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ode-to-melpomene · 2 months ago

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hi hi mel!!! i love all your works and your writing is so wonderful ^^

was wondering if you could write something where one of the bat boys reaches the reader right before they’re about to get kidnapped by some criminals?? like maybe they’re publicly in a relationship w the batboy’s wayne identity n get targeted for that reason but one of the boys gets there js in the nick of time :)

thank u sm and have a great rest of ur day ^^

Love this prompt! Some of these are pre-kidnapping, some are mid-kidnapping. If anyone wants additional characters added, let me know! Hope you enjoy 💛

Daring Rescues

Pairings: Bruce Wayne x gn!reader, Dick Grayson x gn!reader, Jason Todd x gn!reader, Tim Drake x gn!reader Synopsis: Who comes to your aid when you find yourself in need of saving? Word Count: 2466 Warnings: Established relationship! Kidnapping, minor injuries, general mortal peril.

Bruce Wayne:

Bruce knew better than to associate you with Batman. He had learned that lesson a hundred times over by now, how dangerous it was to associate the people he cared for with the cowl. But now wasn't the time to dwell on the blunder.

“Oracle, update,” he barked over the communication device. Bruce perched atop a balcony, staring down at the street below.

“Black SUV turning onto Carlton,” Barbera replied, the sound of her fingers furiously working over the keys of the Batcomputer meeting his ears. “The car is registered to a loan shark put away a few years ago. Suspected ties to Falcone.”

Bruce uttered a grunted mm in response, eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. His eyes scanned the road below. He caught the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance. “GCPD?”

“I’ve got them cutting off side roads. Headed your way now.”

He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to launch from the balcony, one hand braced on the ledge beneath him and the other on his belt. He cocked his head to the East and narrowed his eyes- yes, there. He watched the SUV turn the corner, skidding as it spun around the sharp turn and narrowly avoided oncoming traffic.

“Sixty-three miles an hour?” he guessed.

“Sixty-six. Sounds like you might be losing your touch.”

“Oracle,” Bruce warned. He scowled. That extra speed would change his entry angle.

“Sorry. Dropping in three-”

Bruce’s hand shot to his belt.

“Two-”

The end of the grappling hook shot out from the device in his hand and buried itself within the construction scaffolding across from him. He gave a single tug, then launched himself from the balcony-

“One-”

- And crashed feet first into the rear passenger window of the interior of the modified SUV, seats removed to provide more space in the back. Panicked shouts rang out as glass shards shattered across the interior. Bruce pulled his cape over the lower half of his face, preventing glass from cutting his skin as he hit the floor.

The vehicle swerved and he used the momentum to bring his elbow into collision with a man’s partially covered face, his jaw making a distressing crack at the impact. His other hand lashed out, grabbing the driver by his hair and slamming his face against the steering wheel. The driver’s nose crunched and blood sprayed against the vehicle’s dash.

Hands grasped at his suit and he drove his knee into the third assailant’s ribs, sending him stumbling backwards. Your muffled shriek filled the interior of the SUV as the vehicle swerved and momentarily rocked into the curb.

The driver’s hands gripped at Bruce’s wrist behind his head, his foot flooring the accelerator. Bruce let out a tsk as he lunged forward and looped his arm around the driver’s neck. The man’s shrill scream was quickly silenced as Bruce squeezed the man’s neck in the juncture of his elbow and bicep.

He pulled the man backwards and used his opposite hand to stabilize the chokehold. His freehand reached for the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle down the road. He just needed a moment-

The driver finally went limp in Bruce’s arms. He tugged, pulling the man from his seat and wedged a batarang against the brake, quickly bleeding off speed.

Muffled screams filled the room, followed by a grunt of pain. Familiar hands raked over Bruce’s belt. He gripped the wheel with one hand and turned his head just in time to see a zap of electricity come to life.

You dove towards the third kidnapper, barreling into him and driving the taser into the side of his neck. The man screamed, spasmed, and went limp.

You panted around the gag in your mouth, your hands chained together in front of you. You held the taser tightly in your hands, glaring down with a fiery expression.

When you turned your gaze on him, that fiery passion was replaced with a soft, mirthful glint in your eye. You gave him your best smile, despite the gag, and a cheesy thumbs up.

Bruce scowled, despite the way his heart skipped a beat.

Dick Grayson:

Why did you always have to rush into things?

Of course it was a set up. That was so obvious now that you had a split lip and blood trickling from your nose. It was a last ditch effort on the part of some petty criminals who wanted a piece of the Wayne wealth in exchange for Dick’s hapless partner.

The masked goons cornered you in your own apartment, toying with you like cats stalking a mouse. One swung a pipe wrench and you skittered backwards, nearly bumping into the end table next to your couch. You really needed to move that when this was all over, and make sure the space was less cluttered so you wouldn’t get tripped up like this again-

A blade came slashing down, glinting in the waning sunlight that filled your apartment as it narrowly missed your face. Your curse was met by vicious laughter. With a snarl, you gripped the end table and hucked it at the figure holding the blade.

Two of the goons jumped away from the end table as it flung towards them. You took the chance to dash to the kitchen, knocking over and tossing random items in your wake. As much as you appreciated the self defense training Dick had put you through, you didn’t trust yourself against their weapons. You took solace in knowing they weren’t here to kill you… but that didn’t mean they weren’t more than willing to rough you up.

You just needed to waste some time. So you threw a plate, a beautiful, arbor rimmed plate that had been a gift to you and Dick from Selina and Bruce (you suspected Selina stole them.) The assailants dodged the ceramic, so you snatched the detachable faucet and sprayed the nearest goon in the face with cold water. Too bad they were smart enough to wear masks.

And then you saw the balcony door slide open. It all happened so fast, a flash of black, blue, and silver darting into the space. Metal clashed with skin, a sickening thunk sounding as an escrima collided with an attacker’s skull. An angered shout tore through the air, only to be quickly silenced by a thud as the outspoken figure hit the floor.

It was over in a matter of moments. Three unconscious bodies on the floor, tucked out of sight behind your kitchen island, and a shadowed figure huffing agitated breaths through gritted teeth. Spots of blood on the escrima, on his face.

You blinked once, twice, clearing the fog from your vision. Nightwing- Dick loomed across from you. He tucked the escrimas behind his back and turned to face you, the scrunch in his brow covered by his mask.

“Are you alright?” you asked, voice barely above a tremble.

His expression softened immediately. He heaved a sigh and dashed around the kitchen island, sweeping you into his tight grasp. You wrapped your arms around him just as eagerly, pressing your face to the stretchy fabric of his suit.

“Should be asking you that, love.” Dick pulled away slightly, holding you at arms length. Though you couldn’t see his eyes through his mask, you knew he was carefully taking stock of your injuries.

“Just a few scrapes,” you said with a reassuring smile in spite of the way your swollen lip burned. “You should see the other guys.”

Dick barked out a laugh and pulled you flush against him once again, burying you in a tight embrace.

Jason Todd:

You should have called a cab.

Rain poured down on you, drenching you to the skin. Rain hadn’t been on the forecast today–you always made sure to check on days you chose to walk to-and-from work. When you had stepped out of the office building to find a slight drizzle dappling the sidewalk, you had thought nothing of it. Like many other Gothamites, you had assumed it was a passing spring weather.

Now the storm drains gurgled pitifully as water gushed into it. Your clothes were sodden, shoes waterlogged, mood dampened. You squelched down the sidewalk with a sour expression plastered across your features. The torrential downpour quieted your sentences, muffling your ears to the acute sound of footsteps following you from a distance.

You turned onto the next block and huffed, the wind now buffeting you face on. What a dreary, horrible day to be let off late from work. Jason would likely be on patrol by now, leaving you to sit alone in your shared apartment, reheating whatever he had left over from lunch. Maybe you could curl up in your bed and dive into that novel you had both been reading. That could make for a good conversation to wind him down from the emotional high of his patrol-

Foreign hands snatched you from your thoughts and dragged you into a dark alley, your scream muffled by a gloved palm.

You were slammed face first into a brick wall, the rough texture scraping your cheek. You bit back a snarl as the hands turned you around and smacked the back of your head against the hard stone. The chill edge of a blade was pressed to your throat and when your eyes readjusted to the sudden darkness and stinging pain in your head you were met with a masked figure. Great, because what you really needed after a long day was a mugging.

You fought viciously as the figures around you herded you down the back alley like a spitting, snarling animal. You stomped your heel on their feet, bit at their hands, kicked and flailed until you heard muffled requests for rope and chloroform. It wasn’t until you saw the van tucked away beside an industrial grade dumpster that you began caterwauling like an anguished banshee.

You were relieved by the sound of a familiar thump at the edge of the alleyway–you would recognize the sound of those heavy boots dropping anywhere, with how often you heard them on your fire escape. Your attackers slammed you against the van and you barked out a gleeful laugh at the sight. The attackers had a moment to turn their heads before Red Hood was descending on them with ferocity. You turned away, pressing your forehead to the van.

Screams, bones cracking, bodies hitting the ground. It was over quickly. When you turned to face him, his armored chest was heaving and he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. You knew better than to touch him when he was this high strung, so you settled for the safer option.

“Took you look enough,” you teased breathlessly, keeping your gaze one the way the red surface of his helmet snapped to face you instead of on the (you hoped) unconscious kidnappers. “I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to take care of this myself.”

The toe of Jason’s boot nudged an unconscious figure, a red and rapidly welting bite mark blossoming on the individual’s hand and wrist. “I don’t doubt you could’ve, but a little help never hurt.”

You cracked a smile, softening the hard lines of your expression in the hopes it would ease him. His shoulders relaxed at your placating gesture. You extended a hand, fingers spread in a silent offer.

“Walk me home?” you asked, more for his benefit than yours. Your heart still pounded in your chest, but the tightness eased when he interlaced his gloved fingers with yours.

Tim Drake:

Warehouses were such a cliché place to harbor an abductee. What happened to creativity? Tim crawled through an upper window of the dilapidated warehouse, some thirty feet above the ground. He stepped carefully across the rafters as he surveyed the scene.

There you were, a normal college student tied to a chair–well, normal if you ignore the fact that you were rumored to be in a relationship with the Timothy Drake-Wayne. He frowned at the sight of your arms twisted behind you and tied to the back of the chair. They had you situated in the center of the empty room with goons patrolling around you. His eyes sought a singular figure atop a pile of scrap, a rifle in hand. The figure searched the rafters–Tim would have to be careful to avoid him.

Tim stalked across the rafters, keeping to the shadows. He crept across one of the beams that bridged the center of the warehouse, ducking low and staying out of the light. His eyes were fixed on you-

Oh. You perked up, your head lifting and shoulders easing. You knew he was there somewhere, judging by the way your head turned slightly to scan the open room. You tilted your head, a flimsy gesture towards a second figure, patrolling near you with one hand tucked away in her coat. A hidden weapon? He bit back a smile at your clever aid.

Tim took another step, and something clanged. He looked below him, spotting a hook hanging from a long chain, the chain swinging under the beams subtle movements. He turned just in time to see the sniper swing his rifle in the direction of the sound-

You screamed.

The shrill shriek shook each of the assailants and all eyes turned to you. He exhaled a harsh breath of relief as you wailed and the masked figures moved in towards you. The sniper’s weapons whipped towards you and away from Tim.

Tim dropped. His landing was cushioned by the goon you had pointed out, knocking the figure to the ground. He used the momentum to carry himself into a roll, then launched to his feet and barrelled into the next unsuspecting kidnapper. This one was ready, his hands up in fists. Tim gave an opening and ducked as the man’s fist sailed past Tim. He gripped the attacker's arm and yanked, tossing him over Tim’s shoulder. The man landed with a thunk and Tim was quick to follow, extracting a pair of cuffs from his belt and linking the two fallen attackers together.

A shot rang out. It seemed the sniper wasn’t very good, considering Tim remained fully intact. His hands dipped to his belt again and withdrew a few batarangs. A quick volley knocked the sniper's mask askew and sent them stumbling down the rickety pile of scrap they stood upon. He used the opening to launch himself across the room, bo staff extending in hand. He swept the kidnapper’s legs, sending the figure tumbling down the pile.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked as he knelt to cuff and gag the attacker, kicking the rifle aside in the process.

“It got drafty,” you called back from where you sat tied in the center of the room. “Must’ve left the window open.”

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whereispearlescentmoon · 2 months ago

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Ranking current wild life bases on fire safety:

Bdubs, Tango, and Etho (Tuff Guys): That sure is a deepslate and copper fort and a dug out basement! And a moat! No wood here! 10/10

Cleo, Impulse, Pearl, and Scott (The Final Girls/GGGG):We have a cobblestone wall and a basement. The basement is partially wood so that’s gonna dock some points but overall 9/10

Mumbo, Grian, and Skizz(Subones): They live in a mountain side. There is no wood in the main part of the base so that’s good. However, their upper bridges are entirely wood and thus will be gone, as will the railing on the lower bridge. I can already see them getting stuck on a burning bridge. 6/10

Joel and Gem (The Family/Fast and Furious): Joel’s car is safe due to being almost entirely deepslate and diorite but he’s made the floor wood, and Gem’s barn will be absolutely ravaged by flames mark my words. Easy to escape but you made the bridge out of wood. 3/10

Ren and Martyn (Renchanting 2.0?): Oh that’s wood. That’s all wood. However, there’s water built it for an escape route! 4/10

Jimmy, Lizzie, and Scar (Bamboozlers): Cherry wood staircase, scaffolding deathcoaster, and two parrots are the structures currently, though one parrot is made of mostly concrete so it isn’t flammable except the feet. It seems like the whole murder park thing is gonna be pretty substantially made of bamboo and cherry wood. Yeah this isn’t gonna last is it. And your only escape is to scale down the mountain. 3/10

BigB: That’s entirely wood. And your face. It will be burnt sooner rather than later, I don’t even think people are gonna wait to go red before they light it on fire. 0/10

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

#aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen

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the-algebra-thing · 10 months ago

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so again, I'm rereading howl's moving castle LMFAO and truly diana wynne jones' disdain for in depth sensory description is sooo cool. I think I've arrived at one of the most basic things that fascinates me about this book and that drew me in and it's something about how descriptive language and tone intersect. there's a lot of two-step visual description, but very little of the specific descriptive language I'm accustomed to. I can know that something looks lightweight because of the way that michael is carrying it, or that the slime is green and has a weird reaction when you dump ash on it, or that michael obviously wished he had not spoken, or that from the way howls feet are braced it's clear he is exerting great force, but it's almost rare that there's a plain description of what's going on. even if there is a proper one, there's always an opinion or extrapolation at the end of it: the wind tore at sophie's face so savagely that she thought she'd end up with half her face behind each ear. generally what I find is that instead of inferring how a character must feel based on how they are acting, you get to make up the specifics about a character's actions or experience based on how the narrator tells you they feel about it. the writing isn't broken down into small pieces for you to put together; it's made of big ones. a single description hits about three different ideas, and there's another similar one in the next paragraph, and you have to keep up. it drives the story along at a committed pace as well as makes the magic system feel very unique, and then that uniquely maintained system becomes scaffolding for the story's themes to grow off of

#in unfathomable detail #howl's moving castle #diana wynne jones #i probably sound insane sorry #you guys don't have to read this #I just need to diary it so I can understand someday..

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misscalming · 1 month ago

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I bring you Logan waking up scared not because of his dreams but Wade’s (minimal angst maximum fluff)

A blood curdling scream startles Logan awake, his eyes dart around in the dark, claws out at the ready to defend himself and Wade from whoever or whatever had dared to threaten his mate.

In a state of panic he grabs at Wade’s arm to ground himself, without thinking he yells ;

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!?” And glares down at Wade who startles awake from all the commotion.

“What was what!? What’s going on? Are you okay!?” Wade exclaims, unfocused eyes trying to make sense of the darkness around him,just as panicked as Logan was before, he instinctually grabs the knife tapped to the bottom of the beds scaffolding.

Logan’s expression softens, releasing the tension from his shoulders and bringing a hand up to grip Wade by the jaw, pressing thick calloused fingers into scared cheeks to watch his lips pucker.

“You fucking asshole, don’t scare me like that” Logan reprimands, shaking Wade’s head side to side before pressing their foreheads together.

“Dit I talk in mah schleep again?” Wade whispers through his squished lips, guilt laced through his words.

“It’s not your fault Darl’ , don’t worry about it I’m sorry for waking you up, go back to sleep….Okay Bubba?” Logan mumbles, releasing his grip on Wade’s face and giving a affectionate, chaste kiss to his nose.

They lay back down, Logan falls asleep and Wade nervously chews his bottom lip while he gazes at his partners sleeping face, he was scared of falling asleep and waking his husband up with his stupid sleep talking again. That wasn’t fair on Logan. He struggled to sleep even without Wade’s ridiculous brain subconsciously keeping his lips flapping even while unconscious, he didn’t know WHY Logan put up with his bullshit.

Wade gently lifts the heavy arm draped over his waist and, without little effort, rolls away from the fucking black hole gravitational pull of the dip in the bed under his partners weight. unravelling himself from his blanket to stand up and gently step around the bed.

Wade’s making his way out the room to simply sleep the rest of the night on the couch when a strong arm shoots out from the blankets to catch his wrist in a bruising grip, stopping him from leaving. before Wade can react he’s being thrown back onto the mattress and pinned down by a 400 pound purring Wolverine. Deep rumbles emanating from the beasts large chest in soothing waves.

Logan keeps his knees pressed either side of Wade’s hips, distributing a portion of his weight off of the poor man’s body and onto the mattress, which dipped and sunk Wade like a rock.

Wade fruitlessly slaps his palms against Logan’s back.

“Logaaaan~ get off!” Wade whines, kicking his feet in the air like a flipped turtle.

“No” Logan grumbles in reply, tightening his arms around Wade’s waist and nuzzling his face into his chest, “comfy”

“Logan please- I needa pee” Wade protests.

“That’s a lie and me and you both know it, I could hear ya’ thinkin’ , sleep” Logan growls nipping at the soft spot between Wade’s collarbone and arm.

Wade squeals and struggles some more before going limp, submitting to the role of Logan’s Pillow.

“You’re an asshole” he sighs, bringing his hands down to scratch at the back of Logan’s head, and run his fingernails down his neck.

Logan purrs and quickly nods off to sleep. Wade instead stays awake, gently playing with Logan’s hair leaving small braids in his wake. He twirls a loose curl around his finger, mesmerised by its softness, eyes drooping more and more before eventually falling shut.

#poolverine #poolverine fic #deadclaws #wade wilson #wade x logan #deadpool headcanons #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool x wolverine #logan howlett

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rockpapertheodore · 1 year ago

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Imagine a character who is, like, 3 ghosts all trying to pilot one supernaturally preserved zombie. The zombie basically sweats ectoplasm from all the ghosts inside it, and that seems to keep it from decaying. Occasionally the zombie gets control (or they otherwise forget to "take the wheel") and they sometimes find themselves all sat comfortably in the scaffolding of a railroad bridge, watching the sunset or kicking their feet in a pond. As far as they can tell, there isn't a 4th ghost, so maybe it's? Just? The body doing that? Theyre not sure if this is something the previous... occupant?... just enjoyed doing, or if their presumed-undead vessel has started... un-undeading... from all the ghosts inside it...

#theo writes #character ideas

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tianjinwellmadescaffold · 5 days ago

Video

youtube

Scaffold Base Jack Welding Video - Wellmade China

#youtube #scaffold #jack base #base jack #screw jack #adjustable base jack #wellmade scaffold #wellmade scaffolding #scaffold feet

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cosyvelvetorchid · 3 months ago

Note

Bucktommy prompt for inappropriate/bad time for a hard on.

Thanks for the prompt!

You can send bucktommy prompts to my ask and I’ll write something. Smut/fluff/angst/whump or a mixture.

Enjoy!

🩶

**********

It would happen eventually—they both knew that. They also both agreed to be professional when it did (despite each of them secretly wondering how he would be able to keep his composure when seeing his boyfriend on the job).

There had been a scaffolding collapse at a construction site and the 118 had been called. Quickly Hen called for an air lift for one of the construction workers.

“I’ll head out to the field to meet the chopper.” Buck enthusiastically decided.

“Of course you will.” Chim said rolling his eyes. Buck didn’t care about his teasing—he had been deprived of his boyfriend for almost an entire 48 hours. The planets had aligned, however, and they both had 72 hours off coming up, and Buck had told Tommy that they were going to spend the entire time naked in Tommy’s bed. And in the kitchen. And the living room. And definitely the shower.

The helicopter landed in the field next to the construction site and Buck was practically vibrating as he waited for his boyfriend to exit the bird.

Lucy emerged first with another responder that Buck couldn’t remember the name of as he was new to Harbor. And then the pilot door opened and god himself jumped out.

The moment Tommy spotted Buck waiting his face immediately brightened into a large smile; those beautiful wrinkles around his eyes glowing in the early afternoon sun. Buck’s heart damn near stopped at the sight of him (which happened every time he saw his boyfriend, let’s be honest), and he used all of his inner strength to not run full pelt towards him.

“You guys are gross.” Lucy said as she and her colleague quickly walked past. “You got 2 minutes Kinard!” She called back to Tommy.

“God you’re so fucking hot in your flight suit.” Buck said as he approached Tommy then immediately attacked his lips with his own. Tommy hummed into it and opened his mouth allowing Buck access.

Aware of their surroundings he only allowed the kiss to continue for a few more seconds before peeling Buck from him.

“This is not very professional Firefighter Buckley.” He said with a smirk.

“Do I need to be punished, Firefighter Pilot Kinard?”

An involuntary whine came from Tommy’s throat and he shifted on his feet, circling hips trying to will his blood to travel back upwards and away from his dick.

“Jesus Evan! Do you know difficult it is to hide a hard-on in a flight suit?!”

“Yep.” He responded, popping the ‘P’. He pressed a quick, but searing kiss onto Tommy’s lips again before turning and walking away.

“Oh, you’re so in for it later, Buckley!” Tommy called out, trying to re-arrange the crotch of his flight suit.

“I’m counting on it, Kinard!” Buck called back, turning to smirk at him.

#911 abc #tommy kinard #911 #911onabc #bucktommy #buck x tommy #911 buck #evan buckley #evan buck buckely #bucktommy fic #cvo prompts #tevan #kinley #kinkley #911 prompt #bucktommy prompt

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the-black-manor · 10 months ago

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Within Temptation

Author: The-Black-Manor

Demon x Trans Male Priest (Pre-transition)

Warnings: Rape, unprotected sex, stolen virginity

Kinks: Demon, priest, corruption, blasphemy, oral, excessive cum, oversized cock, monster cock, bondage, belly bulge, rough sex, age difference, size difference

Terms used: Cunt, cock, balls, cervix, chest, nipples, binder, cockhead, crotch, walls, entrance

Words: 4,002

Note: If you find any mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR ANYONE TO USE MY WRITING FOR ANYTHING OTHER THAN READING. DO NOT PRINT AND BIND MY WORKS, DO NOT REPOST THEM, DO NOT COPY THEM, DO NOT FEED THEM INTO AI, DO NOT SELL THEM, DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

The young priest didn’t arrive at the old stone church until well after dark. He was exhausted from his long journey, but there was nowhere nearby to rest, and he certainly wasn’t going to rest in the church until he was certain there were no malevolent entities present. He stepped out of the cab and stretched before grabbing his luggage and kit and making his way through the crumbling, overgrown courtyard. The front door was unlocked, and he was silently grateful to the family that lived here that they’d remembered to keep it open for him before they fled.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The foyer was dark and foreboding. Previous owners had begun renovating the church into a home years ago, but progress had been halted when strange activity began after unsealing a walled-off room in the cellar. Scaffolding, canvas, tarp, rope, and all sorts of construction equipment had been left behind when the family and crew abandoned the location. There was a large industrial light nearby, and the priest switched it on. The room was no less unsettling bathed in white light.

As he moved through the home in search of the dining room, dust that had since settled was kicked up once more and made the air hazy. The dining room would work well enough as a sort of “home base” while he investigated the claims of demonic activity. He was no exorcist, just a young priest sent to validate the claims. If he found evidence of activity, he would send for an exorcist. For now, though, all he had was himself, his bible, his crucifix, and his faith.

After he got himself settled, he descended to the cellar, to the newly-excavated room the family claims is a “door to hell”. He scoffed and shook his head. Not likely. A gas leak, perhaps, which is why he had a mask and detector with him. But the detector stayed silent, and when he felt comfortable enough to take his mask off, the air was clean, if a bit stale. He worked his way through the house slowly, paying great attention to each room, making mental notes if anything seemed “off”.

The only thing he found unusual was that nothing seemed unusual. He shook his head. This was a waste of time. Still, he had a job to do, and he was going to see it through to the end. He kept going. The church was huge, more a castle than anything, and he eventually found his way upstairs to the bedrooms. The doors were all closed, except for one at the very end of the hall.

If there was ever a place to start up here, he supposed that was it. The dusty old runner beneath his feet muffled his footsteps, and he peered into the room as he approached. It was dark inside, but he could make out the silhouette of a bed with a canopy. He hesitated for only the briefest moment before stepping over the threshold and into the master bedroom. The windows either side of the bed were open just a crack, letting in a crisp, fresh night breeze that sent the linen curtains fluttering and rays of silver moonlight that provided just enough light to see by.

This room was different from the rest. There was no dust on the plush red duvet, no cracks in the stone walls or gunk on the windows. No tattered rugs or moth-eaten curtains. Whereas the rest of the church was obviously abandoned, this room looked well cared for. Lived in.

The door closed behind him and the lock fastened with a “click”. He whirled around, and his blood ran cold as his tired gaze met the glowing purple eyes of an undulating shadow. He took a step back. At points, the figure looked almost human, and then its silhouette dissolved and melded with the shadows around it, moving like ink in water. It was both tangible and intangible, solid and smoke, man and monster.

Its eyes flickered like flame, and it glared at him, and then he thought he saw, for only the briefest moment, the hint of a sharp-toothed smile.

“Hello, priest,” the entity greeted him.

Its voice was deep and seemed to burrow into his chest and reverberate around in his rib cage. The priest gripped the crucifix around his neck and lifted it, wielding it like a shield against the darkness. The entity laughed, low and menacing. And then it was gone. Or so the priest thought. He gasped and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt arms snake around him from behind. The demon pulled him close, pressing its chest against his back, and ran its shadowy clawed hands all over the priest’s chest and stomach.

“Release me!” the priest insisted, writhing in its vice-like grip.

“Cute,” it cooed, its breath hot on the shell of his ear. “You think you have authority here…”

“In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to- mmph!”

The demon forced two thick fingers into his mouth, silencing him.

“Hush now,” it breathed as its free hand slid down his stomach to his crotch.

It grabbed him hard and pulled him back into its bulge. He could feel it hardening against his ass.

It let out a sound then that was somewhere between a purr and a growl. “What’s this?” it asked as it felt between his legs. “No cock? Does the church know about this?” it chuckled. “No, I think not. They wouldn’t let you be a priest if they did.”

He held his crucifix so tight that the edges of the cross dug into the soft flesh of his palm. He repeated all the prayers he knew in his head, over and over. He wasn’t afraid, but he couldn’t speak with the fiend’s fingers pressing down on his tongue, so he couldn’t fend it off. All he could do was pray. Its claws dug into the flesh of his inner thigh, and then he was in the air. He landed hard on the bed, and the breath was knocked from his lungs. He propped himself up on his elbows, ready to run, and saw the demon approaching slowly, a predator stalking its prey. This was the most tangible it had been. It looked like a man, around six feet tall, with a slim body and long hair that flowed like smoke. He could make out no facial features except for those gleaming eyes, eyes that burned into his very soul and held him in place, like a deer in the headlights.

The demon leaned forward to match his level, its face only millimeters from his. It breathed in deep, taking in his scent, and then a long, pointed tongue snaked out from behind sharp, wet teeth to lick a line up his cheek.

“Delicious,” it purred.

It rested its hand on his chest, over his racing heart, and shoved him onto his back. Claws dug into his flesh as it tore at his vestments and binder and peeled them away. He snapped out of his fear-frozen state, and brought a leg up to try and kick the monster away. Something wrapped around his ankle, then his thigh, then his other leg, his wrists, his biceps. Inky tentacles held him down and spread him open, leaving him bare before the evil he faced.

“What do you want with me?” he growled, though he was sure he already knew the answer.

“I want your body,” it responded simply, then ran its tongue over its lips. “And it is a beautiful body… Seems a shame to have such stunning assets and not put them to any use.”

He had to get out of here.. He sneered at the demon and began a prayer, voice rising in an attempt to drown out its booming laugh. It didn’t care for his prayers, his faith, his god. It crawled on top of him, and he expected its body to be as hot as the fiery pits that spat it out, but it was icy cold and sent a chill down his spine. His prayer was cut short as the creature forced that long tongue into his mouth and entangled it with his own. He writhed beneath it, trying to free himself from the tentacles’ grasp and the slimy intrusion. One of its teeth nicked his lip, and he tasted blood. The demon must have tasted it too, because another purr-growl rumbled through its chest.

It pulled its tongue from his mouth and licked up the side of his neck while the priest spat, trying to rid himself of its taste. And then its lips replaced its tongue, peppering kisses along his jaw, down his neck, across his collarbone. Its hands touched and grabbed and massaged every inch of him that it could reach, paying special attention to his chest, where it groped the soft mounds and pinched his nipples, rolling them between clawed fingers. Despite his best efforts, the demon’s ministrations were affecting him, and he keened, back arching, when the demon replaced its fingers with soft lips and sucked a sensitive bud into its mouth.

He choked back a moan as fire ignited in his belly. He could feel some sort of wetness leaking from his cunt and pooling on the bed beneath him, but he couldn’t close his legs or reach down to feel. Just then, he felt something hard knock against his cock, and he cried out as electricity shot up his spine. He thought it must have been the demon’s knee, but when he managed to lift his head to look down, the demon was straddling him, its knees on either side of his hips.

“No…” he whimpered, and his head fell back against the mattress.

When it said it wanted his body, he assumed it meant possession, not…

“Get off of me!” he shouted, struggling with renewed vigor.

The demon didn’t reply, but it released his nipple with a “pop”, and traveled down his belly, kissing and licking every inch of the soft flesh there and on his hips as he made his way lower. The priest squirmed, trying to kick away the tentacles so that he could close his legs, but they only pulled them wider apart. Finally, the demon buried its face in his cunt and inhaled deeply. It flicked his cock with its wicked tongue, and then pressed the strong muscle flat against it. It massaged him expertly, and as his back arched and his hips bucked involuntarily, another tentacle wrapped itself around his midsection to hold him down.

“S-stop…” he panted.

“Keep praying to your absent father,” the demon mocked. “I’m sure he’ll come to your rescue.”

His cock throbbed, his cunt clenched, his body ached for more.

“Don’t… ahh-”

The tip of its tongue prodded at his entrance, gauging resistance.

“A virgin?” it purred. “I couldn’t have asked for the church to send me a better gift.”

Fighting back was useless, so the priest closed his eyes tight and started up another prayer.

“That’s it,” the demon cooed. “What a good boy. So obedient.”

He cursed the creature silently and continued his prayer while it pushed the tip of its tongue just past his entrance. He groaned and balled his hands into fists. Its tongue was far bigger than a human’s, and he’d never had anything inside of him before. The stretch burned, but there was pleasure there as well, and he hated his body for reacting the way it was.

It thrust its tongue in and out, in and out, and then buried it deeper. He cried out at the sharp pain, and then stumbled over his prayer as it hit something inside of him - a sensitive spot that sent pleasure shooting up his spine. Its tongue delved deeper, opening his cunt, curling and uncurling, thrusting, massaging, and pressing again and again and again against that spot.

“Sto-op…” he tried to beg, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Its tongue suddenly retreated until only the tip was inside, and it used the meatiest part to press hard against his cock.

“Ah!” he cried out in surprise as another shock of pleasure flooded his senses.

The demon chuckled low, pleased with the reactions it was pulling out of this man of god. Its hands traveled up his sides and it took a breast in each one, kneading them in its large palms and rolling his nipples between its fingers.

“Fuck-” he swore.

Its tongue plunged deep inside of him once more, all the way, until he could feel its lips and nose against his crotch.

“Such a dirty mouth for someone so pure,” it mocked. “And you pray to your god with that tongue?”

“Shut up,” he tried to command, but it only laughed again.

“Have you given up on your prayers, little priest? I quite liked hearing them.”

Mocking. Always mocking. It should hate his prayers, not like them. It was only driving home the fact that the priest had no power over it, no weapon against it.

“Sing for me, priest.”

He clenched his jaw.

“I said, sing.”

It dug its claws into the sensitive flesh of his breasts, and he hissed in pain. He could feel warm blood pooling beneath its talons and running in rivulets down his sides.

“Our f-father, who… who art i-in…”

“Good boy,” it praised him, purring happily.

It ran its cold hands up and down his sides, and then traced soft spirals into his hips before it removed its tongue entirely. The priest was given only a moment to breathe before it was climbing over him once more. It pressed its lips to his neck, peppering him in soft kisses while one of its hands gave his cock the same treatment it had given his nipples. His body jerked, and a moan escaped his lips. The demon nipped at his collarbone, then soothed the bite with licks. It dipped a finger inside of his cunt just as it latched onto his neck, sucking a deep bruise into his pale flesh. A second finger joined the first, and then a third, stretching him wider than its tongue had.

It’s preparing me, he thought. It’s stretching me open so it can fuck me.

And so it was. It added a final finger, opening and closing them with a scissor-like motion inside of him. And then it curled them harshly upward, pressing hard against that sensitive spot. He felt a spurt of something wet gush from his cunt around the demon’s fingers, earning a pleased rumble from its chest. It curled them again, and again, faster, harder, and the priest’s eyes rolled back in his head as he was overcome with pleasure.

There was a tightening in his lower belly, and he couldn’t stop his hips from bucking, his walls from clenching, his back from arching. The coil tightened quickly, and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of these sensations, to no avail.

“No, please… Don’t!” he begged. “I can’t!”

He was right on the very edge. One more second, and he’d-

The demon stopped all at once, removing its fingers and its lips, and pushed away from him to stand at the foot of the bed. The priest lay there, quivering and clenching around nothing, his cunt leaking and his chest heaving.

“Silly boy,” the demon chuckled. “You think I’ll let you cum around anything other than my cock?”

It slapped his cunt hard, and the priest cried out in pain. It grabbed his hips and pulled them off the edge of the bed, then settled itself between his legs. He finally got a good look at what he was dealing with. Its cock was as black as the shadows that made up its body, massive - at least the size of his forearm, with a tapered, pointed head and thick, ridged shaft, pronounced veins, and precum leaking from the tip like a faucet. Below them swung enormous balls, bigger than any he’d seen even on the horses in the stable or the bulls in the pasture.

“Please…” he begged, his voice barely a whisper.

“Please?” the demon asked. “Please what?”

It lined up and began to prod at his entrance.

“Please don’t do this…”

It smiled that sharp-toothed smile.

“Ah, and here I thought you were begging me to fuck you.”

He forced the head in all at once, and the priest cried out in pain.

“It won’t fit!” he screamed, but the demon only laughed wickedly.

“I’ll make it fit,” it promised, and forced another inch inside.

The pain was blinding, and he fisted handfuls of the bedding either side of him to ground himself against it.

“You’re so wet, I can slide right inside,” it teased.

Another inch, a wider stretch. The priest saw stars every time he opened his eyes.

“Your body wants me,” it told him. “Otherwise your pelvis wouldn’t be opening so readily my cock.”

He shook his head feverishly, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Yes,” it chuckled. “Your pelvis is opening up to allow me easier access, and your wet cunt slicked itself up to make pushing in easier. You want this. You want me.”

It snapped its hips forward, burying itself to the hilt in one swift motion. The priest screamed as it slammed against his cervix, but his voice seemed so far away, muffled by the ringing in his ears. It rutted into him, making itself comfortable inside of his body, the pointed tip of its cockhead nestling itself in the little dimple at the opening of his cervix. The tendril around one of his wrist loosened, and then slipped away, but before he could even think to try and throw a punch, the demon had his wrist in its hand. He was silently grateful for the relief on his shoulder as it guided his hand down, where it pressed his palm against his lower abdomen. There was a bulge there, and it moved beneath his hand as the demon rut into him.

His cock… it’s so big it’s making my stomach bulge…

He clenched involuntarily at the thought.

“You like that?” it purred. “I thought you might.”

It rested its hand over his, preventing him from pulling away.

“Why are you doing this?” the priest asked quietly.

“Why does anyone do anything?” the demon asked in reply. “Because I want to. Hush now,” it growled. “Enjoy it.”

But how could he enjoy anything when he was being violated so thoroughly? His body would never be the same after this. He would never be the same.

It gripped his hips tightly, but the priest didn’t move his hand from the bulge. Instead, he pressed down on it, though he wasn’t sure why. The demon hissed and its hips bucked forward harshly, pushing the priest upward on the bed. It pulled him back down and dug its claws into his thighs.

“If you make yourself tighter, you’re only going to make me want to fuck you harder. Unless that’s what you want?” it smirked.

“No!”

He didn’t know why he pressed down. He didn’t mean to, his hand did it on its own… The demon slid almost all the way out of him, and then pushed back in smoothly. The priest let out a long, low moan. The burning stretch had since given way to a pleasant feeling of fullness, and feeling that bulge in his stomach each time the creature bottomed out was doing something to him, making him feel things he wished he wasn’t feeling.

It pulled out again, then slid in, then out, then in, setting a slow, steady pace, fucking him with its entire length.

“Sto-o-op,” he moaned, the word broken each time its cockhead hit his cervix.

“I don’t think you really want me to,” it chuckled. “I think you want me to make you cum.”

“No…” he whined, even as embers ignited in his belly. “Please, don’t…”

It laughed, low and menacing as it picked up the pace, fucking him harder, faster. It pulled him back against it with each thrust, burying itself as deep as possible, bruising his virgin cervix. Wet squelching and skin slapping against skin filled the air like a song, and the priest’s little whines and moans harmonized beautifully. The embers quickly ignited into a blaze, and the spring began to tighten once more. The demon’s hands slid from his hips. One slipped between his legs to pinch and massage his hot, hard cock, while the other rested once more over the priest’s own.

He didn’t see the demon’s wicked smile, so tightly his eyes were closed, but he felt its thrusts become harsher, faster, until it was fucking him like an animal, growling and panting, warm drool dripping off of its lolling tongue and onto his belly. It pressed down hard on the bulge. The priest released a high-pitched whine at the added pressure, and the demon growled low.

“So fucking tight…” it breathed. “There’s nothing better than an innocent little virgin stretched around my fat cock.”

“Huh- uh….”

He couldn’t seem to form words anymore. His senses had narrowed until all his world consisted of was the monster violating his body and the pleasure radiating from his core.

“S..st-o-o-”

“Hmm? What’s that?” the demon purred. “Use your words.”

“Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh.” His voice broke with each thrust.

“No, I didn’t think so,” it grinned and slammed into him like a jackhammer.

The priest tried to arch his back, but the demon’s hand held him down, and that somehow only made the pleasure more intense.

“No… no, no, no,” he cried with each thrust as he rocketed toward the edge. “No, please!”

He came hard. His entire body tensed and curled in on itself, his cunt clenched and unclenched around the demon’s member, and he threw his head back and cried out. His eyes rolled back, his tongue lolled out, and his breath caught in his chest. The demon plowed deep, pushed itself in as far as possible, and then stilled as a feral growl rumbled in its throat. He could feel its cock throbbing, feel its heavy balls clenching against his ass as it released inside of him. Its seed was hot, and it flooded his cunt like a waterfall. It painted his walls white and leaked out past the demon’s ridged length to run in rivulets down his ass and pool beneath him, mixing with the slick that had gushed out of him earlier.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, a mixture of pain, pleasure, and grief, and it was all he could do to choke back his sobs in between gasping for air. He came down from his high much sooner than the demon did. It seemed like an eternity before the flood of cum finally stopped. It rubbed his belly softly over his uterus, thrust gently another couple of times, and then was gone.

The tendrils unwound themselves from around his body, the shadows retreated back into the far corners of the room, and the priest was left alone, a trembling, cum-soaked mess. His joints were sore from the unpleasant position he’d been trapped in for… how long had it been? He pushed himself off of the bed and unsteadily to his feet. It was only as a sliver of sunlight through the curtains lit upon his pale face that he realized it was dawn.

Hours. That creature had violated him for hours. He wiped his tears and used the tattered remains of his vestments to clean himself up before descending the stairs back to the dining room. He got dressed and threw his things together as quickly as he could, then all but sprinted for the door. It slammed behind him of its own accord, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

All he could do was run and hope that whatever dark entity lived within that old stone church decided not to follow him home.

If you like my writing, please consider supporting me on Patreon. Thanks for reading!

#my writing #demon kink #blasphemy kink #corruption kink #demon x priest #demon x priest kink #terato #monsterfucker #monster kink #nonconsensual #oversized cock #oversized balls #excessive seed kink #virgin kink #age difference #size difference #primal kink #predator x prey

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supernormalblogname · 4 months ago

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when a giant opressive megastructure building is both unimaginably huge AND alive.... when it can feel every movement of tiny, tiny humans moving around within its massive expanse of rooms and halls and vents and etc.. when it can feel their breaths and heartbeats... when it loves humans more than anything.. when it changes its layout when people arent looking, to guide its beloved humans to where they need to go.. Or, when it does so to guide them deeper into itself. to keep them lost and wandering aimlessly so it never, ever, ever has to part with them...

when the deeper you go into its body, the more that, slowly, the cold rooms get warmer. humid. the more little fragments of walls and floors and scaffolding seem not to be made of wood or brick or metal ... but of flesh. and you try to turn back, but the way you came has vanished. and every new room you enter gets hotter. more humid. the air turns heavy. the floor is red and organic, and squishes under your feet. the walls are too. when it stops being a building you're trudging lost through, and starts being a stomach. a stomach of something incomprehensible. of something that loves you so much, it won't let you go.

i think that would be neat :]

#rambling tag #v0re #ask 2 tag #endosoma #GOD THIS IS NICHE. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO TAG THIS. will anyone match my freak....

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up.

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too.

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him.

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon.

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death.

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world.

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege.

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning.

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house.

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow.

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather.

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar.

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since.

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt.

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest.

He turns down the street leading to his house.

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty.

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar.

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away.

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear.

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him.

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet.

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this.

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought.

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months.

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought.

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right.

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark.

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table.

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries.

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes.

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat.

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache.

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?”

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road.

Still, he asks.

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain.

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable.

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly.

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?”

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin.

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason.

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him.

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together.

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right.

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny.

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems.

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise.

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet.

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing,

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?”

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation.

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit.

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else.

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off.

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.”

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself.

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

#ceil writing #joe bear graves #six (2017)#joe graves #six #big bear

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