from the tomb.

At first, even though most of you were people of science, all of you thought of ancient curses and all those archaeologists who had supposedly died from it. Then, when you came to your senses, you thought of the thieves who might had taken the mummy. But then again, although it were the remains of someone very, very important, no treasures were buried with him - apparently, this person had done something terrible when he was alive, especially remembering the curses written on the walls. So why steal just the corpse, then? Without decent care, the bones would crack within minutes of carrying them. Why would thieves want the mummy?

"I want to come back home." You whispered, shivering and averting your eyes.

"I will bring you whenever you want once you swear loyalty to me, love."

You blinked as you stared at his tanned face, symbols painted with gold shining on his temples. It was getting more and more insane with every passing minute.

"Why would I swear loyalty to you?"

"Because I am your Sun, Moon and the Stars in between."

The silence felt heavy, suffocating as you kept looking at the man, not knowing what to say. He was right - you didn't understand a thing. You didn't even know who he was and why you swearing loyalty to him seemed so important so this stranger. The only thing you knew for sure was that he was dangerous, far more dangerous than any other human being - you felt it in your bones.

"Before I d-do that, may I know your name?" You wanted to add something like "Your Majesty", but you had no idea what kind of title the man once had - that is, if he had any at all.

He chuckled, "It would be hard for you to pronounce. But you can call me James, it is the closest you can get."

A part of you was offended - for heaven's sake, you were specializing on this exact area and surely knew how to pronounce ancient names - but the other part of you now wondered how come this being knew a real English name and could actually speak modern language. Surely, he was at least a thousand years old. How come?..

"Why were you buried so disrespectfully?" You started questioning him out loud, furrowing your brows. "This is not my first expedition, but I have never seen a tomb like yours before. No treasures, no name, nothing that could identify you at all."

"The Witch-king, that's how they called me." His handsome face darkened, and the man took a step away, turning his back to you. "The one who had surpassed his high priest and could read the Book of the Dead. Once my chancellors learnt about me practicing the magic of the ancient, they made my priests spread the word to my people, and I have been overthrown. They have tortured me, blinded me, cut off my limbs, and then sealed me away in the tomb when I was still alive. Because of their fear of me and my powers, they condemned me to the worst of fates, and broke the line of kings."

As he kept speaking, his dark long robe fell down to the floor, opening his half-naked tan body to you: you saw two deep scars on his shoulders that still looked raw, horrifying you - the man was telling you the truth. He had been dismembered.

"They have cursed me to stay neither truly dead nor alive till one day somebody would open my tomb and set me free. They have kept the location of my grave a secret, thinking no one would ever discover it in the sand, but they all were wrong. I will suffer no more in that place where not a single ray of light had shone over two thousands of years."

Your head was spinning from all this, and you quietly slid to the floor, your hands in your hair as you tugged on the roots in frustration and fear. For the love of God, was it all true? Did you help resurrect the ancient being that could use some scary black magic and probably kill lots of innocent people? Did he want to drag you along with him once you swear loyalty to him? If you didn't, would he actually murder you?

"But this is of no importance now." The man turned back to you and, suddenly seeing you on the floor, hurried to gently pick you up and place you on a spacious bed, watching you with worry. "I am sorry for I have frightened you, love. I swear this was not my intention."

You had troubles understanding what his intention was, but you kept silent, too scaried to say something to him. You had a dozen thoughts what a creature like him would want to do to people for all his suffering.

You should have left that damn tomb alone when your team found twice more death traps than in any other grave. You read the curses left on the walls, but they only fueled your interest. Of course, you had never been superstitious in your entire life, so you simply disregarded all the signs that now seemed so clear you were ready to slap yourself.

"Why am I important?" You asked in a shaky voice, your eyes trailing down his chest with ancient symbols tattooed on it. "Why spending a night with me? I am just a woman. I have opened the tomb, but I was one of many."

"No, you are special. You won't understand now, not yet, but think of it as your destiny. Your fate is bound to mine."

As he inched closer to you, you finally realized you were almost in bed with a half-naked handsome man resurrected from the dead. Immediately crawling back, your stared at him wide-eyed. No, no, no, whoever he was and whatever he thought your fate was, you didn't want him in your bed the second time! Well, almost. Maybe you wanted a little bit. Just a little.

"S-so, are you going to destroy the country and claim your kingdom again?"

Your words made him laugh as he bared his perfectly white teeth while touching the side of your face.

"Two thousand years were enough to change my priorities. Ruling the world of humans who know nothing of magic isn't interesting to me anymore."

"I see. That's a relief." You murmured, still very uncomfortable with him being so close to you. "Please, can I just leave? There are millions of women, I'm sure you'll find someone more attractive to be your... your concubine."

_____________

"Concubine? I did not have a concubine, and neither did my ancestors." The man tilted his head to the side, looking at you surprised as you were ready to bite yourself for your own stupidity: of course, the rulers of these lands only started having concubines in the fourth dynasty and onwards, James was definitely either from the first or second one. "I can't let you leave, love. You will have to come with me."

Part 2

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @iheartsebastianstan @ninefuckingoneone

[thestraggletag]

Silver Tongue, a Rumbelle fic

Summary: Based on this prompt. Royce Gold is determined to confess his secret feelings towards the librarian. Unable to do it in person he sits down to write a letter but a combination of liquid courage and a determination to truly unburden himself made him perhaps a bit too ardently honest. And a bit careless.

This might have a sequel.

Rating: NC-17 

It had taken a long time to arrive at this point, but now that he’d made the decision Royce Gold was oddly calm, as if having made the decision had magically ended the slow-burning agony he’d been in since the library had opened three years ago. He hadn’t much thought he would be affected by the event, and had privately thought it wouldn’t last. He could not see there being any need for a library in Storybrooke, a town where most people had last held a book in high school, if even then. He had thought it would not last long, one of Regina’s many pet projects that was abandoned when it did not justify its constant spending of town funds.

He had been wrong, in the end, because he hadn’t factored in the librarian. Belle French swept into town with her high-end, short-skirted fashion and noticeable Australian accent and he thought the moment he saw her that she wouldn’t last. Too foreign for a small town like Storybrooke. He had been wrong, though. She had soon made friends with the miners, and Granny and Ruby, and even a few of the teachers from the local school. She also made sure to make the library indispensable, organising book clubs and other after-school activities for the children, offering computer literacy courses for adults and a place for the knitting club to meet, as well as regular table-game nights that surprisingly became wildly popular with certain crowds. And had made Granny an unbearably-cocky backgammon champion, two years running.

So she had stayed, and soon he had begun to notice the danger in it. The way he could not stop staring at her in the diner, or as she walked down the street. They way he got tongue-tied when in her presence, and turned softer, kinder. The way his smirks turned to smiles around her, and he laughed easier. She was smart, and learned, and had a delightful sense of humor. Dark, like his. And yet she was a being of light. Kind, always ready to help, and willing to see beyond the surface. Beyond the drunken escapades of Leroy, or the scandal surrounding Miss Blanchard and Mr Nolan, or his own sordid reputation. And it was that thing that made her so dangerous, how unafraid she was of him, and how determined she seemed to be in getting to know him.

He had been half in love with her before he realised it. The attraction he could deal with- after all, she was a gorgeous woman, and he a man with eyes- but the feelings scared the fuck out of him. It was too late to stop himself, however, so he resigned himself to being a besotted fool… from a safe distance. Only the more they interacted the less he seemed reconciled with the idea until it felt like he was choking on his unexpressed feelings. 

That’s why he had decided, in a fit of uncharacteristic emotional bravery, to unburden himself. Confess his feelings, likely be politely refused, and put an end to the madness. Or perhaps, if fate smiled upon him, be rewarded with a tentative acceptance to a dinner date, and perhaps more. It was always a possibility, albeit a small one, but enough to give him the push he needed.

He had decided it would be best to write her a letter. He got stupidly tongue-tied in her presence, after all, and there was something whimsically old-fashioned about a written letter, which he was sure she would appreciate. So on Friday night, after dinner, he locked himself in his study, fished out his Waldmann Tango and his best stationary, and…

Drew a resounding blank.

It was difficult to start writing with a blank page, he reasoned, so he tried at first simply to write the opening line, immediately falling into a ten-minute debate on whether to address the letter to “Miss French” or “Belle” and what to put in front of it “Dear Miss French”, on one end of the spectrum, seemed too dry and cold, and “Dearest Belle” on the other, too forward and presumptuous.

In the end he decided on “My dear Belle”. There was no point in writing a letter declaring his feelings if he could not even bring himself to call her by her given name and the slightly possessive edge to his greeting might come off as ardent rather than off-putting.

The opening paragraph seemed easy at first: “I am writing to you in order to express certain feelings I am sure have gone unnoticed so far, given the pains I’ve taken to ensure they remained hidden, in part due to our mutual circumstances and standing in town…” yet after a few times reading and re-reading it he had the odd, sinking feeling he might be writing the slightly-more-modern version of Mr Darcy’s ‘In vain I have struggled’ speech and that hadn’t gone over well the first time around. Luckily for him, at least, Belle had no sister he could insult while he was at it. So he scraped it and tried again, but soon felt everything he wrote sounded too formal, stilted and lacking in emotion. He was laying it all down like it was a contract to seal one of his deals, and it was hardly conducive to romance, or reflective of his true feelings.

He stood up, going for the wet bar he kept in the corner of the office. He selected a half-full bottle of Lagavulin and poured himself a generous three fingers into his favourite tumbler, deciding to forgo ice altogether. He needed to loosen up and good Scotch always helped in that. He sat down again, downed the drink in one go, and took another shot at it. He wanted to sound… Passionate, he supposed. It was the whole point of the letter, after all, to confess his true feelings. And his feelings were… ardent. Powerful. All-consuming, at times. Like a small, flickering flame that had slowly built into a veritable inferno. Though he did not wish to frighten her, he did wish to unburden himself and leave her with no doubt regarding his feelings.

“There hasn’t been a day since you arrived in Storybrooke that I haven’t felt your presence in some small way. You’ve taken a permanent residence in my mind and my heart, and there are days when I can scarcely think of anything else. All it takes is a small conversation or even a passing smile and I’m rendered useless.”

He fetched the Scotch from the bar and poured himself another drink, deciding it would be best to leave the bottle nearby. He felt he was finally getting into the groove of things, building up to something that sounded less like a legal clause. He downed his second Scotch, feeling the pleasant burn as it travelled down his throat, and took his pen again.

“You need not be concerned if you do not share my feelings. I will respect whatever decision you make. I simply wanted to tell you of the warmth you inspire in me, the way you’ve torn through all the walls I’ve built between myself and the rest of the world. And yet I know you to be, above all things, kind. More beautiful on the inside that you are on the outside, if that’s at all possible. I know that I am safe in your hands, whether you choose to give me a chance or not. Thank you for treating an old beast with kindness and humanity and know that, no matter what the outcome is, you have a friend and an ally across the street from the library, if there is ever anything you need.”

He signed it simply “Yours” because it felt apt. He certainly felt hers, in any case. Below he signed his name, trying to make his signature a bit more whimsical, give it a tad more flourish. Afterwards he stretched, poured himself another drink, and read it. It was… Good. Not too dry, not too passionate. Solid. Respectful but a good representation of his feelings at the same time.

Well… to an extent. He gulped down his third glass of Scotch and poured himself another, ruefully acknowledging that the letter was not quite honest. It was a bit restrained. Or a lot restrained. It felt like the gentlemanly thing to do, to tone down some of the more unbecoming feelings, keep those more intimate urges locked up for the time being. But perhaps, he mused, he could let loose a bit, to try and see if a more emotionally-honest letter would actually be preferable.

He could tell her, perhaps, a bit more about how it was hard for him to keep his eyes off her when they were in the same room. How utterly beautiful she was, small enough to make him wanna crowd her in, whisk her away somewhere and lean over her, feeling her breath on his neck. How he adored her high heels and flirty skirts and wished nothing more than to-

He removed his tie, and scratched out that last sentence, automatically fishing for his drink to try and cool himself down. He was beginning to get inappropriate and, anyway, he did not wish to come across as if he was solely enamoured with her physical appearance. Though he very much was enraptured by it, it was her personality that had made him fall for her. Things like her kindness, her understanding, her insatiable curiosity. He wished to share everything with her. Wanted to teach her all the secrets of his trade, have deep discussions on books they mutually liked, bare his soul to her inquisitive eyes.

“In my dreams, over and over, I am a willing slave to your curiosity, your insatiable need to explore and experience. When I close my eyes I see us in every way two people can be together, entwined till it’s impossible to decipher where I end and you begin. You let me press my mouth against every inch of you, drink from your cunt till I’m satiated, but it’s never enough. I wish to vainly attempt to quench your curiosity anywhere and everywhere you’ll let me, at any time of day. Over and over till neither of us can walk and I cannot remove your scent from my fingers, my mouth, my cock.”

He stared at the paragraph, head tilted to the side. The paper looked a bit blurry, so he checked to make sure he was wearing his glasses. He was. Odd. He reached out for his glass of Scotch, surprised that it was empty. He refilled it, noticing the bottle felt surprisingly light. He re-read the paragraph, trying to figure out if it was a bit too risqué. But, he reasoned, Belle was risqué, in her attire, in her reading choices. Sure she would appreciate him being the same, going out of his comfort sort in order to convey the depth of his affection.

“I dream of fucking you for hours on end. Slowly, with the care and thoroughness you deserve, till we’re both numb and spent. I want to make you ache in places where the pain bleeds into pleasure, and convince you that only I am worthy of making you come. That none of the boys you might have had between your lovely legs were worth a second look. I want to become your favourite toy, there for whenever you might need me, eager to please, to make you sigh and moan and keen till you are hoarse.”

He was hard, he noticed, but it was hardly a surprise, though he thought he might have drunk a bit too much for his body to rise to the occasion. He thought about touching himself for the briefest second, but quickly dismissed the idea. He was on a writing roll, it wouldn’t do to jeopardise that. Instead he poured himself another glass of Scotch, surprised when he had to tip the bottle all the way. He didn’t remember drinking enough to empty it, but he must have. Shrugging, he turned his attention back to the letter.

“I want to take you against the stacks of the library, amidst the books you love so much. I want to fuck you in the backroom of my shop so your smell lingers there. I want to go down on you in my bed for ours, till the silk sheets are ruined beyond repair. I want to consume you anywhere, everywhere, knowing that I will never be truly satiated, that it will never be enough. Have you splayed across my dining room table so I could eat you out as many times as I wanted, as much as you needed. I want to do everything to you, and have you do everything to me, till I can’t scrub you from my skin, the same way I cannot seem to be able to erase you from my heart and my mind.”

It was a bit of a sappy ending, but he supposed it balanced the more physical emotions out. He signed his name at the bottom with a flourish, smiled in satisfaction and staggered to his feet, determined to make it to his bedroom. He would get a good night’s sleep, wake up refreshed, and deliver the letter personally first thing in the morning.

In the morning, once he was done throwing up and had managed to shower, he shook his head at the idea he could’ve ever thought he would wake up anything other than terribly hungover. He popped a couple of aspirin, forced himself to swallow a few bites of dry toast, and dressed himself for the day. Before going out the door he remembered the letter, wincing when he recalled specifically the second draft he had made, clearly in a state of drunken foolishness. He picked up the sheets of paper, thinking for a second about ripping them up. He stopped himself at the last minute, though. The letter might not be fit to ever be seen by Belle, but he fancied the idea of rereading it later. He folded it neatly into an envelope and fetched a second one for the original, much more suitable letter. He would slip that one underneath the library’s door on his way to the shop. 

He was startled by his home phone ringing, picking up to see it was the tip on the estate sale he had been waiting for. He jotted down the necessary information, went back to his desk to retrieve the letter and was out the door a few seconds later. He hurried to the library and, before he could convince himself otherwise, slipped the envelope with the letter underneath the doors, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety afterwards. He had done it, and though he felt unbearably nervous about the whole thing, he was proud of himself for following through.

Or he was, until he opened what he thought was the unsuitable letter and realised it was the original first draft. He had switched them up by mistake. Ice flooded his veins, and he felt like someone had punched him in the gut, leaving him gasping for breath. This couldn’t be happening. Not to him, not with Belle. The more he thought about it the more his mind recalled fragments of the letter, lingering in its uncouth language and vivid imagery. He was fucked, totally and completely.

Unless…

Maybe she hadn’t opened the letter yet. Or she had, but hadn’t gotten around to read it all. The first page or so was quite reserved. Perhaps he could sneak into the library and retrieve the rest, or swap it for the correct letter. He had the keys to the library, as it was his property, rented by the town. It would feel and likely be a terrible violation of the librarian’s private space, even though he did not intend to go beyond the library, but it would be worse to allow her to be submitted to such basic thoughts as the ones he had written down the other night. 

With that in mind he took the library keys from his safe and went out into the night. Storybrooke, being a small town, was deserted at that time, which was a blessing. Less people to see him slip inside the library using the back door, or hear him as he rummaged around inside, trying to be quiet and not use his phone flashlight, lest that alert Belle upstairs in her apartment somehow. Tentatively he made his way to her office, sure she would have surely put the letter, hopefully unsealed. But when he got close he noticed light coming through the windows of the office, where the blinds were partially-lowered. It seemed that, given his fucking luck, Miss French was still diligently toiling away doing something or the other for the library. Nevermind. He would take a discrete peek, to see if he at least spotted his letter atop her desk, and if he did he would hide in some shadowy corner of the library and wait her out. If he didn’t he would cut his losses and go back home, to try and figure out how he was ever going to face Belle again. 

He approached silently, drawing one of the slats down to peer inside. He spotted Belle right away, leaning back on her office chair with an ottoman propping her feet up. She was reading something and for a moment he appreciated her face, eyes focused on the page, cheeks slightly flushed and lips parted. Then he registered the rest, the shirt tossed above the desk along with her bra, the black silk camisole making her hardened nipples visible and her left hand, which disappeared somewhere beneath her rucked-up skirt. She sighed, head rolling back as she whispered something.

He didn’t know what registered first, whether it was the fact that she was saying his name or that it was his letter she was reading, clutched tightly to her right hand. There was no doubt as to what she was doing, and yet he could hardly believe that Belle fucking French was bringing herself to orgasm in her office while reading his letter. He pinched himself, unwilling to believe he was seeing what he was seeing, but the sting felt all too real. It wasn’t a dream, it was, somehow, reality. Sweet, sweet reality.

He needed to get out. As much as he burned to just burst into the office and let his mouth do what Belle’s fingers were attempting, it wouldn’t do. By some miracle she was not offended or otherwise put off by his risqué letter, but she sure would be by him breaking into the library. Offended and perhaps scared, unsafe, which was the last thing he wanted her to feel, especially in his presence. He would sneak out, quietly, and swing by the library tomorrow afternoon, right after closing time. As much as it would embarrass him to bring up his letter he would know she reciprocated his feelings, or that at least she was open to them, and that would give him the courage needed to ask her out. 

It was a solid plan, a great plan. And it would’ve worked, he was sure, if he hadn’t knocked over a banker lamp as he backed away from her office. The  antique bronze made a horrible noise as it collided with the floor, and the green shade shattered upon impact, making a mess.

“Who’s there?”

Fuck.

[prettywordsyouleft]

The Cowboy - Part 8

Summary: Leaving the city for a rural area called Blayne seemed simple enough. Your task was to convince the people to agree with selling their land for a resort redevelopment. But once there, you soon realise that your city ways are entirely different to theirs. Winning their trust was going to take some effort, and when you start to fall for a local cowboy, you wonder if you really needed Blayne more than the city life after all.

Pairing: Jung Jaehyun x female reader

Genre: cowboy au / drama / romance / if you squint there’s some enemies to lovers up in here.

Warnings: Jung Jaehyun is a cowboy, need I say more? (a bit of angst and drama, and it sometimes might feel like you’re reading a Nicolas Sparks book, so I’m told lol)

Word count: 2426

This series will be updated every Thursday and Friday.

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

You were still fuming when you met up with June at the coffee shop an hour later. It wasn’t hard to genuinely smile at her when she waved you over, however, and you moved towards the table and took a seat across from her.

June smiled warmly. “I’m so glad you agreed to meet with me today, dearie.”

“It’s a pleasure. Thank you for taking time out of your day to spend with me. But what made you choose here over Blayne?”

“My sister runs the diner, as you know. I love her, but I’m certain she doesn’t remember the taste of real coffee. I sneak off here once a week for a proper brew.” You giggled with June as she reached out for your hand on the table and gave it a little squeeze. “Our little secret?”

“Definitely. As long as you allow me to join you for that cheeky coffee each week too.”

“It’s a deal!” June gave your hand another friendly squeeze. “I know you’ve figured out I’m not from Blayne by now.”

“You-you have?”

“You’re too smart to not have done,” she surmised and paused as the drinks she had ordered were placed down in front of you both. After thanking the clerk and taking a sip of her coffee, June smiled once more at you. “My husband doesn’t understand there are multiple types of coffee aside from white or black.”

“Wow! What about Jaehyun? I noticed he doesn’t seem to drink coffee much.”

June smiled knowingly. “I thought he might have been with you last night. That answers that puzzle then.”

“Huh? Oh no – I was just making an observation – I mean, well…” Rubbing the back of your neck as June chuckled, you grimaced. “Are you annoyed about it?”

“Goodness no! You’re the right type of person to show my son another side of life.”

“Me?” you asked, and June nodded. You smiled curiously. “Really?”

“You remind me of myself back in the day. I was arrogant and only saw one way of the world when my parents sent May and I off to our uncle’s for the summer. Our mother said it was time we learned about hard work.”

You didn’t know whether to say anything and awkwardly tried to reflect over the referral of being like her, and in the next sentence, she mentioned she had been arrogant. You worried if you had been as narrow-minded as Pierce was earlier when you pulled up at Blayne too.

Thankfully you didn’t need to say anything for the woman to continue. “I hated it, of course. There was nothing to do like I would in the city. Back then, there was even less than there is now. But we did have a theatre.”

“A theatre?! It’s not there now. Did it go out of business?”

June smiled sadly. “It was part of the loss in the fire we had. It’s such a shame. I have so many fond memories of that summer spent in the theatre.”

“Is that where you met Mr Jung?” you guessed, and the tell-tale smile across her lips urged you to lean forward in delight. “Did he romance you?!”

“He was such a charmer,” she told you, grinning brightly. “And I was a fool for a man in a cowboy hat. That smile of his sealed the deal.”

You giggled with her, the image of Jaehyun upon his horse this morning returning to the front of your mind and securing a similar fate for you as it had his mother. Your smile lessened as you grew intrigued. “How did you get used to living here over the city?”

“At first, I was grateful to be back home after the summer. We had agreed to write to one another whilst I was home, though that didn’t last for long. I found the city too busy after spending my days in the countryside for three months. I lasted until Christmas that year and begged my parents to let me move to Blayne and live with my uncle.”

“Did May go too?”

June shook her head. “She hates Blayne.”

“Really?!” you gasped and looked at June. “But--”

“Our parents moved to Blayne when my uncle lost his eyesight to take over the farm. What a nightmare that was. Had it not been for Avery’s father, who was a farmhand of my uncle, helping us, I think we would have caused the whole family to go bankrupt.”

“And now May and Avery’s father run that farm in your family’s stead?”

“Our parents are no longer on this earth. May did everything to convince her husband to leave Blayne with her to raise Avery in the city, but his roots are Blayne born. May then focused on building Avery up to believe the city life was for him, yet he’s back here again. My sister is convinced her life is cursed. Though, she loves being the center of the gossip in that little diner of hers.”

“You’re sharing so much with me about your life,” you mentioned hesitantly, and the older woman gauged your expression. You nodded. “I’m appreciative, you know. When I saw you weren’t originally from Blayne I couldn’t quite fathom it. I guess since I’ve never experienced love strong enough to pull me away from what I know, it seemed like a foreign concept.”

“And now?” June asked.

“Hm?”

“I’m asking how you feel now after being in Blayne for a month? I’m wondering if there’s something or someone here that might change that heart of yours.”

You didn’t answer verbally. With the way she smiled with satisfaction a moment later, you knew she had seen all she needed to know within your gaze. “How about you come over for dinner again tonight, Y/N?”

“You’re coming in early today, boys,” June greeted when Jaehyun and Avery found her in the kitchen, both of them kissing her on the cheek fondly.

You smiled weakly when Jaehyun’s surprised gaze fell onto your face. He then grinned lopsidedly. “What are you doing wrangling Miss City into your kitchen tonight, Mrs Jung?”

“Your mother is teaching me how to cook.”

“Making sure you can marry her off to one of the eligible Blayne men, are you, Aunt June?” Avery taunted, and you threw the tea towel you held at him. Avery caught it with glee.

“I wanted to learn how to make her infamous banana cream pie.”

“Because it’s someone’s favourite,” June mused, shooting her son a look. Jaehyun grinned knowingly and kissed his mother on the crown of her head before announcing loudly that he and Avery should wash up. Waiting for his cousin to leave the room, Jaehyun darted to your side and kissed your cheek in greeting, causing you to shoo him off with an embarrassed chuckle.

June was absolutely delighted. “That boy of mine is more of a charmer than his father. You have your work cut out for you, dearie.”

“You’re telling me,” you claimed with another laugh, focusing on slicing the bunch of bananas until the heat dissipated from your cheeks.

Dinner was playful this time. Jaehyun wasn’t nearly as silent and since he was seated beside you again, it allowed for him to secretly hold you under the table. Linking his fingers with yours, he pulled your hand into his lap and held it there fondly, running his thumb over your skin now and then.

Whilst June was clued on, it seemed her husband wasn’t. You weren’t sure why his approval mattered most to you, and further, did you even have much to be approved by the elder for so far? You didn’t know what to call the connection between you and Jaehyun. It wasn’t a seasonal love like June had begun with, yet you didn’t want to dismiss the growing feelings you harboured for her son either.

Jaehyun made you smile constantly and your insides warm. That was it.

Still, you worried that would be frowned upon by his father, your morning concerns quickly resurfacing. The last thing you wanted was to be seen as using anyone to your advantage by sleeping with them. That spoke nothing of your character or professionalism.

Once again, Mr Jung spoke to Jaehyun and Avery only about the farm. To you, he asked simple questions about the house you were staying in and made subtle suggestions about going back to the city.

You knew he was your biggest opposition to getting any work done in Blayne.

“Your first mission is to secure that land.”

Every time you went to speak about your plans in Blayne, Mr Jung changed the focus entirely and you felt hopeless up against the man. You were usually capable of working with the pickiest of clients back in the city.

Back in your jurisdiction.

This was the Jungs’ land, though. You were an outsider who didn’t have a place yet in this township. You were growing friendly with everyone on a basic level, but no one regarded your place here professionally yet.

“I was thinking about housing-”

“Did you check that the gates to the pens were locked?” Mr Jung cut in over the top of you and after looking at you, Jaehyun sighed and nodded.

“Yeah, Dad. Of course. Y/N was talking, though.”

“What about water? That darn well is busted again.”

“I covered it, Uncle. Don’t worry!” Avery answered and you lowered your head, feeling defeated tonight.

“Y/N,” June called and you shot back up to look at her, the woman smiling warmly. “Come help me with the pie, won’t you?”

Discreetly letting go of Jaehyun’s hand, you excused yourself from the table and followed June into her domain. She got out the bowls and spoons and handed them to you. “Darling, don’t try and bring up that conversation at the table. Whilst I love my husband entirely and know of him only as a good man, he won’t listen to you. The dinner table is a place where he discusses light-hearted things or constantly nitpicks over the boys and their efforts for the day. I’ve tried to change him, but as his wife of thirty-some years now, I can’t say I’ve done a good job.”

“I don’t feel he gives me a lot of credit for my position here, understandably.”

“Still, he should give you the respect you deserve. Let’s do business during day hours, dearie. I’ll help you plan a meeting with him when you’re ready to present whatever it is. I can’t say he’ll be supportive or accept your proposal, but he will listen to you completely.”

“You’re amazing. You know that?”

“I’m just a mother. And I can’t help but take care of all those who come my way. Whilst you’re here in Blayne, you let me know of anything you might need me for. I’ll be there.”

“Your father doesn’t like me, much,” you admitted softly, as Jaehyun drove you home later that evening. You had left your car at your place when June had encouraged you to come home with her earlier in the day, and now you realised why she was insistent on you travelling with her.

You smiled at the thought of Jaehyun’s mother planning for him to take you home tonight, even if your heart felt heavy.

Glancing at you briefly before returning his gaze to the darkened road, Jaehyun smirked. “My father doesn’t like me much, either. Don’t let it get to you.”

“Surely, he does.”

“Only when I do something for him on the farm. I was a bit of a troublemaker in my past, so he’s been harsh on me ever since.”

“What did you exactly get up to?” you asked, interest piqued. Jaehyun’s lips split into a toothy smile, but he didn’t respond. “Come on! You knew how to budge open that window!”

“I also knew where your keys were that whole time,” Jaehyun confessed, and you frowned.

“Wait. What?”

He grinned. “I took them out of your pocket when you leaned over to me from Roger’s back. Mostly because they were slipping out of it and I wanted to keep them safe.”

“Then why didn’t you just open the front door like a normal person would?”

“So now I’m not normal, huh?”

“Is it a Cowboy thing?” you wondered, flustered with the change of events.

“I guess I wanted to make you fall into my arms sooner than fate was setting us up for,” he admitted with a shrug, and you rolled your eyes. Jaehyun reached into his jeans’ pocket and held up the keychain, dangling it.

Taking them from him, you grumbled. “I was seriously fooled by you!”

“I’ve been a fool for you since you arrived. See us as even, Y/N.”

“You can’t just charm me like that when I’m frustrated with you!”

Pulling the truck to a sudden stop in the middle of the country lane, Jaehyun looked over at you. “You’re frustrated with me?”

“Well, shouldn’t I be? You knew where the keys were all this time! I was worried about how to bring it up to your mother that I lost them!”

“Keys can be replaced.”

You nodded. “I know, but-”

“If you could go back to that moment where you were fumbling around in your pocket and panicking, knowing full well if I gave them to you that what we’ve bared between one another already wouldn’t have happened, would you still wish I gave you them damn keys?!”

Staring at his expectant gaze, you lurched forward, grabbing the collar of Jaehyun’s t-shirt and tugged him until his lips found yours. It was heated, and you moaned when your arm hit the steering wheel as Jaehyun reached to pull you closer. Tongues now entwined, the passionate embrace didn’t stop until both of you were out of breath.

“Well?” Jaehyun prompted, resting his forehead on yours as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Just hurry up and take me home, Cowboy. But this time, take me through the front door.”

Jaehyun smirked as he put the truck back into gear and started to drive down the road again. “So I can have you pressed up against it once it’s closed?”

“Your mother warned me that you’re a charmer. If only she knew just how wicked you were for my heart.”

“What we do behind closed doors is none of my mother’s business, Miss City. But if it takes me carrying you over that blasted threshold to make you happy tonight, I won’t miss a beat in pulling you out of this cab with me.”

_________________

Part 9

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[saphyhowl]

Mischief Chapter one- Fool’s game

The following chapter to this prologue. Hope you enjoy this one. Do not hesitate to come with some feedback. Take care of yourselves.

*********************************

I woke up, well-rested, my soul washed from all the tears I had shed. I felt anew, serene, which was odd given the unbelievable adventure I had embarked on. My resolve was rooted deeply in my mind. Old reflexes kicked back in me, from when I had to face challenges on my own. My inner voice knew the path. My mind urged it to counsel me and help me in this battle for survival. I needed my guiding instinct to make me survive in this time.

Kill or get killed, is it not?

Betray or be betrayed?

Use or be used?

So now with this new set of rules to live by, I just needed to find someone to teach me the ways of this culture. These people, these warlords, all frightening they may be, they do not know how desperately I cling myself to survive. They are all playing in warm waters, by rules that they set themselves. They may no chaos in wartime, but they have not experienced the utter fear to have all their beliefs shaken up in one night.

With this mindset, I prepared myself for the day. A servant announced through my door, that I was summoned by Nobunaga. I followed the maid in the Dedalus-like corridors.

Note to self: get your hands on a map of this castle.

The maid announced me and slid the door for me, allowing me to enter.

As soon as the door closed behind me, I was met with raw energy. It was almost unbearable. I wanted to run out. My stomach made a strange flip.

Face it, head on!

I rose my head and my eyes locked with Nobunaga’s. The fire in them embraced me, swallowed me whole. His gaze felt like scorching fire on my skin. It burned its way through my clothes, then my heart until my very soul. It bore itself in me, trying to break down my newfound resolve.

Do not waver!

In response, I accepted all this rawness to invade me. I soaked in it. I will arm myself with all this strength and let it transform me. At that moment, I could feel all my determinate ooze out of my gaze. My inner pandora box flipped open and I had yet to discover what I had unleashed in me.

The silence stretched on and soon I sensed other gazes on me: mischievous, curious, daring, doubtful, and indecipherable.

Let them take everything I am, and I will return the favor. I will soak in all their wits that made them who they are. No matter the cost, I will get my way.

The silence went on as we each feasted on the eeriness my presence had brought in this room. Nobunaga’s hand designated a spot right next to him. I was tempted to refuse, and I sat at the far opposite of him. Hideyoshi grunted in disapproval. Mitsuhide smiled while Masamune scoffed.

“Is my lucky charm scared of me?” Nobunaga asked mockingly.

Damn it! That was not my intention. Quick, respond!

I shrugged.

Hideyoshi cleared his throat and opened the meeting for discussion, “Yesterday, some servants heard demonic voices coming from your room. Are you here to threaten our Lord Nobunaga? Explain yourself or face the consequences of your actions.”

I mastered my composure and answered him in the best way I could, “First, why would I respond honestly to this question? Anyone, plotting or not, would know there is no way to be credible whatever they say.”

“We’ve got ourselves a smart lass!” Masamune noticed.

Hideyoshi’s frown deepened, “You’re not in a position to act so smartly.”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “I saved him. I could have left him to die. We could have died together while I saved him, but we both depended on each other to survive this incident. Our fates were sealed at that very moment I believe. I do not harbor ill intentions towards people I save.”

“What about the voices and the strange noises?” Nobunaga inquired.

There was no time for me to think of an excuse and I doubted explaining to them 21st-century technology such as a phone would do me any favor.

“Shamanic incantations,” I blurted out. I was amazed at how fast I lied.

Silence.

“I had to purify the room,” I added, “after all that happened, I deemed it necessary.”

No reaction.

“I am sorry if it frightened you all,” I squeaked, realizing the weight of my lies only increased.

The warlords chuckled.

“How did a female shaman end up in a temple full of monks?” Mitsuhide asked.

His expression showed how much he reveled in the trap he had neatly spread out for me.

Pretending I am a man was surely no longer an option for me. I had to come up with another way out of my lies. The warlords all waited for my answer as if in common agreement with Mitsuhide’s intent.

I scratched my head to feign my embarrassment “That is not a story for the morning.”

“And you will tell us nonetheless,” Nobunaga ordered.

“Do not act shyly after putting up such a brave front,” Mitsuhide added, visibly enjoying this moment.

I took a deep breath and sunk lower in my lies. “I come from a secluded island. I am but a novice pursuing the path of becoming a shaman. After living only on this island, I wanted to discover the outside world.

“Then, I met this man one day at our village’s well. He was the cousin of the nearby farmer. A cutie, really I tell you. When he noticed how bored I was on this island, he offered to take me to Kyoto. I did not want to pass by this opportunity. So, I left with him. Needless to say, it was a bad idea. I got dragged to Honno-Ji without knowing what would become of me…”

I hung my head low and bit my lips in embarrassment.

Note to self: If this works, enroll in my local drama club.

“Poor child,” Mitsuhide said with false pity.

“Poor child indeed,” seconded Nobunaga, with the opposite expression of pity. I even thought he was smiling for a second.

Do they believe me? Have I fooled them or are they fooling me?

Nobunaga sat up, ready to seal my fate once again.

“While I do not care much for shamans and such, I will keep you by my side. Our fates are sealed as you said. Mitsuhide, you will make sure my lucky charm gets a full experience of life outside her secluded island.”

Lucky for sure, but for how long?

[nekojitachan]

Okay, so this is... IDK what this is. I guess this is the bare bones of my take on The Old Guard with the Monsters/AFTG.

Uhm, warning for people dying/violence, not in very nice ways, some of them (Nicky’s is vaguely tied to canon if you think about it).

*******

Somehow, it didn’t come as a big surprise to Anders when he and his twin came back to life after being killed by the raiders who’d stormed their longhouse, along with everyone else. The strangers had sneered at him and Aron, the ‘living’ vessels of their people’s twin gods, then invoked the name of their own unknown god as they shoved their bronze swords repeatedly into their flesh. Anders had a small knife he’d hidden beneath his robes, but he hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight against trained warriors.

(He’d repeatedly asked to be taught to fight, but Tilda had just laughed and ignored him, too busy soaking up the attention she garnished as the mother of a god’s vessels. Too busy drinking fermented berries and milk to care about how Knut, the elder, mistreated them.)

No, unlike Aron, Anders considered being unable to die (well, to remain dead) a curse instead of another sign of the twin gods’ favor, proof that the Fates took great pleasure in tormenting them. They didn’t age and they healed no matter how badly they were hurt, yet they weren’t immune to starvation, cold temperatures or other things which made life difficult.

They had no choice but to constantly move on, with no family to take them in and strangers suspicious of them if they remained in one place too long. Aron soon grew bitter when he realized that no woman would want him anymore once she continued to age and he didn’t, and it was much the same for Anders if he felt an attraction for another man.

It went on that way for almost eighty years, the two of them isolated from the rest of the world by some terrible curse, until they were driven from sleep one night by the image of a teenaged boy with long, dark auburn hair and pale blue eyes, beaten and bloodied, being held down by two men while an older man with similar pale eyes and red hair cut close to his scalp grinned as he slit the boy’s throat.

Only the boy didn’t remain dead, because the next image showed him alive (and covered in blood) as he stood by a pyre with a woman’s body on it, then as he scavenged through the ransacked sheep farm for anything useful he could find before he took off running. Anders stared at his twin as the images faded away, at the shock in hazel eyes the same color as his own, and knew they shared the same thought as well as appearance; it wasn’t just a dream, and they were no longer alone.

They set out to find the redhead, but the young man proved as elusive as a dream. Anders took to calling him the rabbit, because it felt as if they were chasing such a creature through a forest during the night, fumbling along like a bunch of clumsy fools while it vanished with ease into the thick foliage. The occasional dreams were of little help, because as soon as they figured out the redhead’s location in the dream, he always was gone by the time they finally got there.

Anders was going to cut his tendons a few dozen times when they finally caught up to the flighty bastard.

So six hundred years later, when they had another dream of a tall youth with black hair and green eyes being killed in battle, they wasted no time tracking him down to the island of the Celts. Caoimhín wasn’t a runner like the rabbit and refused to leave until he (along with Anders and Aron) almost ended up as a solstice sacrifice.

Funny how almost being set on fire while alive motivated one to see the world.

Anders began to regret the whole ‘let’s save a fellow immortal’ thing after a decade or two, when Caoimhín proved to be an annoying know-it-all. If the tall bastard wasn’t so good at fighting… he did come in handy whenever Anders managed to ‘upset’ the locals for interfering whenever the assholes were selling slaves (especially children) or mistreating servants – which was often. Aron yelled at him for having the subtlety of a raging bull, but the Persians got on his nerves, as did the Romans, and the Huns and the Franks, and… well, any bastards who thought because they had a bit of land and enough people with pointy weapons that they could boss everyone around.

(Caoimhín said he had a problem with authority. Aron said he was an asshole.)

And through it all, the rabbit. Kept. Running. And. Running.

They finally ran into another immortal who’d been ‘reborn’ a couple decades before when in Damascus, of all places, as Salah ad-Din fought Europe’s Crusaders, and learned that perhaps there was a reason why the rabbit kept his distance. Riko was a viper in human form, and after he did his best to dismember Caoimhín, Anders ‘killed’ him in front of some of Salah ad-Din’s men, leaving them to believe that the other immortal was a djinn when he ‘came back’ to life.

The three of them had no problem abandoning Riko in Damascus, wrapped in iron chains and sealed in a cave.

They kept wandering and fighting what seemed to be hopeless battles, especially with the rise of the Catholic Church. There were times when Anders (now Andrew) wanted to retreat from the world, to find an isolated, empty island and never leave it, but there was Aron (Aaron) and Caoimhín (Kevin), who weren’t quite ready to give up, and a damn rabbit with the clearest blue eyes he’d (sort of) seen who haunted his dreams and taunted him by always being just out of reach.

Then in the 1600s, the three of them dreamed of a new immortal born in the New World, one beaten and starved to death by monks. Unhappy about the thought of the long voyage, Andrew and his fellow ‘monsters’, as he’d come to think of three of them, headed across the Atlantic. It took them almost four years to find Nico, the son of a native woman and a conquistador, who’d been killed because of his attraction to men. The young immortal broke into tears to finally be with his ‘own’ kind, to be safe at last, and was a cheerful presence.

He was even more annoying than Kevin.

They spent a few years wandering the New World, but were drawn back to chasing the rabbit once again; he’d gone to ground in China, leading Andrew to hope that for once he’d stand out and be easy to find, but the damn bastard had developed an almost inhuman skill for learning the local language and blending in wherever he went. Kevin grumbled about him being a damn chameleon, while Aaron wondered if perhaps he’d truly died and they were hunting a ghost.

For some reason… that thought bothered Andrew.

Things carried on as they had before, only it seemed that every time Andrew turned around, the world had changed in some manner. A new country had formed, an old government had been overthrown, a new religion had been invented, yet another senseless war broke out, someone created an invention that upended things in a startling way…. He still remembered how for so long everyone had used bronze swords until someone had figured out how to smelt iron, how there’d only been longhouses and small farms until all of a sudden towns and then cities began to appear.

Change was inevitable, as was the fact that humans would twist some of those changes into something bad.

Still, he never thought that those changes would lead to things that would enable him and his monsters to travel the world in days (and then hours) instead of months or weeks, that wars would break out that spanned continents and could destroy entire cities in minutes. The four of them saved what they could, but soon it became impossible to keep up, not just because there were so many lives in danger and so much being destroyed, but because they could no longer fade into the shadows with ease with things like digital records and cameras in existence.

They learned as much as they could about modern technology; Nico (Nicky) and Aaron took to social media without any problems, while Andrew and Kevin picked up some hacking skills. They bought the best fake IDs possible and did everything they could to leave no trace online.

Yet they couldn’t stay in one place very long, not when they kept working, when they used the skills they’d honed over centuries to help people in need. Which was why they were traveling from France to England via the Chunnel; Andrew refused to give up his customized Maserati just yet, so they’d take the car with them on the train.

They didn’t expect any issue with their papers, especially since they’d used them a few days ago, so it was a surprise when a customs official in Calais frowned when he scanned Aaron’s while the machine beeped several times. Then the same thing happened with Nicky’s. Andrew tensed and tugged the cap on his head further down as he prepared to fight while Kevin did the same; their weapons were hidden in the special compartment in the Maserati, but they were good at improvising.

However, before they could react more than that, a familiar voice called out in French to the customs officials, one Andrew recognized with ease from his dreams over the last three millennia; the rabbit, dressed in a customs uniform, his dark auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail that trailed just past his shoulders, tapped the official who held Aaron’s documents and said he’d check it out, that there was an issue with the scanners. He purposely didn’t look at any of them as he did something to the scanner then ran the passport again, which beeped once in an ‘all clear’. Then he went to do the same for Nicky’s as the fool gaped at him.

As soon as Andrew was cleared, he stalked after his quarry, who to be fair didn’t try to run (for once). He grabbed the other immortal by the wrist and spun him around, part of him noticing that the rabbit was only a couple inches taller (which was a welcome change, considering how for the last few centuries, everyone towered over him). About to curse the bastard out for leading him on a merry chase for over three. Fucking. Millennia, he found himself stunned silent when the rabbit smiled.

(Maybe he should have considered what would happen when he finally caught the redhead.)

*******

Yes, Andrew, what does happen next???

I’ve never taken the Chunnel, so sorry if I messed something up there (I wrote what I did to fit the story). It’s a bit vague, but the twins are Scandinavian Bronze age, Neil is England Bronze Age (around Middle Bronze Age), Kevin is Ireland @ 600 BC, and Nicky is Mexico @ 1600′s. I debated having Andrew and Aaron separated, until I saw the twin gods thing. They were together, but per Tilda’s crappy parenting, they had a very rough childhood with Andrew protecting Aaron.

Mary raised Neil (Ram) to be cautious/wary of strangers. I’m thinking Nathan was a sea raider and... well, he came back years later and that time, he wiped out the farm. Neil heeded his mother’s lesson a little too well, but over time he finally came to learn that Andrew and the others weren’t all bad and finally stepped in to help them (and in a way, protected his own hide).

[an-exotic-writer]

06; businessman!namjoon

“i’m bad at texting first, so i always end up hoping you will.” (06)

kim namjoon was on the top of his game when it came to sealing deals with billionaires, being able to professionally convey his views and objectives to build a capital... as big as a capital.

but one day he bumps into you, a waitress at a local restaurant he visited one day and now he’s smitten. or... he has no idea how to function let alone text you first. he can easily prepare a 50-slide presentation on why you should invest millions of dollars in his service but he barely manages to type a six word text of: “hey, how has your day been?” (maybe insert a smiley face there, namjoon, oh, wait, you’re not even texting)

fate seems to pull namjoon to you when he appears at the restaurant past eight pm and slots himself at the corner table by the window. you take note of him when your colleague gives you a heads up of handsome suit guy, 9 o’ clock and you push jimin away to tend to him. (okay, fine, maybe you gushed to jimin about how namjoon asked for your number and it’s been a week since the both of you had a text thread).

“mr. kim, an honor to have you join us this evening,” you sing-song while pulling your notepad out of your back pocket, a grin on your face. namjoon can’t even breathe right. his chest swells at the sight of you smiling at him like that, with the glow coming from above your head because of the angle he has of looking up to you, he’s certain if this is what he sees when he arrives at heaven, he’ll gladly take it.

“i-i-y/n,” he clears his throat, straightening his back, “hey,”

if there’s something that hooked namjoon since day one, it was how you spoke your mind but did it in a way that makes him wonder how do you do it like that?

“hey?” you chuckle, “you asked for my number last week, and all you show up here saying hey?”

namjoon heaves a sigh, shaking his head as he looks up to you, “it’s not like that,”

“then?” you raise your brows, “i can handle the truth pretty well,”

not interested, not single, not the right time, not my type - which one was it?

“i... i’m really bad at texting first so i was hoping you would. i’m afraid of saying the wrong thing because i can’t exactly clarify what i mean through texts when i don’t know if you perceive them the way i wanted you to. i just...” he licks his lips, eyes avoiding your gaze, “i just don’t want to leave an impression that i’m not interested when i am, and i most certainly don’t want to sound stupid,”

he swallows the lump in his throat, blinking up to you and avoiding your eyes at the same time, “t-there, i said it,”

it’s quiet.

and that quietness gets namjoon to look at you, looking at him, with dusted pink cheeks this time. it doesn’t take long for him to carefully look at you to make sure he didn’t make a complete fool of himself, until he realises you’re blushing. there’s a small smile on his face when you clear your throat, using your notepad to fan yourself as it was your turn to get flustered.

that’s cute, he thinks, smile growing wider and this is where you refuse to take his order. you make your move to walk away from him and that wipes the smile from namjoon’s face. his jaw hangs open, surprise taking over him and it’s making him immobile. you only go so far as to take five steps away before you spin a 180 and come marching right back at him.

“so you like me,” it comes out more like a statement than a question.

either way, it’s not like namjoon has to correct you.

he nods, a couple of times, “a lot, actually,”

“then why haven’t you asked me out?”

namjoon thinks this is interesting. for a moment, you were a blushing mess. now you’re a blushing mess and seemingly annoyed at him. yet, you weren’t shy with your blunt questions.

"because you didn’t give me a chance to ask when you finish your shift,”

“...”

“...”

“...thirty minutes,”

namjoon grins.

“is that a yes?”

you fight back a smile, but failing miserably when namjoon is smiling at you like that. grinning up to you, gummy and dimples and all that it’s making you weak. you squeeze out a soft “yes” before you turn on your heels to get jimin to take namjoon’s order instead.

((”so what will it be, handsome?”

“well, what would you recommend?”

jimin looks over his shoulder, seeing how you’re checking your appearance and when he looks back at namjoon all serious about ordering the right things, he decides to play cupid.

“y/n likes the breadsticks, she’ll die for a double cheeseburger and if you want her to love you, order the lava cake later,”

namjoon smiles, looking at his server’s nametag, “you’re a lifesaver, jimin,”

he does a little bow, “at your service.”

before jimin walks away with the order, he spins back around and pins namjoon down with a pointed look, “however, if you dare so as to hurt y/n, i will hunt you down. i bite,”

although jimin tries to come across intimidating, he can put the pieces together of how you and jimin are close friends based on how two of you are so similar. seemingly harmless, direct, with an aura that radiates nothing but positivity, yet you stand your ground firmly if you need to. not that namjoon needs it. he rests his chin in his palm and gazes your way. he’s absolutely smitten.))

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Hey! I saw you were taking requests :3 would you mind writing (hcs, scenario, anything!) a thing where, shortly pre-OVW recall, McCree and his old teammate (f or neutral pronouns are fine but it’s up to u!!) accidentally meet again after he left without warning? Bonus points for “I thought u were dead/I was never gonna see you again” type stuff :p thanks! Sorry if this was confusing!

{This was, like, super fun to write? I did kinda flip part of the script, but it still fits what you asked for (hopefully). Minor warning for implied alcoholism though, oops. It can also be read as more of a “bars exist for brawls” than “alcohol is my coping method” though, so maybe that’s not as bad??? IDK, at least the ending feels cute.} {-J}

After the fall of Overwatch and its subdivisions, there were certain things that you had been forced to accept: Dozens of your friends and coworkers had died, you were out of a job, and everything you had worked so hard for had crumbled into oblivion. So yeah, shit, you ended up drinking away your pain more than once. At this point you weren’t even sure how many places you were banned from. Still, you held onto the pride that came from never starting any fights, instead waiting for some asshole to decide he wanted to rumble with an ex-Blackwatch agent. It was messy, dangerous, and only added to your nasty reputation.

Few organizations would even think of hiring you. Did that make your drinking worse, or did your drinking make the job search harder?... It wasn’t something you wanted to dwell on, especially considering how desperately you were trying to change things. Mercenary work hadn’t suited you for long, as all your clients were faceless, mysterious forces pulling strings from the shadows. How could you trust that they weren’t like Talon?... Or like Blackwatch had become? In the end you had been forced to slink back into the shadows, praying to whatever gods may be that you could still do some good for the world.

That was a couple years ago. You had changed your name, traded out your old gear for something less suspicious, and set yourself up along the halfway point of Route 66. The area was known for its problems with gangs, violence, and a general lack of government intervention. Sure, the road itself spanned across eight different states, but most of it had been in a state of disrepair for a few decades now. The Omnic Crisis was the final push that sealed the region’s fate. Or, at least, it had been. Some people still cared.

Like you. Why else would you be here, now, scanning the horizon, a beer in one hand, binoculars in the other? There certainly weren’t any good birdwatching spots nearby. Just a rundown gas station perfect for staging ambushes, an old school diner with shitty coffee, and a dusty, dirty crevice up high, wonderful for keeping an eye on it all. You didn’t like it up here, but it was the only discreet place to perform surveillance on the local miscreants. 

Apparently a new gang was starting to harass people in the area, despite the proximity to Deadlock turf, and were trying to sell “insurance”. Understandably, that really pissed you off. Sweet-talking one of the locals had gotten you insight on the gang’s general daily routine. Nothing too specific, unfortunately. Now all you had to do was wait for the scum to show up so you could pound them into the dirt.

Taking a quick swig from your beer, you settled in a little, preparing to wait for who knows how long….

    Dust flew into the air like a trail of smoke, blurring your vision but not deterring you in the slightest. You slipped around your target, barely avoiding his second kick, before slamming your elbow into the back of his head. Sure enough he went crashing down with a thud. More dirt was kicked up in the process. At least it made it a little harder for the gang members still outside to target you. Another quick dash landed you behind cover, where you could finally take a moment to breathe.

    “Damn it,” you grumbled, hearing yet another bullet whiz past your hiding spot. There were still four or five gunmen outside. Truthfully, that was the total number of people you had expected to find, not just the backup boys. Sure, you had prepared for unforeseen hiccups, but apparently not enough. In over your head, stuck sitting like a duck, reminded more and more of the old days. Shit, you missed your teammates. Normally Jesse or Genji would have saved your ass by now.

    You missed them. So much, in fact, that you were pretty sure you just heard Jesse’s signature “high noon” line. It almost made you feel like you were a bit more tipsy than you had thought. When the sound of a revolver firing reached your ears, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had actually died; if so, this was the weirdest form of afterlife known to mankind. Curiosity ended up getting the best of you. Crawling to the side, you made sure not to reveal any part of yourself to your enemy, working your way towards the building’s secondary entrance. That was still within the gang’s line of sight, but you hoped it was far enough to the side that they wouldn’t immediately notice you poking around the corner.

    Sure enough, nobody shot at you when you turned the corner. Someone did, however, raise a silver revolver in your direction. Air got caught in your lungs as you stared down that ever-so-familiar barrel. Relief started to flood your chest… until you realized that the gunman wasn’t wavering in his stance. Your gaze follows up his arm, to his face, and you suddenly wish you weren’t wearing this stupid goddamn mask.

    “Hold it, buddy, unless you want to end up like your compadres back there,” Jesse McCree drawls, tipping his head back towards the fallen gang members. Evidently he hadn’t seen you beating the crap out of the ones inside. Still, you raised your hands slowly, showing your lack of weapons. “There we go. Now, take off that there lil’ mask, nice and easy, alright?” You complied, of course, tossing it to the side before throwing a grin in Jesse’s direction. His reaction made you really, really wish you had brought a camera. The normally smooth and put-together cowboy is now slack jawed, a sense of wonder (and something else…?) in his eyes. Soon your name drops from his lips, whispered like a sacred prayer.

    “It’s good to see you too, Jesse,” you manage to reply, still grinning like a fool. Hardly a moment passes before the wind is suddenly knocked out of you. Jesse had holstered his gun, closed the distance between the two of you, and pulled you into a hug in a matter of just a couple seconds. The action catches you by surprise, now making you the one to choke on the words caught in your throat. Still, you manage to hug him back, leaning in to gently rest your head against his chest.

    “Goddamnit, who gave you the right to surprise me like this?” He asks after a few moments of silence, his voice on the edge of breaking. His grip was tight, like a man desperate to keep his sanity clutching onto a lifetime of coping methods. Words failed you, barely managing a confused noise, as you pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. There was something you couldn’t comprehend in his gaze. Something you were missing, that required knowledge you didn’t have. Your head tipped to the side as you hoped for at least a little elaboration. Jesse seems to realize your cluelessness, and shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “I thought you were dead,” he murmurs, the words settling on his tongue with an all-too-familiar weight.

    Shit, you thought, eyes going wide for a moment. Thoughts raced through your head as you tried to process what he said, thinking back to what had happened after Blackwatch’s disbandment, wondering why he could possibly have thought that you were-

….

….

    Fuck.

    Yeah, that tracked. Going from constantly fighting in bars to fucking off to nowhere, changing your name, and turning to the vigilante lifestyle? No shit people thought you were dead. How had you ever thought that this was a good idea?... Sure, most of your old friends had done the same, scattering across the four winds without so much as a “lol bye” (or, you know, a proper farewell). However, that didn’t mean that there weren’t still people who cared, who you could have at least made the slightest effort to keep in touch with before disappearing. People like Jesse.

    “Now that you mention it, I realize I didn’t exactly leave much room for thinking anything else,” you replied, barely managing to speak through your embarrassment. A laugh tried to move past your teeth, even though you knew the timing was bad, but the sound died as soon as your gaze met Jesse’s.

    “That’s one hell of an understatement, old friend,” he said, hardly a trace of mirth to his name. Both of his arms were still around your frame, gently cradling you, as if a stiff breeze might sweep you away from him once more. You could feel his body shifting with every breath he took, slowly finding yourself matching the movements. One of Jesse’s hands moves to cup your cheek, fingers sliding so carefully that you almost didn’t feel it, but you lean it instinctively, finding your lips placing a whisper of a kiss against his wrist. “Darling,” he breathes, voice caught in his throat, blocked by joy and surprise alike.

    “I’m sorry for worrying you, Jesse. I swear I never meant to just vanish like that,” you plead, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. “Things were bad, and I… I just ran from that, I guess. But you didn’t deserve that, at all, and I swear to whatever passes for high heaven these days, if you give me a chance-....” Pulled in closer, you couldn’t help but squeak a little when Jesse plants a kiss on your forehead. One of his hands is rubbing gentle circles into your back. A reassurance, one you desperately needed. “I can make it up to you. We can do better this time, right?...”

    Jesse didn’t say anything, at least not at first, but the feeling of his hat settling down on your head gave you all the answers you’d ever need.

[jcmorrigan]

What movie or tv show scared you the most?

OH HEEHEEHEEEEEE MY TIME HAS COME

I think this was probably the sign I was meant to be a horror fan, because I'm gonna talk about two movies here and neither one is a standard horror film. Now, I avoided horror films like the plague, but I now realize that's because of my aversion to jumpscares and gore, which have very little to do with actual scary stuff. I feared actual horror imagery as a small child, but basically once I read Coraline it all just turned around because that book gave me nightmares but I actually WANTED those nightmares and kept going back to the book. So what are the movies I just COULD NOT contend with?

First up, I have found that a lot of people have said this one, but really and truly, fuck Chicken Run.

I was...maybe ten when I watched it. Signed up for a goofy claymation adventure. What did I get? First of all, a whole lot of bleak color palette that warned me that this was not going to be a happy story. We are then shown the stakes right away: our entire main cast lives in a dystopian prison and if they do not find a way to escape, they will die. One DOES die. This is where a lot of people say they noped out right away, but actually, the execution of the dinner chicken in the first scene was tame for me compared to what would come next.

The pie machine. It's assembled, it's talked about, and eventually our two leads fall into it in a way that is designed to be fatal. Look, there are a ton of horror tropes in this scene alone. I haven't seen it SINCE THE ONE AIRING and I can still vividly tell you a lot of this. And if I walked into a horror film and asked for this, I'd come out super satisfied, but I was not expecting horror from this. First of all, I remember vividly the shot where you're looking from Ginger's POV falling down the shaft and the divider comes up to shunt her into the "meat" line. It's incredibly claustrophobic and you just get this almost jumpscare reminder that the character through whose eyes you see is regarded as nothing more than meat to be consumed. There is then an array of blades designed for close calls, and dough that essentially glues the lead characters down to a conveyor belt so they have to helplessly watch the death machines that are coming. Sticky stuff that roots you to one spot; that's another thing that just REALLY unnerves me and I love it if I'm reading CreepyPasta but I was not reading CreepyPasta; I was watching a children's film. The leads escape certain death by jamming the gravy system, causing the machine to overload on pressure, and here I feel like I should've been relieved that they escaped but instead I was the most unsettled of all when the pressure meter started climbing. I don't know if this film *gave* me a phobia of industrial accidents or if it just awakened what was already in my OCD little brain, but suffice to say that after this movie, I was hyper-aware of my own fear of things like hissing steam, rising pressure meters, and being in a room where large metal things were clanking. (I'm since over it; I've been exposed to it in enough things.)

Now, I was no quitter. I should have just noped out. But I didn't. I continued to traumatize myself. The next part of the film until the climax I don't remember so well - it wasn't as traumatizing - EXCEPT for the part where Ginger finds and rebuilds Rocky's circus poster. And now, as an adult, I can see how that was kinda supposed to be funny, like, "The goddamn chicken padded his résumé and the way they found this out was a circus poster." But little me was invested in these chickens, I wanted them to be happy, and what I saw was basically their death notice being signed with that scrap of paper with a cannon on it. I FELT that in my bones.

STILL NOT HAVING THE GOOD SENSE TO JUST EJECT THE TAPE ALREADY, I proceeded to the climax, in which what happens to Tweedy might be one of the most fucking awful things I've seen ever? Pinned upside-down in a superheated, confined space with rising liquid from below as the pressure meter starts climbing again. And her husband arrives just in time to see her like this but not in time to actually stop the explosion. Thank God it didn't actually kill her because even though I was already traumatized, that would've absolutely made it worse.

Thing is, ever since this movie scared the absolute shit out of me - and was probably the cause of the weird stomachaches I had for A WEEK after - I've kinda had this thing about reclaiming the scary parts and stomping on them while laughing maniacally. I feel like every time I've done a crossover project, there's been a temptation to write in an arc where the mains go up against THE PIE MACHINE and fucking win. And also there's whump with tons of comfort in my version to mitigate it all. I haven't done any such thing for TBTC...YET. But I know what I must do. I know who must destroy the machine and the Tweedys along with it. Buckle your seatbelts.

My final word before I move on is that as I ascend into adulthood, I think that for the most part, a rewatch of this film wouldn't traumatize me so badly. It'd still be gross and creepy in a way I think shouldn't be sent to children without warning, but I could deal with the imagery, maybe enjoy using it as whump fuel even more, maybe my horror side would really get into the peril this time. But the one thing I've realized is that this premise is fucked EVEN MORE if you're a grown-up, because as a child, you're sympathizing with the chickens. You want them to get free of this death camp environment. But as an adult, you start to realize that all Tweedy wanted to do was be a chicken farmer who sold pie, and her supposedly nonsentient animals ganged up on her in a display of unheard-of intellect among farm stock. This would then lead to her undergoing at least one near-death fate. Think about being a farmer in our world and the animals you keep GANG UP ON YOU LIKE PEOPLE because you're killing them for food. No thank you, no THANK you.

But surely this was a one-of-a-kind phenomenon. Surely, after this...after so many other people agreed with me; "Fuck Chicken Run"...no animation studio would ever pull shit like this again.

I had hoped that was the case until Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.

This is one I don't actually see lambasted as often. Maybe because the Chicken Run trauma crew grew thicker skins before this movie. I only sort of did. Maybe because no one ever actually invested in this film, having already predicted how much it would be garbage from the dumb humor in the trailers. Oh, but not me. I was a fool. Also my family picked it for a movie night so my fate was sealed anyway.

The original book is actually pretty frightening on its own. Food falls from the sky in such great numbers that it starts to destroy the world. Okay, that's terrifying. But kind of in the alluring way. I would keep coming back to the one page about the giant pancake on the school because the way it was drawn unsettled me so, with something huge and immovable blocking off the way to a building that usually has hundreds of innocent children inside. The film built on this and made it a thousand times worse.

Let's start with the goddamn Spray-On Shoe. Our main character is a mad scientist (but the good kind, apparently) whose list of bumbling failed experiments dates back to when he was a child and invented a spray you could put on your feet to coat them in shoes. He then gets laughed at because he didn't engineer a way to get the shoes off, and runs home in humiliation. Guys, the teasing/bullying factor is...not the most worrying thing about this story. There's a throwaway line about how Flint wears THE SAME SHOES into adulthood because to that day they simply cannot be removed. This seems like an incredibly urgent medical problem? Having your feet encased in the same rubber for years? The same rubber as when you're a kid? I just found myself thinking "What if my shoes never came off one day" and that terrifies me, okay? It's stupid and it's silly and it scares me. Even more than that, though, is the canonization of a polymer in this universe that can be sprayed on sticky and will literally never break no matter what you do to it, because that goes back to the pie machine dough principle. Being glued to a surface permanently is inherently terrifying and we'll go over this later because this is not the last fuckin time the glue shoes get brought up.

Flint invents a food-spewing machine. It ends up in the sky. He rides his popularity as it rains larger and larger food down upon the town and also the world. Most of this film up until the climax is unsettling but not AWFUL. Where it starts to go to shit is when Flint realizes his machine is too dangerous and shuts it off, only for the town's local greedy politician to switch it back on into an apocalyptic mode. So can we start with "Local town finds out its elected official is willing to sabotage their well-being in order to capitalize on the fame of a disaster-causing object?". Like, the whole film would've been solved so much sooner if there hadn't been a saboteur in the works - not a fun campy villain, mind you, but a saboteur who exists to drive the plot to the scary place. But I guess we need that narrative tension to justify having a film in the first place, so fine, I'll ride it out.

The main crew saddles up to fly out to the machine, which is now encased in a FLESH LABYRINTH of food, and...I'm just gonna rapid-fire the shit that happens at this part:

-The food turns sentient in order to defend itself. The cute animal sidekick brutally dismembers an army of gummy bears that is fully sentient and rips them apart to devour them.

-We enter the flesh labyrinth and it's exactly as much a horror RPG setting as you think it is.

-Now sentient cooked chickens besiege the party. The comic relief character is consumed by one, only to kill it from the inside and decide to WEAR ITS SKIN in what is seen as his defining character arc's conclusion. Wearing the skin of a dead monster allows him to forge his new identity.

-One of our party has to go back because of a tight passage lined with her deadly allergen, causing her to undergo anaphylaxis after an accidental mild nick. In the flesh labyrinth.

-The entire horrific journey is instantly INVALIDATED when it turns out that instead of the kill code for the machine, all Flint has is a file of a cat video. Which he finds out as the town is about to be obliterated off the face of the earth.

-So he solves it by jamming the works with the spray-on shoe and DID I NOT JUST GO OVER HOW HORRIFIC INDUSTRIAL EXPLOSIONS ARE IN KIDS' MOVIES? DID I NOT? ARE WE REALLY DOING THIS AGAIN? Anyway it's canonical proof that NOTHING can break the shoe glue and I should be happy for the town and happy that there's no more flesh labyrinth of living meat but instead I'm just terrified because of the door we have opened. We have imparted the existence of an indestructible sticky polymer upon the world.

-It's later seen used in a credits sequence to repair damaged houses. Which, first of all, given its flexible nature, is fuckin stupid. It won't serve as an actual wall. Second, that got me thinking about construction accidents involving the fuckin shoe glue. If that stuff gets dripped on a person's face -

-So then cue me sitting awake in bed later thinking wide-eyed about Cloudy with a Chance of Fucking Meatballs and realizing that this compound that is essentially a chemical weapon in the making is now in the hands of the mayor who deliberately caused an apocalyptic event over the town because he wanted the food rain. And THAT'S not going to lead to pretty circumstances.

I think you'll see that a lot of my fears with these two movies is "THINK OF THE IMPLICATIONS!" and I think that just shows how my mind works and why I'm drawn to fanfic so much. I'm all about diving into a universe, exploring its corners, analyzing it to death.

And with the industrial horror stuff, I kinda wanna bring it around to two other films that actually really subverted my expectations and made it fun. 102 Dalmatians was a fave of mine through middle school, but I remember when the climax took us to a big ol' factory and I got plumb nervous. After the usual blades and ovens of horror, the fact that it concludes with Cruella basically wearing a cake and a lengthy montage of the dogs kicking toppings onto her is just one of the most wholesome imageries. She survived the thing and now you get to watch her be decorated Lisa Frank style by her victims who are more interested in humiliation than murder, and I love that.

But maybe more prevalent is that I'm well aware that if certain filmography or plot points had been handled in different ways, The Boxtrolls might've actually frightened the ever-loving fuck out of me what with all the industrial stuff and medical horror, but I just...felt like that film was holding my hand the whole way through going "It's okay." The industrial stuff was framed in a way that was just campy enough and yet also taken seriously. Putting a really charismatic villain - ACTUAL VILLAIN, NOT CHICKEN FARMER OR CORRUPT POLITICIAN SABOTEUR - at the wheel was just such a mitigating factor that it gelled the whole thing together and I ended up LOVING what was done with giant machines and garbage crushers and explosions. And as for the medical body horror, I really appreciate how it was so baked in that Snatcher did that to himself - that everyone, EVERYONE warned him "Do not do this, you will probably die, I'm serious, bad fucking idea" up to the point of Eggs trying to plead him during an anaphylaxis attack, one last time, DO NOT continue down this path, we can find a way to heal you psychologically and get you some self-fulfillment. And Snatcher fully chooses hubris over the many, many opportunities offered him to be able to step down onto a safer path and that removes the fear and pulls it more into a tragedy for the villain. Not at all the same thing as "Sam the reporter is trying to save the world and doing her best until a fixture of the landscape accidentally sends her into anaphylaxis."

(Oh, and by the way, can I just - when I do see CWACOM brought up these days, it's always in the context of "This is the one movie where the guy tells the girl it's okay to look nerdy!". Well, no, not the way I remember it. The way I remember it, Sam basically tells Flint "I used to have really tacky style but have since changed it up of my own volition" and Flint is just like "NOOOOO YOU NEED TO WEAR GLASSES AND A SCRUNCHIE. I WANT A HOT NERD GIRL." This could've been pulled off right with some more introspection into female beauty standards, even in a tongue-in-cheek way, but right now it really looks like Sam just wanted to make herself more glam for a new image and Flint bullied her into regressing her style. Which I've also realized meant he bullied her into dressing more like she did as a teenager and normally I think that kind of shit is just "You're overthinking it" but since it's CWACOM and I spelled it out on paper like that, I'm just now realizing how that can be seen as pretty...icky.)

The one saving grace of CWACOM is that I was older by that time, and so it didn't affect me as hard as Chicken Run. But I still hold it dearly to my heart as one of the MOST DISTURBING movies I know, and by "dearly" I mean "fuck this movie, really and truly." I want to extend my thanks to 102D and Boxtrolls for giving me industrial-horror-based climaxes that were actually really comfortable, and again, probably what drove both of these was the fact that we had a campy diva villain in the lead for the potential scary stuff to surround and radiate off. Not a fuckin...ordinary chicken farmer who is just trying to make bank but is somehow passed as a Nazi allegory for trying to live her life as a farmer? I dunno, maybe if I rewatched that film I'd see she has a thirst for human blood too, and if I could fix fic Chicken Run my first order of business would be to give her a thirst for human blood instead of/in addition to chickens.

Anyway. Fuck both these films, EXCEPT for the fact that traumatizing scenarios can always be recast as whump material, and the next time I wanna do some crossover aftercare from a physically and psychologically damaging mission, I have a pie machine and a flesh labyrinth to exploit. REALLY HEAVY ON THAT AFTERCARE COMFORT THOUGH!

[ofieugogyshz]

Fic; Yearning for Adventure

Word Count: 2600

no tws / super fluffy, lovey-dovey content / self-ship content

Summary: Sometimes it’s hard being away from someone who feels like home. Someone who’s so busy, who puts so much on their plate, and not being able to help them with it. All you can do is wait, wait, and wait, hoping that maybe, one day, they’ll make the decision for themselves... 

inspired by that one fucking uquiz and two lovedrunk fools crashing hands against their keyboards, cranking out things to fluster the other based off those uquiz results. 

I mean, uh. I really love my husband and I want him to come home damnit.

As always, I love to hear comments and what you thought of it! :D rbs encouraged!

----------------------------------------------------

We agreed to meet up somewhere when he was done with the current job he was on. The current Pokemon G-Man mission he was on had kept him away for awhile, a bit longer than the jobs he had been taking in recent years. He called me every so often, usually at the end of his day when he could, and if he didn't think it was too late. (It was never too late for me.) Some days we joked about how we still managed to have such a great marriage in spite of his work; a job that he had been considering asking for less of, so he could spend more time focusing on other factors in his life: the league, the clan, his mentee... his relationship with me. He said that he thought it wasn't fair to continue to ask so much of me, for how often we were kept apart sometimes. But I always told him that I knew what I signed up for, and that any complaints I gave him were always promptly taken care of; it wasn't of concern to me.

At least, that's what I told him. I always told him that, but I'm sure he knew that that wasn't the case. How often I had asked him to take time off from everything and go with me to visit Alola; a few times just half-joking when everything was stressful, that maybe we should just pack up and move there, even though neither of us had ever been. (He didn't like the joke too much, being such a responsible person, but he understood that I never meant seriously.) Even when we went to Galar for his match against its Champion, we could only stay a week; and I found myself longing to extend our stay, despite having put aside the notion of adventure, of having finally taking a break to just stay put and find a new, everyday routine. I'm sure it was the same for him; he looked as though he wanted to stay longer, and reconnect with the Gym Leader of the local Dragon-type Gym. But, work beckoned. A week off was all that the league could afford him, and he was already set up for a new mission when we got back.

I had really wondered if he was okay with living like this still. So when I heard him say this one night, over the phone, that he was considering limiting his time with them, I felt my heart jump in my chest. He never said anything that he wasn't serious about, and I... I really wanted to believe him. But for all the love and joy that he's brought into my life, I've been far too used to being denied things, especially in my younger years. I've trained myself not to expect too much of it, even though, when he said something... I always wanted to believe. I usually did. This though... This just felt too good to be true. So I was cautiously optimistic, cautiously hopeful, that maybe his words would ring true. But he was only considering it. Considering... It didn't guarantee an answer, but it had been on his mind for awhile.

That was a relief to know.

Even though the match was considered official league business, they did allow us a free week stay at a hotel. The vacation was much needed. This short little vacation where he was pardoned from all other work, all other responsibilities taken care of for a time. We weren't the same kids as we were when we met, two kids, two teens, on their own separate journeys; we had a lot more responsibilities expected of us as adults. I remember the thought flickering through my mind about how tired he looked, trying to split himself up so many ways; and how, here, during that week off, did I see him get the rest that he needed. The rest that needed, he deserved, from having too much on his plate. ...I wanted to believe that, maybe, one day, it could be like that everyday. I did my best to enjoy it while it last.

My Dragonite shifted her head, listening. Pika stopped her playing as well, ears twitching, a curious expression on her little face as she looked in the same direction as Augusta. I stuck my head out of the mountainside cave, the little cliff that jettisoned over part of Route 45. I pushed my glasses up, squinting, trying to see anything. Augusta snorted, a puff of air coming out of her nostrils, as she crossed her arms. Guess it was nothing. I gave my Dragonite a suspicious look, and she closed her eyes, pretending not to see. Meanwhile, my Pikachu continued to look around.

“Pikapi!!” exclaimed Pika, pointing above. I turned my head up, pouting when I saw the silhouette.

“Aw, man. I was going to try and surprise you.”

“Must be why she,” I said, nodding in the direction of my Dragonite, “suddenly went quiet.” I could just imagine him gesturing for her to be quiet as his Dragonite flew in, hovering above the cave entrance; my Pikachu, on the other hand, was not so great at unspoken signals. Especially when she was nearly as excited as I was to see my husband.

“I didn't think Pika was going to be around.”

“Oh, really? My partner Pokemon from when I was nine?”

“You know what I meant.”

“I do! Now get off that Dragonite and greet your wife properly!” I said, pouting at him again.

He laughed, jumping down as his Pokemon lowered close to the cave's entrance. Even though I usually found it cool when he jumped off, watching his cape fluttering behind him as he somehow always managed to stick his landing, I didn't waste a single second of this reunion, and found myself running to hug him, squeezing him tight. He returned my embrace, kissing me gently on the head. We held each other like that, quietly enjoying each other's presence. Time was on our side for the moment, as we breathed in the other's scent. Relishing that moment's peace.

“I missed you too,” he said slowly, hesitantly, as though breaking the silence first would cause the moment to be over, and time would once again resume, our adult lives parting us once more as responsibilities came to claim us.

“I missed you,” I said, looking up at his face. He looked like he was tired, but the sight of me had given him some relief from whatever stressors his mission had given him. I wanted to kiss that exhaustion away, and leaned in to do so...

Only to be tapped lightly in the face with a letter.

Well, that was unromantic.

I pursed my lips, pouting at him again, as I pulled the letter he held away from my face. “What's this?” I asked, a little grumbly. It had better been good to interrupt that, I thought. And he knew it too.

“Well....” he began, starting to look a little bashful. I raised an eyebrow, curious. He was usually the better of the two of us when it came to confidently and clearly speaking. “Those nights when I thought it was too late to call you--”

“You know I'm nocturnal, it wouldn't've been too late.”

He cleared his throat, and I took it as a cue to let him talk without interrupting. Not an easy feat for me, but for him? I could try. I crossed my arms and waited, letting him take the podium once more.

“It's a letter for you. I wrote you one.”

My face flushed instantly. I grabbed the envelope, looking it over and trying not to make my fluster obvious. (As though I could ever hide it from him.)

“Lance! Are you frickin' serious? I can't believe you would-- Honey, please.” I threw down my hands, letter still in hand, reluctantly accepting my flustered fate with resignation. I sighed, giving up, and held the letter close to me once more, looking at it again. “You didn't have to do that.”

“I know, I know. But... I haven't written you one in awhile, and, well, there were some things that I thought might be better said on paper. Especially with your memory,” he teased. I smacked his arm with the letter. “Ow!”

“Pff. You and I both know that didn't hurt.”

“It hurt my ego,” he said, giving me a sad face. He was using one of my own tactics against me.

“Oh stop that.” I rolled my eyes. My fingers traced over the back of the envelope, where the letter had been sealed inside. I waited. He didn't say anything, but watched me instead. “What?”

“I... Actually I wanted to see you read it. It's not long, I promise.”

My face, which had been cooling off from its earlier fluster, heated up once more. “E-eh? Uh... Um...” I fumbled around for my words, not even sure of what I was trying to think. It was embarrassing, for one, to think about him watching me read the words he carefully chose and picked out for me. And I was already so easy to fluster in person...

“What's wrong?”

“U-um... Nothing. Nothing, really.” I took a deep breath, trying to calm my shuddering nerves. “I'm just not used to this... I mean, it's been awhile since we've exchanged letters, and, well, usually we weren't face to face if we ever read them around the other.... I think.” I tried to think of a time when something like this happened before, but nothing came to mind. Memories of us as teens, meeting up, sharing our letters with one another; whatever we had meant to send out on our way to a meetup spot were shared during those moments, sitting next to each other, leaning into each other. Arms wrapped around the recipient, chins on shoulders as we watched with bated breath our datemate read, pressing our faces against the other's back... okay maybe that last one was mostly me. Memories of reading by candlelight during a storm in this particular spot came to mind. I briefly wondered if those initials I carved when I was sixteen were still somewhere, or if time or a Pokemon wore away at the wall that I inscribed them on. Maybe I was still too busy processing the unexpected turn of events to think of any other time except those.

I heaved another sigh, quickly accepting my fate, and opened the letter. I didn't read it aloud, at any rate, so I at least was spared that embarrassment. Though... to say his words were embarrassing would have been an insult that he did not deserve. He never shied away from telling me that he loved me, and there was not a soul that had spent any time around him that could doubt it. He treasured me greatly, and often went to great lengths to remind me of it. Even right now. I found myself skimming far quicker than my brain could process, various words standing out to me all at once, and I felt a quivering in my lips at the thought that went into them. I peeked my eyes out from behind the letter to glance at him. He usually enjoyed watching me do anything, but this was the one time I think he had managed to keep his glance askew, distracted with greeting my two Pokemon. I took a deep breath and tried again to swim through the words, letting them flow back into the sentences they once formed, and read it again, and again, all the way through, until it was done in one go.

I finally threw the letter down again, running to hug him again.

“You... You know you don't have to write me letters, right?”

“Sometimes, you need something a little more memorable. It at least kept me busy some nights without you.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You're silly sometimes, you know that?”

“I know.”

He kissed the top of my head again. He pulled back a little, cupping my face; starting at my jawline, gently tracing the sides of my face with his thumbs, his hands gliding until they rested just under my ears, tucking his hands in to the loose hair that had gathered there. I felt myself pulled in for a kiss, softly, as though he were taking gentle care of something that he revered. I draped my arms over his shoulders, hands linking at the back of his neck.

I loved our kisses. The ones when we had been apart for awhile, they never ceased to be amazing, some sort of magical moment that still managed to make my heart skip a beat. It was a release for all that tension that came from being apart, a relief that we were together again. Passion still beat beneath that, restrained, as though we were desperate to let the other know that we were missed, but we kept it back, used it to keep our kiss going, lips locked, never wanting to be apart once more. Never to be left longing again. There was a bittersweet feeling in the air as our lips pulled away slightly, heads pressed together.

“Having you to come back to... It's what makes the job worthwhile.”

I nuzzled him, kissing his cheek. “You're just saying that.”

“I mean it, Sarah. You're what keeps me going; I look forward to coming home to you.”

My face flushed once more, and I buried it in the crook of his neck. His hands came to rest on my back, and he held me tight. I whined against his chest, embarrassed. As always, I lacked the words to pinpoint the feelings it gave me whenever he said that; I always used to assume he just said those things to be romantic, when we were younger. But I quickly realized that whatever he said, he meant; and every single thing he had ever said since always made my heart jump. Even the cheesy ones.

He pulled me away a little to kiss me once more. I wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning in to his kiss. A smile played its way onto our lips. We laughed, giggling, trying to kiss each other only for our lips to part. My mind played back what he said, as we kissed, the mirthful laughter still intermittent. Before we could get lost in our reunion, I pulled away, looking at his eyes.

“Does this mean that you're still going to be working the same hours with the G-Men?”

“Hm. I haven't been able to discuss it with them yet, but I did start filling out a request form to change my availability with them. It's been a long time coming, and I'm sure my colleagues there will be relieved to hear that I'm finally giving myself a break. Though, I will miss a lot of the adventures that job brings...”

My eyes widened as I listened to him. I had questions that I wanted to ask him about it, about what he meant specifically, what hours he had in mind, how come he never took this time before if others at this job were downright concerned for his well-being, but none of the right words would come to mind.

“Wow. What are you ever going to do with all that free time?” I asked, half teasing.

“I'm not sure. I'm hoping maybe spend more time with you.” He kissed me on the cheek, and I buried my face again, laughing into his chest.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I hope you do too.”