#the tide was out/low faraway or whatever

[mangostar]

saw a buuunch of swans and ducks n other birds at the beach

[yoonsshadow]

ETERNAL - v

➳ summary ; They have died so often that death has lost its meaning; hurt so regularly that pain has become inconsequential; lost so much that they hold each other to the light of the stars. They have nothing yet they have everything, as long as they have each other. And, after centuries, they now have her.

➳ pairing ; bts!ot7 x fem!reader

➳ genres ; The Old Guard au; fantasy, historical, action, romance, alternate universe

➳ themes ; angst, fluff, death

➳ warnings ; smoking, mature conversations

➳ word count ; 3k

➳ note ; Thank you for your patience!

masterlist

Fear is a fist that clutches your heart, reminding you of its presence each time it tightens its grip. It doesn’t hurt, necessarily, but you can feel the strength in its hold; the raging tendons wrapped around your tender organ that strain with each heartbeat. A singular emotion controlling your very pulse.

Cigarette smoke billows into the indigo hour of the night, and you find yourself unable to pry the fingers away.

The air on the balcony is cold, but it envelops you in a comforting embrace; it’s a soft coolness, as opposed to the harsh, biting climate of the desert that you’ve become accustomed to. Your skin prickles with goosebumps, but you don’t feel the need to scratch at yourself, to tear the skin from your flesh. It makes you feel alive, even if the definition of that word has changed for you.

Evidence of your newfound immortality, if that’s what you can call it, dangles between your fingers, ashes falling to the ground several storeys below with each gentle tap. It tastes terrible⎯⎯a bitter flavour of death in every pull⎯⎯but it serves its purpose for now. It keeps you grounded, gives you something to focus on other than the slowly growing anxiety that still holds strong in your chest.

Behind you, the balcony door slides open, startling the silent air with its soft drag.

“You’re up late,” Namjoon says. He speaks soft, low, as if hesitant to disturb you. “Or early, I guess. Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

You breathe out a puff of smoke, watching as it dissipates into the darkness. “I’m not.” He steps into your periphery, leaning on the metal railing beside you. “I just needed...something. Found them hidden away in the bookshelf.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Figures. We’re usually a non-smoking household, but sometimes the boys get sneaky. Pass me one?”

You hand him the box. Only two cigarettes left. He brings one to dangle between his lips and, without asking, you hand him a lighter. It takes him three tries, and then he’s sighing smoke into the air as well.

“Thought you were a non-smoking household.”

“We are. Stinks up the place, and it tastes disgusting. But. When in Rome.”

“You calling me Rome?”

He chuckles, but doesn’t answer. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, despite knowing that he isn’t looking at you. “Too much on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think I could if I tried.”

He blends in with the shadows, slightly, though the peaks of his cheekbones catch the dull light that glows through the mist of pollution. “I get that. Would you rather me talk?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“Not really.”

So he stays. Until the embers begin to burn your fingertips; until you’re snuffing your cigarette on the metal rail. You don’t think you’ll smoke again. You suppose it doesn’t matter, though. There’s forever ahead of you to change your mind.

Sunlight is just beginning to illuminate the buildings around you when Namjoon speaks up again. He stubbed his own cigarette before it was even halfway done. 

“I’m sure you’re curious,” he says. “About us, about the situation, about everything. And we’ll tell you as much as we can, but...There are some things the boys won’t feel comfortable telling you about just yet. We’ve lived long lives. We’ve done good things and bad things; experienced things we’re proud of and things that haunt us. We may not die, but we’re still human. I hope that you don’t mind being patient with us.”

Your heart aches a little at the melancholy in his tone, as if you wouldn’t give the world for these seven men after knowing them just a day. It feels as if your soul has missed them for a lifetime.

“Namjoon.” He turns to face you, now, and a halo of soft light glows around his face. “I don’t know what you’ve all been through, and frankly, it’s none of my business. If you want to tell me something, I know that you’ll do it in your own time. I’ve got the rest of my life to get to know you all, okay? There’s no rush.”

His smile starts as a twitch, a quirked corner of his lips, but quickly grows wide. Relieved. 

“I’m glad it’s you,” he says. He offers no elaboration, no further words, but you think you know what he means. Because you’re glad it’s him, too. You’re glad it’s them.

With breakfast comes clarity. As you sit at the large dining table, bowls of rice, soup, and several plates of banchan steaming into the morning air, you find yourself feeling calmer than you have since your death. It’s as though the raging tides of emotions⎯⎯uncertainty, confusion, downright fear⎯⎯have finally quelled into a tranquil body of water. There is sure to be a ripple sooner or later, but for now, it is completely still.

Yoongi, the cook of this morning’s feast, takes the first bite, and the rest of you follow. There is so much that you want to say, so many questions that you want to speak into existence, but the bitter taste of apprehension bleeds through even the delicious taste of your meal. You feel like you might choke on it⎯⎯the taste and your words both⎯⎯but your throat closes before you can even swallow.

Ah. There is the awaited ripple.

Perhaps it is the hours of silent companionship, or simply his centuries of wisdom, but Namjoon seems to sense your internal struggle. “If there’s anything you want to ask us, Y/N, go ahead. We’ll answer to the best of our abilities.”

Your throat eases and your tastebuds return to normal. “Well…” Where do you begin? What questions do you ask potentially ancient beings? “I guess let’s start with what this,” you wave a finger around the table, at the seven other sets of eyes who watch you patiently, “is. The situation.”

Namjoon nods slowly. It seems he’ll be taking charge for this conversation, much to the visible relief of the others. “Even we aren’t completely certain of what exactly this is,” he says. “From what we’ve learned, our death granted us immortality, or something to that degree. We cannot die, nor can we get majorly injured. Any wounds heal quickly, and any illnesses metabolise out of our system before they can affect us.”

You nod. All of this you were already aware of.

“As for this,” he continues. He looks around the group, fighting back a fond smile. “We’re all connected. When someone else becomes like us, we all see visions of each other to help us find them. The same happened with you. You saw visions of us when you slept, and we saw visions of you. That’s how we could find you. The dreams gave us enough information to figure out who you were, and then it was a matter of locating you.”

“Which wasn’t easy, by the way,” Jimin adds, though there is no annoyance. “Your files were so deeply buried that we thought they might not exist. And don’t even get me started on accessing the satellite.”

“You hacked a satellite?” You can’t hide the shock in your tone, and you don’t miss the glint of mischief in Jimin’s eyes.

“That’s not important,” Namjoon says, taking control of the conversation once again. “What’s important is this: the eight of us are intrinsically connected now. We might not get the visions anymore, but we are still linked. The easiest way to describe it is that we’re soulmates, though that might not even be true. We were destined to find each other, to be immortal together. Whether it’s for some higher purpose, or just a random curse, we don’t know. It’s better, I think, if we don’t try and find out that reason.”

Now that confuses you. “Why? Isn’t it human nature to be curious?”

Hoseok scoffs. “I don’t think we fall under the definition of ‘human’ anymore.”

You’ll have to file that away for later.

Namjoon ignores Hoseok, and looks straight at you. “If we become too enveloped in trying to figure out the big ‘why’, we’ll get lost in ourselves. We’ll lose our own sense of purpose. If we were chosen, for whatever reason, then we have to trust that our instincts will guide us to do what is needed.”

“Okay.” You suppose he’s right. “Then, could you tell me how old you all are?”

“We don’t do ages,” Taehyung says. He sounds almost amused. “We know the age we were when we died, but we don’t keep track of how long we’ve lived after that. It’s a rule.”

“Then how about...generally? Who was the first? How did you all die?”

All eyes turn to Namjoon. Honestly, you can’t say you’re surprised.

“I was the first,” he says. A faraway look takes over his eyes, as if lost in the past. Seokjin puts a grounding hand on his shoulder. “I couldn’t figure out my actual age if I tried, but it was...a long time ago. I was the chief of my village. Killed for power. The story isn’t too interesting.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, and then Yoongi clears his throat. “I was the second. A slave to some tyrant who thought he was all-powerful. Killed in front of the other slaves to put them in line.” He shrugs, but doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Hoseok is quick to speak next, his words are short and curt. “I was third. Court execution.” He seems reluctant, as if guarding his past behind the tightly-locked gates of his crossed arms, but you mean what you said to Namjoon earlier; you will wait for them. For however long it takes.

Next is Seokjin, and you have a feeling that his theatrics are for Hoseok’s benefit. “I was the lucky fourth, and a king, at that! Though I was only in the position for a few hours, and all public records of it were thrown into the river with my body. Which is a shame, really, because my portraits deserved to be in museums for all to marvel over.”

“Um.” Jeongguk seems nervous, and you see him hide his shaking hands beneath the table. “I was next. I died of...natural causes.”

“And we came as a set,” Taehyung smiles, arm slung over Jimin’s shoulders. “Died at the very same moment, and woke up the same way! We were best friends, right, Jiminie? On the opposite sides of a war, but I loved him with my whole heart.”

Jimin nods, a wistful smile pulling at his cheeks. “I remember thinking that I was so lucky, to die in his arms. To never have to live a single moment without him. And then we found the others, and I thought that I must’ve been in heaven to be so fortunate.”

“We’re all together,” Namjoon elaborates, though it’s unnecessary. A blind man could see the way they feel about each other. “It may be because of circumstance, though I like to think that it’s because we were all meant to be. Like it’s a gift from the universe, allowing soulmates born in different centuries to find each other.”

“And now you,” Jeongguk whispers. His eyes glimmer, hopeful, and so young despite the obvious years he has over you. You wonder why he doesn’t seem as emotionally aged as the others; what could cause him to cling to his youth the way he does. It doesn’t matter, though. If it means he keeps his heart, it will never matter.

“We don’t expect anything from you,” Seokjin says. “Not romantically or even platonically. You are still your own person, and if you don’t want to be a part of this, in any degree, we won’t force it.”

You are thankful for that. It takes away a pressure that you didn’t even know you had until now. The thought that this is a choice⎯⎯a decision that is completely yours to make⎯⎯relieves you to no end. And yet... 

“I don’t think that’s a decision I can make right now.” You mindlessly arrange the chopsticks on your now empty plate as you try to summon the right words to explain yourself. “There’s so much that I need to figure out, and so many things that I feel I have to do. I don’t even know if I’ve properly processed the situation yet, or if I’m simply in shock.”

“Is there any way we can help you?” Yoongi, as always, seems so genuine. So heartfelt. 

“You already have. So much more than you’d believe.” And it’s true. Independence is your life. You may have been in a team in your old life, a leader of a small group for whom you were responsible, but you were always brought up, always trained, to survive alone. To find comfort in an existence of solitude. Because that’s what the military is; it is removing yourself from others, from the world. You were in a team, sure, but you were all alike in your aloneness. Alone together.

Now, you have this group of men who, without knowing you, have plucked you from your misery and now offer you everything. Offer themselves, their companionship, their help. You are not the one responsible, the one with everything on the line. They have taken that from you with gentle hands, and you give it away gladly. There is not much else that you could ask of them.

Except. Well, maybe there is.

“But…” You trail off, and their eyes just scream patience. You don’t know how they do it, how they’ve grown to be so effortlessly composed and serene, because right now your heart is beating in urgency. It batters against your chest, yelling at you to just ask them, now, but your words falter in sudden uncertainty. They have already given you so much, offered even more; can you truly ask for the help that you now realise you may need?

You look into their eyes again, and know that the answer is yes.

“This mission,” you continue, sitting up straighter. If you speak with confidence, perhaps you’ll start to feel it. “As far as I know, it was never completed. When our team went in, it was under the belief that we’d be able to rescue all of the children safely and relatively unseen. Someone on the inside tipped them off, but they had to have had a reason. They wouldn’t have betrayed us like that unless something was wrong.”

“You speak like you know exactly who it was,” Hoseok says. It isn’t a question, and you see it in his expression that he isn’t necessarily looking for an answer.

You won’t give him one. Not yet. Not until you’ve figured out for yourself why this person would’ve left you for dead. “That isn’t important right now,” you say in lieu of a confirmation. “What matters is that those children are still out there somewhere, and there’s a leak in the operation.” Releasing a deep sigh, you slump down a bit. “I’m going back to the desert, back to the base, and I’m going to save those children. If you would like to help me...that would be really nice.”

“Of course we’ll help,” Jeongguk says, without hesitation. There’s a resoluteness in the set of his jaw that you haven’t seen in him before. “Anything you need. We mean it.”

“We should talk about this plan of yours first, though,” Namjoon says. “As far as the military is concerned, you’re dead. You died with your team. If you go back to your base of operations, that’s just going to open up a whole lot of complications for both sides. They might think that you were the traitor, being the only survivor. We’ll need to operate with a certain level of stealth.”

You were worried about that. Your dog-tags are with the rest of your team’s, your body supposedly burned along with theirs. You won’t be able to reprise the role you previously played in this, and you won’t have the military support that you once had. If you do this, it will be in the shadows, hiding behind corners and turning away from cameras. You are a ghost now. You’ll have to act like one.

“Okay,” you say. “I understand; we need to stay hidden. But there is one person that I need to see face-to-face. I can promise that they won’t do anything to endanger our identities.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Jimin says. “Trust is one thing when you’re alive, but if they’ve been mourning your death, you can’t know for sure how they’ll react.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you affirm. “I trust this person, and I’m going to need you all to trust me.”

Taehyung bites his lip in contemplation. “It isn’t that we don’t trust you,” he says, “but we can’t fully trust the situation. We don’t know this person, whoever they are, or how they’ll use this information against you. Against us.”

“I get it, I do.” You can’t help but sigh. “But this is something that I need to do, and something that I will do regardless of whether I have your permission. I won’t let my decision affect any of you, but if you decide against helping me because of this, I’ll understand.”

Yoongi leans forward. “We’re going to help you.” His tone is final. “And you’re right, this is your decision to make. We just want to make sure that you completely understand what you’re potentially getting yourself into.”

“You are all a lot older than me,” you say, “and obviously much wiser. But I’m an adult too, and I’m mature enough to know that my actions may have consequences. I’m no stranger to making tough decisions, or to taking responsibility. I may not be a Captain by rank anymore, but that doesn’t change who I am.”

“Okay,” Namjoon says. He doesn’t argue, nor does he apologise, but he doesn’t need to. There is a mutual understanding in the way you look at each other, and nothing more needs to be said. “So, what’s the plan?”

You take in a deep breath, and prepare your mind to return to the place you’ve grown to loathe.

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[dances-with-kuribohs]

Trustshipping, 3500 words. This was more of an exercise to explore certain visual features, but I’ve had the image in my head for a while and needed to explore it a little further. 

...

The moon had risen, hanging low in the night sky, and the shoreline was sparsely dotted with the lights of the surrounding villas and the faraway town. The tide was just coming in, rushing up to the shore with hungry tongues licking at the sand, and though distant voices could be heard carrying through the air, the sound of the sea overcame those last echoes of other humans. With the half-light from the moon and those lingering lights, Ishizu could still see her own feet as she walked along the edge of the surf, feeling the tugging of the water as it begged for her to join it.

Seto Kaiba walked beside her, and she found it interesting that he walked closer to the shore, further from the water. He was also barefoot, having left his shoes back at the house, but the cuffs of his pants were tightly rolled up to his calves, a tidy mathematical precision executed in clean lines and angles. He’d grown in the years she’d known him: the awkwardness of teenagers had bled out of him in abnormal ways, coming in fits and spurts like a leaking dam, until at last the flow was staunched and he’d reached a level of sustainability within his environment. 

She’d liked that about him. Still did, most of the time. Seto Kaiba did not fall apart in ways that destroyed; he fell apart in ways that created.

She regretted that she had not been there to see his greatest transformation. Emerging from his tadpole-like beginnings, finding the full strength of his legs, until he was moving through the world and able to guide it to his own whims. No, not “whims”. It had been her “whim” that had started Battle City. Both she and Seto now moved to greater things, creating the space for themselves among a world that continued to move past them. 

She would have been happy to sink into obscurity. Like Rishid, she would live contentedly in the shadows. A footnote in her advisor’s paper; a series of references in a university library. Perhaps she would have died in the same pit where she was raised, among the skeletons of the Tomb Keepers before her. But Malik had not been content with that, and he’d dragged them into the light, exposing them to the harshness of the sun. Seto had gripped her then and refused to let her go, because he was a creature who knew his own strength and didn’t hold tight enough to bruise but knew how to stop her from slipping away.

There were times when she wondered if he regretted it. If he regretted her. She knew that she had not been her father’s first choice for a child; Rishid, too, had chosen Malik over her. She had been alone for so long that it was her natural state of being. This companionship, walking with someone beside her, that was the abnormality. And yet Seto insisted. He’d insisted that she meet him here. Insisted that she, and Rishid, and Malik all come to Greece. Insisted even that his brother join them, so that it could be a true holiday. And she loved them all, she loved her brothers and she loved Seto’s brother and then there was Seto himself.

On the beach in the sand beside the waves, he was merely a tall Japanese man in his early twenties. He would never have met her in the course of normalcy. Their lives would never have intersected. She looked at him, and he didn’t even look like the gods of her childhood. Horus would never have scowled so much, and Set would never have been so underfed. For someone who lived so much in the details of other people’s histories, Ishizu found it difficult to understand Seto, who rejected his own history and seemed to have emerged, fully grown, from the head of Zeus himself. He’d shocked her when he’d declared it during their duel; he still shocked her now, when he refused to listen to her lectures. 

He refused to accept that it was fate that had brought them together. She would always concede, in the end, because she couldn’t refute him. He would point out, quite accurately, that he had chosen to pursue her, and she’d simply agreed. She’d pursued him the first time in order to save her brother, then he’d pursued her the second time in order to save her. She resisted this, if only because it meant that yet again she’d not taken charge, she hadn’t claimed what she truly wanted, and yet.

She did want Seto Kaiba, as impossible as he was. 

He turned to look at her, catching her stare, and he lifted his chin to speak. “Do I have something on my face?”

Ishizu shook her head. She was dressed as she had been for the day: her skirt fell nearly to her ankles, but her arms were bared by the top she’d chosen, and her hair fell unbound down her back. Seto was every inch the casual businessman, his collared button-up and khakis the most “normal” she’d ever seen him, and the moonlight washed out the color so that he was clad in shades of gray. She did not stop walking, forcing Kaiba to continue alongside her, and she finally decided what she wanted to say.

“You don’t feel like I expected my lover to feel.”

He hadn’t been prepared for that. To his credit, he did not sputter (she much enjoyed it when he did), but he did stare at her, his feet finding their way through the sand. Ishizu adjusted her own path to move deeper into the water, letting her skirt catch the flecks of foam atop the waves. 

“What were you expecting?”

She did not answer his question directly, watching her legs disappear into the inky darkness of the water. “I always knew I would choose someone who was not from my homeland. They would be ignorant of my heritage, and could be educated more carefully. There would be fewer assumptions made. I thought I would find someone like myself: someone quiet, who did not take up too much space, someone who would only ask for a portion of my life in exchange for a portion of theirs.”

Seto was quiet, adjusting his feet to step into the waves to follow her. “I thought our arrangement was mutually beneficial.”

“You’ve invited me, and my brothers, to an island home we could never hope to afford on our own. Whatever our arrangement is, your preferential treatment is obvious.”

“The experience doesn’t mean anything if I don’t share it with people.”

She smiled sadly, recognizing that this was not the Seto who had agreed to lead Battle City, not the Seto who had accepted the Tormentor into his deck, not even the Seto who had defeated her in the semi-finals. Even now as he advanced toward her, she stepped back, the water washing up to her knees as she avoided his hand. 

“You chose me, Seto. And I will always be grateful for that.”

“Is that enough?”

“The concubine is grateful when the emperor selects her from the harem. I should be happy to be chosen. Millions of women would give anything to be in my place.”

Seto tilted his head, an affectation Ishizu did not fully understand. It was far too primitive for Seto, and yet it was still endearing. “You’re not a concubine.”

Did he find the word distasteful? She noticed he wasn’t arguing the word ‘emperor’. Ishizu lifted her chin, stepping back again to feel her feet sinking into the softer sand. “I suppose I’d like to know what I am, then.”

Seto did not advance. “You’re Ishizu Ishtar.”

Daughter, sister, duelist. But what else? What else? Ishizu took a deep breath, feeling much, much younger than her twenty-four years, and felt the tug of the tide pulling at her legs. She turned, lifting her feet carefully to wade deeper into the water, and she heard the splash of movement as Seto tried to follow. 

She had not grown up near an ocean. She had learned to swim over the past week, with suitable encouragement from Malik, but being surrounded by water was still a surreal experience. She waded out to her waist, feeling her skirt billowing around her, and she did not turn back to see if Seto had followed. The waves were stronger, making her unsteady on her feet, and she braced herself as a higher swell came up nearly to her neck.

“Ishizu.” No, Seto Kaiba would not shout now. He would shout atop the blimp, yes, but he would not lower himself to panic. “Ishizu, this isn’t proving anything.”

She would not be in this ocean without Seto Kaiba. She would not be questioning everything, questioning herself, without Seto Kaiba. 

She knew what people assumed about them. It was the same assumption she would have made. She knew what Malik assumed, because Malik had asked her directly. He’d tried to be tactful. Does he make you happy? How could she answer, when the answer would take too long? 

People would look at her long skirts and conclude that she was a prude, a woman trapped by her upbringing, uneducated and “inexperienced” in the ways of the world. They would not be wrong, but they would not be right. Others would look at her long skirts and assume the opposite, that modesty concealed a raging sexuality, all the stronger for being constrained by  archaic cultural standards. They, too, would be neither wrong nor right.

Both of these groups would look at her, standing beside Seto Kaiba, and decide that he was using her for either of those reasons, when the reality was that she had used him first. His decision to pursue her was secondary to that first manipulation, and his refusal to abandon her was something she had not experienced previously. 

Another swell shoved at her chest, and she stepped backwards now, closer to the shore. Her entire body was caught in the pull of the tide, that insistent push towards shore. She knew she was being unfair: it was not Seto’s fault that their interactions had an audience. He’d specifically taken them away from Egypt, away from Japan, to a place where they could be alone as often as they wanted. 

He was the first man besides Rishid with whom she would have done this willingly. 

She turned back, letting the waves crash against her spine, and she shuddered as she felt the fabric of her clothing pulling at her skin. Seto had not advanced deeper than his waist, but he remained a few feet from her, apparently hesitant to come closer. Ishizu watched him, amused by the graying tint of the moon. He could be a statue, carved from stone, and how many lifeless stone faces had she flirted with while still underground? How many stories and personalities had she composed for the shadowed visages worn smooth by sand? 

Seto was none of those. He was alive and he was young, of all things, and even so he had seen her story and did not assume anything. 

Ishizu reached up to the tie of her top at the back of her neck, tugging at the wet fabric until the threads began to loosen. She could see Seto still watching her, but his expression was partially concealed by shadow, and she wondered how much he could see. Even as she pulled at the fabric, she turned to continue walking, bracing herself for each new wave as it rose to her chest and then fell back. At some point, she finally felt the fabric give, and she pulled at it until she could lift the entire piece off her head and crumple it in one hand. 

“Ishizu.”

So he had been paying attention.

“Slow down.”

She stopped, listening more closely now to hear him moving through the water close by. She waited, and waited, but he did not reach out to touch her: he simply stood. 

“If you want to walk, fine, but neither of us are dressed for swimming. If the tide gets any stronger, you’ll be dragged under.” His voice was steady and reasonable, and Ishizu squared her shoulders as she turned back to face him.

“If I choose to give in to a wave, does it mean that I’ve conceded, or that I’ve gotten what I wanted?” She mused aloud, able now to see his expression. She was proud that he still met her eyes: she was amused that even his control was not perfect, and there was the slightest flicker as his attention wavered. Her chest was bare, but she was grateful, even elated, that she felt no shame in front of him. “The last thing I want to be is ‘weak’. But by giving in to you, have I lost?”

Seto shook his head. “We could have had this conversation on the shore.”

“You should know me by now, Seto. I rarely do things without the proper setting.”

He smiled at that, the harsh quirk of true amusement. “Are you giving in to me, or yourself?”

“Neither.” She decided, pleased by her own resolution, but the flush of pride was quickly doused by a larger than usual wave, which chose this moment to knock her from her feet. 

She did not panic or flail: she fell, yes, but she did not fall far, since Seto was close enough to reach out and grab her arms as she scrambled for a foothold again. His grip was firm, and she felt herself hauled upwards, nearly pulled from the water as Seto took a large step toward the shore. She grabbed onto his forearms, stabilizing herself again, and somehow that loss of confidence made her chuckle to herself. 

Though she found her feet, Seto did not release her until they returned to the knee-high water, both of them splashing awkwardly through the water that still tried to tug them under. Finally she could stand freely, but even as Seto pulled his hands away, Ishizu reached up to grab his wrists, keeping them linked.

“Seto, don’t let go.”

She could feel his tension, and she moved one hand from his wrist to his jaw, feeling the strands of wet hair that clung to the skin behind his ear. That movement was enough to encourage him forward, drawing him down, until at last she could tilt her head upwards and meet his lips with her own in a deep, tender kiss. 

Ishizu tried to be patient. She was patient by nature. She waited several moments before attempting to move her other hand, guiding his wrist, and she could feel his entire body adjusting as she drew his hand first to the bottom of her ribcage, then gently drew it up further until his fingers brushed the underside of her breast. 

It was a relief when he finally escaped her grip: though her hand had guided him there, Seto did respond at last to let his fingers rise higher, adjusting the angle of his wrist so that the full breadth of his palm could cup her gently. Content with his work, Ishizu brought up both hands to cup Seto’s jaw, tugging him closer even as his hand flexed gently. It was fascinating, his own journey of discovery. Ishizu could feel him testing her ever so carefully, rubbing at her skin, drawing his thumb over the curve until it brushed the ridge of her nipple, already sensitive from exposure. 

She did not know where his other hand had gone, but this far into the kiss, she did not much care.

She pulled back to let them breathe, but did not break the contact, her lips barely half an inch from his. Part of her claimed that it was better to speak, better to explore these things with words and thoughts rather than sheer sensation, but her mind had gone blank. Seto also hesitated, but within the moment he pushed forward again to resume the kiss, his thumb stroking in a slow circle as Ishizu lifted herself into his hand and welcomed the rush of goosebumps that the movement provoked. 

She relaxed her grip without parting from him, letting her arms circle his neck, and even as the waves struck their legs, she was no longer concerned about falling. Seto’s grip was solid and unwavering, though his fingers were still careful in their explorations. 

He was not a conqueror. He had not claimed her in battle nor bent her to his will. He had simply offered. And now, she was learning how to take what she wanted in response. She, too, could make demands of Seto Kaiba without her brother’s well-being at stake. She could place his hands in the right locations, step into his embrace, and she would not be betraying either her former self or her current self. She was Ishizu Ishtar. And she had chosen Seto Kaiba.

--

Though he’d slept in a number of unfamiliar places, the sound of the ocean still kept Malik awake. He’d tried to get to sleep, shifting and adjusting his bed, but he knew that too much movement would just be a problem for him. Malik had therefore adjusted his position and tried to read by the window, in hopes that the wordy prose might lull him to sleep faster than the sound of the waves. 

He wasn’t sure what it was that caught his attention: it was not the sound of conversation, since no one spoke. Perhaps it was the movement, or the shadows cast by the moonlight. Whatever it was, Malik looked up in time to see two figures approaching the house, and he stared in some shock to realize who they were.

Seto Kaiba walked more slowly to accommodate his companion, and his pants were still dripping with sea water. More surprising, he was shirtless, exposing his pale skin to the unflattering moonlight. Beside him, Ishizu Ishtar was nearly swallowed by a shirt much too large for her, and Malik squinted to try and determine the details before realizing that she was covering herself with Seto’s dripping shirt. Ishizu’s skirt, too, was leaving a faint trail of drops along the shore, and Malik wondered how they’d both gotten so water-logged. 

It wasn’t like Ishizu to be impulsive. Would she really have tried to go swimming this late at night? Or maybe it was Kaiba’s fault. Malik found that easy to believe, though the same problem presented itself. Kaiba was not one to leap into the ocean without good reason. Both of them were logical, reasonable people, more “adult” than Malik believed he ever would be.

Kaiba had given Ishizu his shirt. Clearly it wasn’t for warmth, because the night was balmy enough and the shirt would offer no warmth when it was soaked through. Malik had totally forgotten his book now, staring at the scene in the moonlight, and he tried to make the pieces align.

Obviously Kaiba and Ishizu were ‘together’. Kaiba would not have paid for Rishid and Malik to also come to Greece and stay in this overpriced beach house if Kaiba had not felt something for Ishizu. But when Malik had asked about it, Ishizu had been her usual enigmatic self. She’d couched her explanations in half-measures, never fully explaining, just like she’d always done. Had she been trying to protect Malik from some grotesque truth? Malik wanted to laugh: unlike the terrors of their childhood, the only thing Ishizu could be concealing now would be the tawdry details of her hook-ups. It was so normal that it made him happy. 

Considering his sister as a sexually active adult was not Malik’s preferred pastime, but he wasn’t an idiot. Ishizu was beautiful. She also wasn’t a fool, and she did not tolerate fools well. Malik had sometimes wondered who might end up as his sibling-in-law, but that face had always been rather vague and unformed. He had not imagined that it might solidify into Seto Kaiba.

What did Kaiba feel about Ishizu?

Malik shifted, watching as Kaiba and Ishizu stopped at the edge of the porch to exchange some sort of farewell. There were no kisses, no tender embraces or dramatic confessions. Kaiba wasn’t even looking at Ishizu the whole time, stepping onto the mat to wipe the sand from his feet, and Ishizu didn’t seem to mind. Malik wanted to storm out there and demand better: if they liked each other so much, why didn’t they just do something about it? Were they both so coy that they’d dance around it forever? If he did leave this room, however, he’d have to admit he was watching, and Ishizu’s condemnation would be severe and immediate. 

Kaiba’s judgement would probably be the same.

With a shudder, Malik realized that they truly were well-suited for one another. Even now, when they faced one another in the moonlight, it wasn’t that they were avoiding a kiss for reasons of modesty. It was simply that there was no need to reiterate what was already there.

Malik could accept having Seto Kaiba as a brother-in-law. He’d been civil on this trip, and he would continue to be civil for as long as Ishizu required it. Still, maybe he’d have to have a conversation with Kaiba about what it meant to be dating into the Ishtar family. In gaining two extra brothers, Kaiba needed to know what to expect.

[sadaboutniall]

happy halloween! 👻 here’s a quickie little yn x niall fic to celebrate my fave holiday! this song is the vibe, if you want some listening to go along with.

the moon laughs and whispers, ‘tis near Halloween

Unsurprisingly, Halloween is perfectly at home in Edinburgh. The night is dark and damp, a pervasive chill hanging in the air as you and your friends rush  drunkenly along the cobblestone street, rain hitting the backs of your necks, and  warm, golden lamplight from flats above trickling out onto the dark stone. The city is as alive as it always is—alive in a way that feels like a million different lives, like it somehow knows both the past and the future, like it’s holding you close but also hurtling you forward. It feels like tonight is a special night—and, although you have no real reason to think this Halloween will be different from any other Halloween, you let that feeling in, let it settle into your bones and carry you forward toward the party. 

It had been Fiona’s idea, going to the football squad’s Halloween party. Your other friends had championed a pub crawl or a scary movie night at the flat, but Fiona’d heard about the football party and, knowing the keeper she’s been crushing on would surely be there, insisted. And now you’re here, drunk in a witch costume on a dark October eve, your pointed hat barely keeping the rain off your face, orange and brown leaves crunching under the heel of your boots  as you pick up the pace and run toward the party, giggling into the night.

The football house is packed even fuller than you’d imagined it would be, the air thick with the smell of beer and weed and Fiona, dressed as Posh Spice, spots the keeper just milliseconds after your group ducks into the party, disappearing in a flurry of rhinestones. It leaves just three of you—Fleur, Amina, and yourself—standing in the middle of a heaving party, first years entirely out of their element. 

“Drinks?” Fleur, dressed as a zombie bride, asks. 

“Drinks.” Echoes Amina, the antennas on her alien costume bobbing as she nods her head. 

The three of you clasp hands so as not to lose each other and Fleur leads the way, zig zagging through the crowd of goblins and ghouls and strangely sexual Boris Johnson costumes until she finds the kitchen, a dark, damp little room with one, singular coffin shaped window above the sink and no furniture save for a wooden table in the middle of the room, without a single chair. Atop the table sits a literal cauldron, cast iron and all, with a pink liquid gently swaying inside. 

“Ick,” says Amina, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Boys.”

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for a hundred years,” you say, voice low. Something about the room makes you feel like you’ve travelled a million miles away from the party, just on the other side of the door. You can’t hear a thing in here—just the pitter patter of the rain against the window, and the creaking of the floorboards as Fleur steps forward.

“That’s probably true,” she laughs, peering into the cauldron. “I bet none of these lads can cook. They must order Nando’s every night.”

“Probably,” Amina agrees, stepping forward to peer over Fleur’s shoulder. “At least they went through the effort of making a mixed drink, though. I’m far too bloated for a beer.”

“Aye,” Fleur’s Scottish accent thickens when she’s drunk, but it sounds even thicker all of a sudden. “Commitment to the theme as well.”

“It smells lovely,” says Amina, shutting her eyes as she smiles. “Like roses.”

“Really?” Fleur says, as you step deeper into the kitchen and join them around the cauldron. “I reckon it smells like chocolate.”

You lean forward, too, despite yourself. The scent of the drink is intoxicating—neither roses nor chocolate but, you think, the distinct smell of a chilly day by the sea: salt air and a rising tide and it’s more like a memory than a scent, a moment in time, the most peculiar sense of deja vu. Whatever it is, it’s not the kind of smell that should be coming from a mixed drink at a house party. Whatever it is, you don’t want to step away from it.

The three of you—the witch, the bride, and the alien—stand over the cauldron for a long moment, breathing it in. There is no sound beyond the rain outside, no semblance of the party raging beyond the kitchen door. It’s just the three of you, this cold, quiet room, and the strangely comforting feeling that you are, after all, not alone. 

“Are there any cups?” Amina speaks first, glancing up at you, across the table from her. Her brown eyes are glassy, her gaze faraway. 

“Cups,” you echo, a little floaty, your mind still by the seaside. “Right. Let me find some.”

The room’s only cabinets flank the sink and the single window, one on each side. You find the first cabinet empty except for a shimmery spider web and an old looking candle, but the second holds exactly what you’re looking for: three cocktail glasses, set on the shelf in a pretty row, glinting despite the dingy light. Perfect.

“Bingo!” You say, turning back toward your friends. “And only three left anyw—guys?”

The room is empty. 

The cauldron still sits atop the table, its intoxicating smell strong as ever, but your friends are not where you left them, twenty seconds ago, when you turned toward the cabinets. Your friends are not anywhere in sight. 

“Guys?” You call out again, taking one step forward. “You’re so not funny. I found cups.”

Silence.

“Fleur? Amina?” You step forward again, toward the center of the room, toward the drink. “You want a drink, or no?” 

Still, silence—somehow more silent than before. Even the rain sounds like it’s whispering. 

“This is fucking freaky,” you say, one last shot, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice. “You guys win, I’m fully freaked out, Happy Halloween.”

Silence. Stillness. A sudden, oppressive need to get out of this room. 

Quick as a cat, you do. 

-- 

When you step back through the door and out into the party, alone, it’s like you were never gone. In fact, it’s a bit like time has stopped—the party is just as packed as it was when you arrived, and you’re pretty sure the same song is still blasting through the speakers. Confused but ignoring it, you start to push your way through the crowd, in search of your friends.

A few steps deeper into the crowd and you spot a sliding back door. It makes perfect sense to you, the idea of Fleur and Amina slipping out into the backyard for some air, so you head straight for it, stepping out into the chilly, dark night. 

The rain has mostly stopped, though the leafy  ground is still damp beneath your feet and the air feels wet, like it could begin again at any moment. Although it’s dark, you can see well enough—the yard is illuminated by a group of jack o’lanterns lined up along the back brick wall, and fairy lights strung between trees, casting a warm, flickering aura—and it’s immediately clear that Amina and Fleur are not out here. In fact, no one is. 

You turn around to head back inside, pulling your phone out of your pocket as you do. And that’s when you walk right into him. 

“Lads, are you—oof. Deo, you eejit—shit, you’re not, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” 

“I—” you step back to collect yourself for a moment, eyes trailing up the hard chest you just stumbled straight into. It’s just a guy—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, thick Irish accent—but there’s something about him that keeps you rooted to your spot. Something about him that feels safer than going back inside. 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He rushes, when you don’t answer. I should’ve been looking, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no,” you manage. “I’m fine. It was my fault anyway, was looking at my phone. Are you okay? You sounded, like, worried?” You don’t know this man, you have no idea what his worried sounds like. But you can’t stop yourself from saying it. 

“Can’t find my mates anywhere,” the stranger says, eyes sweeping the backyard over your head. “It’s like they fucking vanished.”

“I lost my friends too,” you echo, turning to look with him, though you know you’ll only find an empty yard. “I thought they might be out here, but nothing.”

“Two lost souls,” says the stranger, a smile in his voice. When you turn back around he’s pulling at his phone, saying, “I’m just going to text them and tell them I’m out here. They can come find me.”

“I was about to do the same,” you tell him, glancing down at your phone in your hands to shoot off the text. “There are way too many people in there.” 

“Wanna wait it out together?” He looks up from his phone, a smile on his face. It brings out one tiny dimple, and sets your heart moving a little faster. “I’m Niall.” 

“I’m a witch,” you smile back at him and he laughs, blue eyes trailing down your body once. It sends a jolt of something through you, makes you hope the flush creeping up your face isn’t visible in the flickering light. 

“Have you got any powers?” Asks Niall, his eyes moving back up to meet yours. The blue is stunningly bright, even in the darkness. 

“That’s for me to know,” you say, more smoothly than you ever imagined. “And you to find out. What’s your costume?”

“You can’t tell?” He glances down at himself, dressed in double denim with an American flag bandana tied around his neck. “Bruce Springsteen.”

“Right,” you nod, though it wasn’t obvious to you at all. “Course. You need to work on that accent, though.” 

“Do I?” He raises an eyebrow, and adopts a surprisingly good—if over exaggerated—New Jersey accent. “I’m pretty proud of it, honestly. Been convincing people that it’s real all night.”

It’s not all that difficult for you to believe, actually, a bunch of drunk Brits buying into a fake, over the top, American accent without a single question. Instead, you ask him, “is there a tragic backstory, then? To go along with the tragic attempt at an accent?”

Niall laughs, bold and loud into the dark night, and suddenly you realize how entirely unafraid you feel with him—how you’d been on edge since the moment you stepped into the party but now that’s gone, evaporated, replaced, with a warm feeling in your belly and Niall’s infectious laughter. You bring your drink up to your lips and take a sip before you realize yet another thing: you have no memory of filling up your cup before leaving the kitchen. 

Across from you, Niall’s clutching what looks like a pint of Guinness, which is a drink that makes very little sense at a house party. The more you think about it, the less of the night makes sense. You shake your head to push it away, not quite ready to give this up just yet. 

Under the golden, flickering light from the jack o'lanterns,  you study Niall: the way his freckles sprinkle across his thick neck, how his roots are so much darker than the blonde at his tips, the tuft of chest hair peeking out from where his denim shirt is unbuttoned—everything about him leaves you breathless, desperate, longing, attracted to him in a way you’ve never experienced before. You feel, distinctly, that you are both supposed to be here, tonight, alone, together. 

You feel, distinctly, that something went out if its way to make sure this would happen. 

And maybe it’s the drink—the mysterious thing that smells like sea salt to you and roses to Amina—but here, with the wind rising around you and the night settling in, you have the distinct feeling that Niall is on the exact same page. 

“I have the strangest feeling,” Niall says, voice dropping to something like a whisper. Behind him, leaves rustle as the wind blows a strong, measured gust though the garden. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I don’t think so,” you can’t look anywhere other than Niall’s eyes. “But I know what you mean.”

Niall nods, taking one step forward to lessen the gap between you. He’s so close you can smell him: warm and musky and soft and something else, too—something that reminds you of salt air and days by the sea. “I just feel like,” he says, and you nod. 

“Me too.”

Far, far away someone calls your name, but you can’t stop looking at Niall, stepping closer and closer to him with every distant shout of your name. The shouting grows louder and louder until it’s impossible to ignore, although Niall doesn’t seem to acknowledge it at all. You open your mouth to ask him if he can hear it too, but before you get the chance something shakes your shoulder, calls your name one more time, and you open your eyes. 

“Jesus,” says Amina, a mixture of relief and concern clouding her features. “You are impossible to wake up.”

“I’m—what?” You sit up in bed, head foggy, limbs heavy. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“Noon,” Amina pulls out her phone to check. “We’re gonna be late for our brunch reservations, that’s why I came to wake you up.”

“Oh,” you rub your eyes, shaking your head to try to bring yourself back down to Earth. “I was having such a vivid dream, sorry.”

“It’s cool, just hurry up.” Amina makes her way to your bedroom door, but pauses before she steps back out into the hallway. “Oh, by the way, Fiona said there’s a Halloween party at the football house tonight and she’s fucking desperate to go since she fancies the keeper. Could be fun, no?” 

-- 

On Halloween night, dressed as a witch, you stand in the backyard of the football house with your friends. The yard is illuminated by jack o’lanterns and fairy lights and Fiona is off snogging the keeper upstairs and you feel warm and safe and happy, despite the autumnal chill in the air. As Fleur tells your small group a story about the weird couple sitting across from you at brunch today, you drop your head back to stare up at the night sky, sprinkled with stars, and the full moon peeking out over the clouds. It feels like you are supposed to be here tonight. You exhale, watching your breath fog with the cold and curl in the air above you. 

“I’m going to refill my drink,” you say, smiling at the small group you’ve been standing with. You can feel something budding between Fleur and the pretty girl she’s been chatting to, dressed as Britney Spears, and you want to give them a moment alone. Fleur flashes you a grateful smile as you walk away.

Back inside, you locate the entirely normal kitchen, bright and airy and crowded, with a coffin-shaped window above the sink, and pull open the fridge to grab a beer from the stock inside. When you shut the door, there’s someone standing on the other side. 

He’s dressed as Bruce Springsteen, double denim and an American flag bandana around his neck. He’s blonde hair with dark roots, and bright blue eyes. He’s staring right at you, with an unmistakable look of recognition on his face. 

“Hi,” he says, stepping forward to lessen the gap between you and him. He smells warm and musky and safe—with a whiff of something like salt air.  “Sorry if this is a bit weird, but I’m Niall. Have we—have we met before?”

####

sources for images: 1, 2, 3

[inspirationdivine]

The Best First Impressions || Morgan & Lydia

Lydia and Morgan finally meet. It’s a time. 

(drug manipulation tw)

It was a warm spring day. There was no breeze, and the sun shone brightly overhead. Lydia wasn’t the only one headed to the beach, but she’d recently stumbled across a little alcove that was tricky to reach, so few people did. The jagged, uneven boulders that blocked the way in would challenge even those with the best balance. Fortunately, Lydia had a winged advantage that helped her balance, and with no one watching, she was over in no time. Only a small handful of people were here, most lazying in the sun. Setting down her beach towel, Lydia slid off her dress to reveal a yellow bikini, and promptly waded into the water, shivering in delight at the liquid chill. 

Morgan had grown guilty over sinking down in the pool so often and found that a steady walk to the beach offered a different brand of nothing to fill the day with. The ocean had its own movement, it’s own pressure, so fierce it seemed like chaos. She let out the air in her lungs slowly and sank, eyes open, deep into the current as the waters churned and her body was carried back and forth in the saddest lullaby rock. But dead girls didn’t sleep. And sometimes, Morgan thought, they didn’t think much of a little mischief. A woman’s leg passed her as she drifted. She reached up and found she could just graze her skin. With the weight of the ocean pressing around her, the pressure was so faint it was more akin to grazing the idea of skin, the concept of a body. When it passed again. Morgan grabbed her ankle and pulled, just long enough to submerge her hair and bring her face to face with Morgan’s dead eyed stare. She was pretty, she thought distantly. She almost felt bad for ruining her perfect hair. Morgan let go and watched her. 

Of course, at such low tide it wasn’t surprising that the seaweed was thick in the water as she swam along. It brushed along her calf, but Lydia was no spring chicken and knew better than to startle at such a minor thing. The water was so cold it was soothing, refreshing her mind and pulling her away from nicotine stained painting and surly humans. It stopped being soothing, naturally, the moment a claw wrapped around her ankle and dragged her underwater. Her wings plunged underwater as Lydia tried to get her bearings, blinking a few times before seeing the face in the water in front of her, pale and dead in appearance. Lydia shrieked soundlessly, bubbles erupting  in front of her as Lydia writhed to be released. It - whatever the hell it was - let her go and Lydia gasped as she broke the surface, coughing and hacking up water as she struggled straight for the shore, looking frantically behind her at the dangerous depths. Wasn’t anywhere in this town pleasant?

Morgan stayed where she was a moment, watching the woman retreat before the waves pushed her ashore enough to make breaking the surface easy. Somewhere faraway, she imagined she was falling too easily into these petty crimes against social norms and decency. But the look on people’s faces, the wrongness of it all, struck something familiar inside Morgan that she couldn’t get to on her own. It brought her almost up to a real feeling. She lifted her head above the waves and spouted an arc of water from her mouth. “Careful out here, the beach can be a weird place,” she said. She crawled up the sandy floor and lay where the water could leave the faintest of scratches on her skin as it washed over and back, not noticing the clams scuttling up behind her. 

It had followed her up. The woman had followed her up - Lydia realised, not a mindless beast at all but a prankster. Coughing, Lydia rolled her shoulders to dry her elytra and wings, glamoured as they were. “Oh, you’ve had your fun, haven’t you?” As her heart slowed, Lydia became less afraid, and more impressed. It was at the very core of who fae were, after all. Tricksters and mischief. Lydia coughed again, the salt water burning the back of her throat. Perhaps not too impressed. Her eyes slid past Morgan as the sands began to shift. “You should take your own advice. Behind you!”

Morgan shrugged in reply to the woman’s question. She was taking this all very well for someone who had been frightened enough to scream. She wondered if something had happened to her to make her used to this sort of thing. She certainly didn’t look very dead, so it couldn’t be that. “I have a lot of time on my hands,” she deadpanned. And try as she might, no walk or scare was going to change that. There was no running out, no sleep, only another hour to fill and another one after that. So there was no alarm when she turned and saw the giant clams toddling up on strange spindly legs. She inched back on the sand. They looked like some nightmare version of a children’s cartoon. Too big for their feet and too strange and real to be cute. She continued to stare as one of them opened its strange clam mouth and chomped eagerly on her toes. “Shit,” she said. More mystified than anything else. She inched farther away and held up her foot, toe bones already sprouting back, for the woman to see. “Did you know it was gonna do that?” She asked. 

"I can tell, accosting strangers like that," Lydia replied haughtily. "Perhaps you should consider a hobby." She wrung out her hair, watching the other warily. And then watching as the large clans arose, on squishy tendrils that didn't look like any creature she'd ever seen. Lydia didn't feel as alarmed as perhaps she should have. She watched distantly as it descended on the other woman's toes. In fact, Lydia surprised herself with a giggle. Blood oozed out of Morgan's foot, followed by bones. In the background, people were screaming. "Nope! Oh look - it might do it again!" Lydia chuckled as the clam wandered closer, looking to take another bite.

Morgan looked quizzically at her foot, which was already red with muscle and tapering with raw skin. The woman seemed to be okay, to think it was even funny and well, as Morgan lowered her foot to the giant clam and pulled away again, teasing it as she would her cat Anya. The clam snapped and scuttled, agitated, and maybe it was the breath Morgan drew to ask (because, seriously, this had freaked Erin out into logging off on her and she saw dead parts all the time), but it became kind of funny to her too. Elsewhere on the beach, people were falling over as the clams munched on their lively flesh. At least one foot of a sunbeather was not growing back anytime soon. Morgan snorted and continued her tug of war. “Shit you’re right!” She said, as the bone broke clean off and she crab walked back a few feet to show off again. “Come and see!”

Lydia watched with a wide grin on her face as Morgan teased the clam with her foot, swinging it too and fro. It bit her and Lydia gasped “Oh! You’re a zombie! That explains so much! I do not think my limbs would-” Morgan’s leg snapped off. “Oh you naughty little thing. Darling, does that hurt? No- no, don’t bite me!” Lydia giggled as she hopped back, out of the beast’s reach. This was so bizarre. The most bizarre thing was that Lydia aborred gore.. She had absolutely no stomach for it whatsoever. Yet here she was, laughing as veins and flesh stitched themselves together. Something was entirely wrong and Lydia could not find it in herself to care a single iota. 

Morgan gasped with delight. “Oh my god! You know what I am!” She kicked the clam back with her other leg and got to her feet, giggling, beside herself as it bowled into another one and flailed like a turtle on its back. She staggered up to the woman, clumsy on her still-growing feet. “No one in town knows what I am unless I tell them! They’re so dumb!” She stumbled into her, laughing still. When was the last time she’d actually laughed like this? She didn’t even remember anything being this funny when she was alive. “It doesn't hurt like you’d think. I can’t feel anything like you’d think. Not my feet, or my girlfriend, or the ocean. You know it’s just kinda heavy, like melted jello! What are you? You’re too smart to be norma--oh look!” Another beachcomber bit the dust, arms flailing like they were going down a waterslide and not into a fat clammy mouth.

“Your leg is regrowing as we speak! It is completely obvious! However, I bet you don’t grow legs every time you meet someone. Oh!” Lydia gasped, giggling so much she was finding it hard to breath. “Those humans dying bloodily over there don’t bother you too much, do they? Good grief, now that is a sight!” She disgracefully snorted in between her laughter as a human was pulled apart by two clams playing the most darling game of tug of war. “Oh, I feel so many things. All the time! It’s just so much sometimes.” She put her hands on Morgans shoulder as more laughter bubbled out of her belly. “You know I think-  I think-” She booped Morgan on the nose and giggled some more, “I think we’ve been drugged- Oh no!” As the clam surged forward, snapping at Morgan’s ankle, Lydia tried to pull the other woman out of the way, and instead stumbled so that they fell backwards, Morgan landing on top of her. Lydia’s burst out laughing again, like a teenage school girl with far too much soda in her belly. 

They went crashing down together and Morgan barely stopped her nose from cracking against the woman’s, hands bracing herself on either side of her damp head. She burst out laughing in her face and rolled off splashing sand in her hair. “Drugged! That’s--that’s the word! Mmhm, too smart to be normal--oh!” There went another set of toes. Morgan staggered up drunkenly and pulled her new friend with her. “We have to get you out of here before you’re dead like me. I did that, you know? And now look at me!” She bent her head sideways as if she might dislocate her head, then pushed them further up the shore, towards the road, squealing. “Ooh, we names, otherwise, imma call you Sandy, Sandy.” 

Lydia giggled, grabbing her purse as Morgan staggered upright and pulled her with her. “Yes yes I agree! I’m not human so I would just be dead dead which would suck there is so much I still want to do!” She followed Morgan up the shore, shaking sand out of her hair. “This is your fault! First you got me wet -”Lydia giggle snorted at that, clutching at her belly- “Then you threw sand in my hair. Hey!” A car honked them as it buzzed passed, and she pulled Morgan onto the other side of the road. “I’m Lydia. And who are you, trickster drowner zombie… person!” Lydia clearly thought this was the height of wit, snickering again.

Morgan blew a raspberry at the passing car as she flashed it the finger. She turned back to Lydia, grinning, and got up on her toes to help brush out more of the sand. “Morgan,” she replied. “I mean you could call me trickster zombie, but Morgan comes off way easier to say. And I didn’t reeeally drown you. I let you go on purpose, you know. Do I get your other card, Lydia, or is that a secret? I’ll give you a whole finger if you tell me,” she said, waggling her brows with amusement. Just don’t set it on anything pretty, it turns to goop after a while.” She laughed again, but it was more effortful to draw air to make her laughter float float as it had before.

“Morgan! That’s fun.” Lydia rolled her eyes and snorted. “You drowned me a little! Did I mention the hair getting wet?” Tragically, the more she spoke, the more she began to cringe at herself, especially the giggling and childish speaking. “Please, no fingers. I already have a dear friend who gives me bones and dead gifts. Keep your finger. Or donate it to the clams. Up to you. Let’s just say I’m much more upset about getting my wings wet than my hair.” Lydia shivered, still in a bikini, still covered in sand and still completely wet. Looking at the pair of them, Lydia couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, sitting down on a grassy embankment. “Do you think that’s a common occurence?”

“Well my humblest apologies for the fright. I didn’t know you were gonna be so nice,”Morgan said, frothing up with one more giggle as she joined Lydia on the grass. She hadn’t cared about how Lydia had felt at all was the thing. It was one of the strange twists of not being able to feel right. Everything was far away, especially strangers. She worked on squeezing out the water from her own hair and clearing off the sand from her one piece bathing suit and shorts. She had to concentrate, eyes on each gesture so she could tell when she was actually done. “You have a friend like that?” She asked. It sounded like Deirdre’s language, but she was sobering up enough to want to hold her tongue. “Your--oh. I see. Um...yeah, that’s...a good idea. They didn’t get hurt, did they? Or the rest of you? I can’t tell, you know. I try, but it’s only been a little while since I became...this.” She looked over at the bloody beach and back to the road. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “This whole place seems kind of cursed if you ask me. Hopefully not too common. It’d be nice to be able to come back.”

“Indeed. I don’t much share her fondness of death, but she’s one of my favourite people in town,” Lydia mused, settling back to look at the blue sky over had, as goosebumps ran up her body. “No. Although I suspect if we’d stayed giggling much longer I would have ended up like those humans over there. What do you think? Six deaths? It might even make it into the paper.” Sighing, Lydia shook her head, because human death was no longer as amusing as it had been a few minutes ago, and now it was starting to make her feel a little nauseous. At least she had company to distract herself. “So you can pretend to drown more people?” Lydia asked with a wry tongue in cheek smile as she looked the young zombie over. “New to being a zombie, but not new to the supernatural. No wonder you’re filling your time with underwater trickery. The clams weren’t there last time I went to that specific alcove, which is all the more pity. Perhaps now they’ve eaten they’ll return to nests… or whatever it is that clams do.”

“She is, huh?” Morgan said softly, her smile turning lopsided. In the fae world in town, as far as she knew, that could only be Deirdre. She turned her attention back to the sand on her shorts to avoid any telling attention from Lydia. To be with a human was, apparently, unspeakably wrong, but was a zombie much better? She could live as long as they could, and she could...do other things, she supposed, not that she could think of any. “I guess if she’s like you, she’d be pretty tough to beat,” she shrugged. “And I don’t…” she hesitated, trying to be as truthful as possible without embarrassing herself. “It was just kind of an impulse,” she said. “I don’t make it a habit...underwater, at least. I did grab an ankle in a graveyard yesterday, though. They ran away before I could say anything else. Um...I didn’t used to be like this.” Well, she had sold rocks to lonely old ladies in Arizona and hockey moms and desperate teenagers. And she had helped Vera land a monkey’s paw. And Kaden that bowl. But it had seemed different then. No one, at least, had screamed. Or run for the hills. She looked over her shoulder at the carnage, which appeared to be dying down at last. She winced. Those poor people. And those body fragments, split and bleeding into the sand, the muscle still red and-- Morgan looked back to the street, hands over her stomach. “However many it is, it’s not pretty. But maybe the rest of the world will catch a break, yeah. Do you, um, need help getting to your car or anything?” She offered. She didn’t feel any hunger pull from here, not while she was looking away, but she felt better getting on the move sooner.

Lydia’s eyes flicked sideways to Morgan, at that small sweet smile, but didn’t say anything at all about it. Recently dead zombie with a girlfriend? There were probably not that many in town, after all. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I’m fae, we’re fans of trickery, however temporarily frightening it may be. I have no doubt you’ve changed plenty, recently, there is not shame in that” She turned her gaze to the beach, the bloodied sand as cars began to slow and take out their phones to document the carnage. She wondered if anyone had called animal control, or an ambulance. It didn’t seem likely. Lydia shrugged, looking back at Morgan as she rose to her feet. “No, I don’t need any help, but if you’d like to walk with me, then I’d certainly like the company.” Lydia replied. “At the very least, I’d like to get to know the woman Deirdre is so fond of a little better in person.”

Morgan’s confidence lasted only until Lydia dropped her girlfriend’s name. She went still, a deer in a trap, and opened her mouth stupidly, saying nothing. “How--how do you--” She was doing a terrible job of discretion. If it had been a gamble before, it was confirmed now. She hadn’t even needed the ability to blush. “You said...she’s one of your favorite people. A-are you..are you the one she told about me?” She was careful online, though she no longer flirted with other women. They had only been out a few times, and Deirdre, in an unwitting twist of luck, had a way of going on things that looked like dates, but that she insisted were nothing of the kind. Maybe it was safe. How else could anyone know? “You should know I’m bound not to say what she is. She offered to release me, but I said no. I want her to be as safe as possible.” She searched Lydia’s face, but her coyness was inscrutable. “Um...anyway...a walk is good.” She looked guiltily back at the beach and lamented not having her new phone with her. Someone else would surely call for help though. “You can lead the way I guess.”

“She told me when you died, although she certainly hadn’t planned to.” No human was worth a rift between them, but that didn’t make Lydia curious. Perhaps it was folly to hope that there would be something special in this one, that continued to shine through now she was a zombie. She had to have been extraordinary. It was the only way Lydia could reconcile it in her mind. “As you should. Promises should be kept regardless of the magical intent holding them. Darling, I have no plans to trick you into revealing something you would rather not.” Not that Lydia would need to plan it, if it came to that. Lydia smiled, holding her handbag close as she began walking to her car, careful not to expose her bare feet to anything dirty in the grass. Ugh, driving would be quite the nightmare. 

“Thank you, for being there for her,” Morgan said. “I mean I know you--it’s nothing to do with me, I know that, but still. Thank you.” She offered a tentative smile. It was too late to wipe the ‘please like me’ look from her face, so Morgan shifted her attention ahead of them and hoped that when the clam juice had altogether worn off, Lydia thought the whole ocean incident was still a harmless, fae-tastic time. “And I agree, about promises. I mean, I’m dead so magic isn’t really…” She couldn’t finish the thought and shrugged it off like a bad chill. “But I never needed the magic before, so it feels the same, so I just pretend that it’s still...yeah. So,” she tried to imitate her brighter, livelier self, “How long have you two known each other? This place is good for making fast friends, I’ve found.”

“Just don’t die again. That would be rather unfortunate,” Lydia replied, looking at Morgan with a raised eyebrow. “Deirdre has kept your confidence, I know very little about you, nor the circumstances of your death. All I know is that Deirdre was so upset that she could barely keep herself standing with the weight of it. I don’t want to see her like that again.” Just as quickly as her sterness had appeared, she smiled again. “I have no doubt she appreciates it. We’ve known each other four months, I think? We met at Al’s diner of all places, but we have a lot in common. Like you say, we clicked fast. So how did you meet her?”

“I don’t want to do that to her either,” Morgan replied firmly. It was true, and all the more difficult for how her presence seemed to carry that kind of grief in her wake no matter what she did. “I didn’t plan on dying. But, I was cursed, and I was looking for a cure, and some ghost--jerk,” Now that they were both more themselves, Lydia seemed too proper to swear in front of. “Wrecked my spell to get answers and loosed the poltergeist I was interrogating on me, and then I died. And then someone tried to help me, and...here we are today.” Not the whole, detailed truth, but the gist. She sighed, helping her to drop the anger hiding below her over her mortal life. Had to work on her first impression. “That’s really nice,” she said, in a way she hoped sounded light and friendly. “We started talking on the social network, every day, without really meaning to. And then I met her at karaoke night, just out of the blue. She has the most incredible--” Everything. “The most beautiful voice, if you haven’t heard her before. And Al’s really does have the best pie. We’ve had some good memories there too.” And some less great. Morgan remembered coloring them fondly because everything had worked out alright in the end, but had it? Had it been worth it to lose her to this? Would it still be worth it if Morgan didn’t know how to come back?

So she’d beat the curse, Lydia thought, but heard enough frustration on Morgan’s voice not to say it. No wonder the woman was angry, though, for someone else to change her life so much, so cruelly. Even if it had turned out for the better. Morgan would at least come close to deserving Deirdre now. But like with Regan, understanding that would take time. “I’ve not heard her sing before, no. It sounds like you’ve had a lovely time together.” Smitten. As she should be, for a woman like Deirdre. Lydia pulled her key from her purse and clicked open her car. “Do you want a ride?”

“We did. Lots of them, really. She’s amazing,” Morgan murmured wistfully. Realizing she was no longer sharing anything useful but staring off into space, remembering shared slices of pie at Al’s, weekends up late with Grey’s, and mornings with lazy breakfasts and braiding her soft hair. The cemetery dates, the dinners, nights talking with nothing but wine sustaining them. They’d been happy, so happy Morgan had gotten reckless with her life. And now they were...here. Like this. She looked back at Lydia. “I’d really appreciate that, actually. I walked, and it is far, even if I don’t get normally tired. If you’re really sure it’s okay?”

“Of course she is.” Lydia replied, eyeing Morgan as the Zombie gazed into the middle distance. Deirdre was wonderful, charming, and at time a little unusual, but it added to her charm. She wasn’t yet convinced by this newly-unhuman person. She certainly couldn’t imagine what Deirdre could have seen in her before. Of course, Lydia had been wrong before. She smiled amicably. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it, my dear. You’ll have to tell me your address, though. Or wherever it is you want to go.”

“O-oh. Right.” Morgan sputtered under Lydia’s strange matter-of-course grace and airs. She wanted to know what she really thought about--anything, really. She couldn’t tell if she liked her or was just humoring her, and whether or not this was some kind of weird fae best friend test. She gave Lydia a small, sheepish smile that didn’t sit right with her. She gave it up quickly and said, “Just...home. I mean, Deirdre’s.” She gave the address and folded her hands over themselves as if she might break something. “Thank you, Lydia. Really. We should...I don’t know. Meet properly. Less trickery, maybe some drinks. I was good at cooking, before I died. And I know a lot of fae-friendly recipes now.”

Deirdre liked her secrets, it appeared. As Lydia quickly realised when Morgan gave the address, she actually had no idea where the fae lived. As Lydia settled in to drive, she looked over at Morgan one last time, and offered a genuine smile. “Drinks sometime would be wonderful, darling.” In so many ways, the zombie still behaved so very human. That was okay, though; it was entirely fixable. 

[daoimean]

Pink in the Night V: Pink Hibiscus

Chapter IV | Ao3 Link

Summary: 

Fellas, is it gay to be madly in love with your gal pal? As war rages and internal demons fester, Glimmer struggles to come to terms with her feelings.

Pairings: Glimmadora (Glimmer/Adora) 

Warnings: N/A 

Word Count: 1,643

"The world is burning." 

  "I know." 

  "Everything's changing." 

  "I know." 

  "I'm so scared." 

  "Me too." 

  "I'm so tired." 

  "Me too." 

  "I want this to end." 

  Hands stop shaking once they're clasped in a grounding warmth. Stifled tears flow freely once the first escaped trail is wiped away with a touch as gently reverent as the moonlight's caress. And in an embrace that pulls together the crumbling pieces, it's finally safe to fall apart.

  "I want this to last forever." A whisper, choked and muffled. 

  "Me too." Faraway. But sincere. 

  Sometimes, it's hard to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. 

  At times like this, does it really matter? 

  Later that night, as Glimmer nestles her head on her sleeping girlfriend's chest, the steady rise and fall of a mercifully peaceful slumber soothing her like the rolling tides washing over the windwrought sand, a thought, dumb and crazy, suddenly takes form in her mind. A rogue flicker dancing on the surface of the waves, unanchored, unmoored; reflected in the languid smile it brings across her lips. 

  For the first time in a while, she doesn't try to comend with sleep's lulling current. Wilfully succumbing to the exhaustion weighing down on her lids, she dives into the darkness and dreams of the stars. 

  ---

  "Morning, sleepyhead." 

  "Hrrrrmmm..." 

  Glimmer makes an attempt to roll over, draw the sheets over her head and capture whatever precious fragments of remaining sleep she can get, but she's captured with a kiss to the cheek before she can summon the capacity to move, and immediately any annoyance at being woken up early seems to evaporate into thin air. 

  Besides, it dawns on her once she finally manages to open her eyes, her bleary vision slowly, lazily, bringing her surroundings into focus— it isn't that early. 

  Adora confirms this when she draws open the curtains, allowing daylight to spill through and flood the room in blinding light that Glimmer's eyes once again have to readjust to.  

  Since that night, the thick grey overcast of a gloomy spring has parted ways to a gloriously rose gold summer. She's seen the shift through Adora, too, everyday her smiles looking just a little brighter, her limbs a little lighter. In the loose blitheness of her motions, almost gliding through the simple act of crossing the room, billowing the wisps of hair that fall from her haphazard ponytail and over her near-bare shoulders, Adora may as well be dancing in the clouds. She thinks she might even be able to join her. 

  And suddenly, Glimmer feels awake, propelled out of bed by the inclination that sends an invigorating jolt of glee through her veins. Adora blinks in confusion when she takes her hands, stumbling as Glimmer takes one step back and then to the side, trying to pull her in tow. 

  "What are you—" 

  " Dance with me, you dummy!" 

  " Oh! Right!"

  Adora lets go of one of Glimmer's hands to lead her into a twirl, and now it's Glimmer who stumbles, almost slipping on the marble floor as she trips over her own bare feet. She's caught just in time, and Adora takes the chance to lower her into a dip, sending Glimmer's heart into a mini somersault. Determined to hide this, she drapes one arm around Adora's neck, batting her eyelashes, a jovial attempt at being seductive— but she can't keep in the giggles long enough for it to work, as if she ever had a seductive bone in her body to begin with. 

  They must look so silly . Dancing badly in their bedroom to a nonexistent tune, Adora in sandals as her usual get-up switched out for shorts and a tank top, while Glimmer's still in her giant sleep shirt— but damn it, it's nice to be silly, they deserve to be silly. With a flash of accidental eye contact, Glimmer splutters with laughter, and Adora starts giggling too, a light blush blooming across her cheeks. She's glowing this morning, wrapped in daylight like it doesn't want to let her go, so beautiful it's almost heartwrenching. Happy, fresh— young . 

  She is young, Glimmer reminds herself, as she often has to, we both are. 

  It's then that Adora's smile falters. She looks away, frowning. Something in Glimmer can tell it's not serious, but she furrows her brow in exaggerated concern. "What's up?" 

  "We're not doing this right." 

  "Huh?" 

  "Hold on," Adora purses her lips, like she's trying to hold in laughter, "I've got this." 

  Glimmer takes a step back as Adora lets her go, watching her with a raised brow. She hadn't realised there was a right or wrong way for girlfriends to dance spontaneously in their room, but Adora seems to be preparing something. She clears her throat, smooths down her tank top and her hair, and then bows with a flourish— so low and dramatic that her nose crinkles as her ponytail flops over her face. 

  She should have seen it coming. 

  "Your Majeeeesty ." Adora extends a hand, drawling the title in a voice several octaves lower than her own. "May I take this dance?" 

  Glimmer rolls her eyes. " No ," she answers, in the firmest, most authoritative, incidentally most queenly voice she can muster, swiftly turning away with a swatting motion, "you may not." Adora tries to reach for her hand and she pulls it from her grasp, folding her arms. "Not til you stop calling me that."

  "Aw, Glimmer ." While Glimmer's not nearly as annoyed as she's playing up, her pout melts alongside the rest of her when Adora's arms slide around her from behind. She sinks back into the embrace, tilting her head to accept the wordless apology that comes as a kiss on the cheek. "Sorry," Adora murmurs, "I'll will stop. Eventually. I just love seeing you get all grumpy and flustered ."

  "I am not grumpy or flustered !" Glimmer insists, feeling an unwelcome heat creeping up her face. But she does turn back around, reaching to cup Adora's cheeks, standing on her tip-toes to give her a proper kiss. "Stop being so irresistible while you're at it," she adds, very lightly papping her cheek, "I can't even stay mad at you." 

  "And I can't stop annoying you, so I guess it works out." Adora grins, giving her a peck on the nose. Glimmer sticks her tongue out childishly in response, but honestly, all she really wants to do is to kiss that smile again. And again, and again, and— "—Aaand I just remembered what I actually woke you up for."

  "You mean that wasn't just to annoy me?" Glimmer gets back on her tiptoes, looping her arms around Adora's neck, drawing herself closer once more. Whatever the reason, unless it's that the Horde have invaded Bright Moon or there's cinnamon buns leftover from breakfast, it can probably wait a kiss or two. "You know I like to sleep in."

  "And you know I won't ever deprive you of your lie-ins unless I have to." Adora traces the tips of her fingers up Glimmer's cheekbone, idly tucking back a few stray strands before letting her hand venture up into her hair. It's still growing out; she can't seem to bring herself to cut it. "I'm not that cruel. It's just that your dad's back, and—" 

  "Huh?" Glimmer blinks, her brain functions momentarily halting. "Already?"

  "Yup, Casta's with him, they wanted to know if—"

  Glimmer's already getting dressed, throwing her shirt over her chair (Adora then folds it up and sets it neatly on the bed— they've previously argued over what Glimmer proclaimed The Laundry Chair, and she's usually tried to be more adherent to Adora's affinity for order and tidiness since then) and opting to follow Adora's lead in dressing down with a simple lilac sundress her mom got her a few years ago, that she hated at the time for reasons she can't remember. Adora comes behind her again as she sifts through the closet for her ballet pumps, placing something in her hair; when she catches herself in the mirror, she sees it's a flower hairpin; a pink hibiscus. She forgot she even had that. 

  What she does remember is the pink hibiscus that 'tied together' Adora's terrible 'totally-not-a-Hordeswoman' disguise. There's not a lot else she can recall about the day they first met, just because it was all so chaotic and nonsensical (which really set the theme for the Best Friend Squad's ensuing adventures, in all honesty). She can remember the hatred , that surge of near-murderous anger shooting up through her veins, upon setting eyes on a girl in Horde uniform. She also remembers just hours later, catching a furtive glimpse of that same girl, with a pink hibiscus in her hair, letting her hardened features soften over in a wistful fascination as she watched the villagers go about their joyously simple lives. She's pretty sure that's the first time she felt a flicker of something for the Horde soldier she was supposed to despise, something that doused that visceral fury and bloomed as something else, something equally fervent. 

  The memory momentarily pulls her from her haste. She can see Adora in her reflection. The warmth of her smile, the light of Glimmer's world. The knowing glint in her eye. She remembers too. 

  She turns to see her in person, taking her hand, tangling their fingers, and kisses her hastily like it's their first, desperately like it's their last. It's neither of those, she just really wanted to kiss her. 

  It's funny, she thinks, how the strings of fate can pull the unlikeliest of people together; how two such people can come to harmonise their tunes, dance together to the same melody. 

  How would Glimmer have reacted, back then, if she'd been told it would work out like this? 

  If she'd known, by this point in time, she would already have a ring picked out?  

[hastyslug21]

Demon Boy of Neverland Pt.2 (Humor, Smut)

Description: Peter is going to visit you in your new home, The Cage.

Demon Boy of Neverland: Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Oh gods!" Y/N grumbled out as she shielded her eyes from the blinding sunlight once more.

A day had passed since Peter Pan had left her trapped, leaving only a cup of water and a bowl of fruit outside of her cage to tide her over through the day.

On her first night in Neverland, Y/N couldn't sleep well; the faraway screeches resounding throughout the jungles surrounding her and the sinister-ness of the night as the full moon glowed brightly in the skies terrified her more than anything she had ever encountered back in the Enchanted Forest.

"Aw, bollocks," Y/N said with a wince as her head and back ached dully.

She looked outside of her cage to see if there were any creeps lurking nearby, and once she found that she was all alone, she started talking to herself.

Of course she wasn't going mad....or anything.

"Damnable Pan. Couldn't have trapped me in a dungeon or a cave. At least there are roofs," she straightened her back with even more audible cracks in her joints. "And proper floors, but noooo. Insufferable swine."

Y/N cracked her neck from side to side as she said," Can't believe I followed that green flat ass of his to Neverland."

At the thought of being trapped against her own will, rage welled up inside of her.

She took it out on her cage and regretted it instantly.

"Blast!," she said, cradling her bruised hand to her bosom.

She next tried kicking at the bars. She tried again and again and again until frustration frothed to the brim like a volcano ready to erupt and wreak havoc to whatever is nearby and so Y/N exploded into a frenzy of kicks and punches against a cage that remained intact despite giving her best blows.

Then, all of a sudden, Y/N froze. She lost all control over her limbs and so she was forced to stare ahead of her, only to see the approach of the demon boy of Neverland.

"Well, well, well. Good morning. Had fun last night? The wailings and screeches of suffering little flamingos and mermaids may put you off at first, but don't worry. Soon, after a century or two in your cage, they'll just be music to your ears, lulling you to sleep and to lovely dreams," Peter greeted Y/N, with a malicious smirk that sent an ice-cold dagger spearing through her heart.

She attempted to make a scowl, but only succeeded in letting in a murderous look glint in her eyes.

Upon seeing her bloodied knuckles and murderous glare, Peter let loose a full blooming of an amused smile upon his damnably radiant face.

"Now, now darling. Look what you've gone and done to your new, shiny cage," Pan gestured towards the blood stains on the cage walls.

He shook his head and exhaled a sigh of disappointment.

"Naughty, little creature. I thought you'd have learned your lesson yesterday and behave, like a good pet ought to. I suppose I shouldn't have expected much."

Peter reached out a hand between the bars of the cage to lightly carress Y/N's jawline; so soft and so sweet were his strokes that Y/N nearly sighed out in pleasure if it weren't for her being paralyzed.

"A wild creature like you needs to be disciplined. Now, how shall I discipline you?," Peter said with a slow drawl that sent a disgustingly hot thrill of excitement throughout Y/N; a thrill that meant how much it sucks to be a hormone-filled adolescent.

Y/N grunted to herself in self-loathing.

'Blast that damnably bone-melting accent to hell and back. Digesting the sight of that damnably green, good-looking demon makes me want to puke. He even dresses up like a Broccoli, a Broccoli that wants to make me it's pet. Oh gods save me from this Broccoli!'

"What was that? I would love to hear for your suggestions on making yourself a good, obedient pet," Pan said, flicking a quick gesture of his hand that allowed Y/N to collapse onto the floor of her cage in relief.

A pause and a moment later, Y/N composed herself as she looked up at Peter's towering figure.

"Muttons are the way of life," Y/N cryptically said with an even more cryptical look in her narrowed eyes, raising a finger to point up at Pan.

"....What?"

"Muttons are the way of life."

"Muttons...are the way ....of life?," Pan carefully repeated, in a flabbergasted tone, with a raised brow and a tilt of the head.

"Yes, demon boy. Now let me out! I, Y/N, am nobody's pet. Let me return to my village of Engleheim. I will never, ever grovel to you for treats or beg for scraps of leftovers from the likes of you," Y/N said, imbuing her last words with as much disgust and slowly crawled backwards away from Peter.

The corner of his lips twitched upwards. He let forth a chuckle that eventually morphed into peals of laughter.

This fit lasted for dozens of seconds, during which time Y/N was crossing her arms, tapping her fingers impatiently and furrowing her brows grumpily.

When his laughing fit ended, Peter inhaled deeply and exhaled out.

"You're much more amusing than I thought you'd be. Oh, well, I'm glad I didn't feed you to the mermaids earlier. I told Felix that I would sacrifice you to them today."

"You bastard!," Y/N yelled angrily, lunging forward to grab ahold of his green garments to forcefully pull him to her, the cage walls acting as a barrier between them.

"Throw me to the mermaids! It's a much more pleasant fate than being trapped here for your pleasure!" Y/N bit out angrily, clenching tightly onto his shirt.

Before Y/N could properly realize it, Pan broke out of her hold, opened the cage and entered. He slammed Y/N down onto the floor of the cage. He pinned both of her wrists down and he straddled her waist, Y/N writhing and squirming beneath him.

Her bosom was heaving with the effort of breaking free. Pan's eyes lingered hotly onto her rising breasts for a time.

Seeing her struggle so futilely yet in such seductive way beneath Peter made him revel in the delicious feeling of making her feel weak.

"Now... being trapped here, beneath me. Is that so bad a fate?" Peter said in a low voice.

His face loomed closer and closer to Y/N's face. Her heart started racing fast; the blood in her veins was rushing hotly and every fiber of her being was fluttering at the closeness of Peter. Heat was starting to throb between her legs.

Peter's red, round lips hovered above Y/N's own plump, pink lips. He hotly pressed his lips onto her own. He grinded his hips onto her own hard so that Y/N gasped, opening her mouth for Peter to plunge in his tongue. His tongue lavished her tongue with lazy sweeps that had Y/N moaning softly.

Y/N tried tugging her wrists free, but Pan broke free of the kiss and grounded harder onto her until she groaned.

"Naughty," Pan whispered into her ear, pinning both of her wrists in one hand.

He moved his other hand and trailed a finger on the side of her breast and over her abdomen until he reached the most heated part of her body that was aching. He cupped her there roughly and she arched her back. He removed his hand and Y/N rolled her hips against the bulge that straddled tightly around her.

Groaning, Peter felt himself hardening and felt heat that instantly made wearing trousers uncomfortable.

"Let's see just how wet you are for me, shall we?," Peter crooned seductively to Y/N, who was writhing restlessly beneath him.

"Oh...please," Y/N moaned aloud.

Peter felt his pupils dilating. He lifted the dirty hem of Y/N's night gown and slowly slid his warm palm up her thigh. In response to that, she spread her legs apart.

Resisting entering her with his hot and throbbing cock, Peter stroked his fingers between the thick, satiny folds of her vulva.

Y/N bucked her hips forward but felt no satisfying thrust.

"Please, in the name of all that is muttony. Please," Y/N breathily moaned.

Unable to resist anymore, Peter removed all of his clothes and revealed the bulge that had Y/N nearly crying for.

He positioned himself between her legs.

"Remove your own clothes, my pet," Peter commanded.

Y/N hastily removed her nightgown but she still had her corset on when Peter ripped off her undergarments and thrusted deep into her with a groan. Y/N felt pain followed by warm pleasure from the hot, throbbing cock moving into her.

Peter held onto both of Y/N's buttocks when he thrusted into her again. Y/N held onto Peter's shoulders tightly as she grounded into him. Unexpectedly, Peter pulled her hair back and pinned her roughly to the floor.

"Bad," Peter hoarsely reprimanded her. He snapped his fingers and her breasts were exposed.

He still held her down by the shoulders when he rode her; he rode into her with painfully hot and satisfying thrusts, with a speed Y/N couldn't match with.

Suddenly he exited her, unfinished.

"I'm-I'm-I'm not finished... Oh, gods," Y/N whimpered out, a glaze of tears in her eyes as she looked up pleadingly at Pan.

"Me neither."

He disappeared and reappeared outside of the cage, fully clothed. Pan locked the cage shut and he snapped his fingers.

Y/N found her wrists tied to one end of the cage. Her body was fully clothed and she was stretched out on the floor in a provocative way and her ankles were tied apart from the other.

"Thank you for your suggestion, mutton pie," Pan said, his red lips curled into a cruel smile. " Leaving you like this would surely teach you a lesson in behaving properly."

"You evil Broccoli," Y/N grounded out bitterly.

Peter was confused for a moment at the word 'Broccoli', but he waved it off as he looked upon her with one last roving glimpse of her body that nearly had him burning to enter her and finish what he started.

"When I come back and I find that you are well behaved, well, maybe then I'll give you your reward, mutton cakes," Pan said, disappearing with a gloating laugh in a cloud of smoke.

Y/N tried rubbing her thighs together to ease her sexual frustration, but to no avail. Her heart swelled within her and her v part was still aching torturously.

Clenching her fists tightly together, she swore aloud: "I will make you pay, demon boy. Just you wait."

TO BE CONTINUUUED

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

A/N: The village of Engleheim is just a village name I made up to suit the story.

P.S: I'm thinking of making this a five or more part story rather than three.

P.P.S: I was not planning on writing smut...at all

P.P.P.S: okay maybe I was but not so soon

P.P.P.P.S: Felix is in the next part.

[fardell24b]

Quinn’s Code - Morgendorffers in the Woods - Conclusion

Quinn’s Code 09: Morgendorffers in the Woods Conclusion

The Morgendorffers were gathered around a fire...

“Then lying there in the darkness, the boy heard a tiny splashing sound. Like waves on a faraway shore. Except, the nearest ocean was a hundred miles away. The boy reached out for his sleeping father... but he was gone. Shaking with fear, the boy stumbled out of the rickety lean-to.”

And that was when he saw it! His father, sitting alone at the campfire. Alone... with a whole case of beer! The selfish old bastard was wasted again.”

 Daria and Quinn stared at their father, bored.

  Later, they stared at their mother, bored.

  “Your turn, Quinn,” Helen said.

 “Finally!” Quinn said.

Quinn's Tale

“In a time not so long ago, there lived this girl...”

 Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

1 April 2004

Kelly Wong logged into her Ultima Online account...

  Ultima Online World

Cove Orc Fort

Kelly's avatar appeared in the game world.

 Nothing was out of the usual for the Cove Orc Fort, absolutely nothing. Kelly had no reason to suspect otherwise. Not yet...

 She met with several of her online friends. One whom she expected to be there wasn't there. “Guys? Where's Neornrzeb?” she asked.

 “No idea,” one said.

 “He said he going to be here.”

 “He isn't.”

 Kelly didn't like this; Neornrzeb was the most dependable member of the group. “We'll wait a few more minutes,” she decided.

 “Sure.”

  They waited for five minutes. “OK, that's long enough,” Kelly decided. “Let's just do this.”

 The others reluctantly agreed. Then something happened. A wind blew up, and the walls of the Fort briefly flickered in and out of existence.

 Kelly jumped out of her seat! “What the hell?” she exclaimed. She sat back down.

“What was that?” One of the others asked.

 “No idea,” another said.

 Kelly calmed down. “It's just a glitch,” she said.

 “Are you sure?” the first asked.

 “Yes!” Kelly said.

 Moving together they began to head towards the exit of the fort.

  Outside the Cave Orc Fort

The avatars exited the Cave Orc Fort instance.

 Immediately they were attacked by large rats.

 That was a problem. For one thing, there were not supposed to be Giant Rats near the Cave Orc Fort.

 “This is not right!” Kelly said. She could see that all of the avatars were losing hit points...

  Within a minute, all the players had been defeated.

  Back in the Cave Orc Fort

The players all respawned.

 “That's not supposed to happen. Those rats were of too high a level,” one said.

 “And there aren't supposed to be giant rats in that area,” Kelly said.

 “Let's try again.”

  Outside the Cave Orc Fort

The avatars exited the Cave Orc Fort instance, again...

 This time the game flickered. Suddenly giant rats appeared again. “Back in the Fort,” Kelly shouted, into the microphone. However, something eldritch appeared alongside the rats.

 Kelly squealed, and closed the client with a quick Alt-F4...

  Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

Kelly was even more afraid. What was going wrong? She was still wearing the headset. “Let's play tomorrow,” she told her friends.

 They all agreed.

Unfortunately as the days passed, more uncanny events occurred each time they attempted to play the game. Each day, each guild member dropped off to play other games, or in a few cases stopped gaming altogether.

Finally Kelly was on her own, and looking for others to join the delapidated guild. However the final thing was so horrifying that she could not sleep either that night, or the next.

  Quinn's Tale ends

“...And so she never played Ultima Online again!”

 “I don't get it. If it's all in a computer, how can it be scary? Other than how computers are scary normally, of course?” Jake asked.

 “It's like a horror movie, only more interactive,” Daria said.

 “Kelly was really into that game...” Quinn said.

 “Ok, Daria, your turn,” Helen said.

  Sunday, February 11, 2006

“Daria, Quinn, get up. I need you. Your father's in a sickening mood.”

 “Are they decent, Helen?”

 “Yes, Jake.”

 Helen backed out and Jake put his head and a branch of berries into the tent. “Up and at 'em, ladies! Time to join the forest morning, already in progress. Breakfast is on Mother Nature. Yum! Meet you around the fire in five minutes!” He went.

 Helen came back. “Please, girls. I'm afraid I may hurt him.”

  Later...

“Was that breakfast great, kiddo?” Jake asked.

 “Actually, uh, I'm not a real berry person, Dad. I sort of didn't eat mine. I'm waiting for lunch,” Daria said.

 “Oh, well, you're gonna love my roasted acorns a la Jake!” He paused. “Can you believe the whole continent used to look like this?”

 “It makes me yearn for the past.”

 They came to a fork in the trail. One side has a sign saying DANGER! TRAIL WASHED OUT . “Look at that, Daria: a fork in the trail. If you go one way, you can't go the other.”

 “This is going to depress me, isn't it?”

 “This way over here leads to an entry-level job. A little bit of money in your pocket. Soon, you're wearing a suit and tie every day like all the other faceless saps, living in a boring little house in a bland little town, and doing so well you're in debt up to your disappearing hair! That's where that trail leads, Daria.”

 “I guess that other trail is the one that leads to personal and spiritual satisfaction. That's why they don't want you to take it.”

 “Dammit, Daria! You're brilliant!” Jake said, as he climbed over the sign. He walked down the closed trail...

 “Wait! It was a joke!”

  Helen and Quinn were behind the other two.

“I wish your father would stay where we can see him.”

 “What's Dad so worked up about, anyway?”

 “Oh, Quinn. It's not easy being an adult.”

 “Is he having a mid life crisis?”

 “That is one way of saying it.Iit's hard for you to understand. You're like a fresh new bud, just on the threshold of opening.”

 “Ewww! Mom! You're not going to talk about puberty, are you?”

 “Quinn, everywhere you look you see doors opening. Everywhere your father looks, he sees doors closing. A long corridor of doors slamming shut, and at the very end, there is one open door he must someday enter... and never may he return. I can't go on. Leave me here.”

 “Mom?” Quinn was worried. Helen's eyes were dilated. “Oh no! I knew that those berries were bad!”

 “Go on, Quinn. You're so young, so beautiful. You should lead the tribe into the new century.”

 “Mom! I'm staying with you!”

 “Now go tell Gray Fox I have given my blessing.” Helen passed out.

 “This is not good! Just as well I didn't eat the berries!” Quinn decided for some drastic action. “Daria!”

  “Dad, I don't think this is a good idea,” Daria said as they continued down the washed out trail.

 “It's not cautious, is it, Daria? It's not the sort of thing a responsible family man would do.”

 “Are you feeling okay? You look kind of pale.”

 “Maybe you think we should go be to camp, huh? You go back to camp, Daria! I'm going to see what... who is down this trail. You hear that, old man? I don't care what happens to me Daria! I'm past feeling pain.” He ran into a tree. “Ow! Dammit!”

 They then heard Quinn calling.

 “Come on, Dad. Quinn needs us.”

  “Quinn? What's wrong with Mom?”

 “She ate those berries! She was hallucinating and now she's unconscious. I can't rouse her!”

 “This is serious!” Daria agreed.

 “Helen?”

 Helen then stirred. “Wha...? Oh! Jake, honey, you had us a little worried.”

 “You had us worried, Mom,” Quinn said.

 “No, honey, the tide! I was saying we ought to set sail while the tide's still high.”

 “Oh no!” Quinn said. “What ever was wrong with her Mom before, was still in her system.

 “Sure! If we try to sail at low tide and ran aground, we'd be sitting ducks for Captain Cutless' men,” Jake said. His eyes were just as dialated as those of his wife... “I don't know about you, but I don't want to be skinned alive and thrown to the sharks, right girls? Come on, let's go gather some provisions!”

 “What are we to do? We have no means of contacting the outside world!” Quinn said. She collapsed to her knees, clasped her hands to her chest, and looked up with a pleading expression. “Whatever, or whoever is there. Please help!”

 “Quinn?” However before Daria could interupt Quinn's prayer she could hear Helen's dialtone coming from somewhere. “Rely on Mother's hypocrisy to see us through this crisis.” She found the phone and answered it.

 “Helen, do you have a few minutes to go over these depositions?” It was her boss, Eric Schector.

 “She'll have to call you back.” She dialed 911.

 “Thank goodness!” Quinn said as she got up.

  Later, after a helicopter rescue and Helen and Jake having their stomachs pumped the Morgendorffers were home again.

 On a whim, Daria called Jane. “Yol”

 “What are you doing home?”

 “What are you?”

 “My parents went crazy from eating psychotropic berries, so we were evacuated from the woods and they had their stomachs pumped.”

 “Wow, that's cool. My family was already crazy without any berries, so Trent and I evacuated ourselves to the airport in my aunt's rental car and flew the hell out of there.”

 “Oh. Well, anything else new?”

 “Nah. You?”

 “Nah.”

  Shortly afterwards, Quinn called Cindy. “Hi, Quinn. How was the trip?”

 “Terrible! My parents ate these weird berries, and they ended up having their stomach's pumped!”

 “That's not good. Who's stupid enough to just eat any berries that they find?”

 “My Dad, it seems,” Quinn answered.

 “I hope he learned his lesson.”

 “I hope so, I don't want to lose him. And it cost sixteen thousand dollars for the helicopter ride!”

 “That's exorbitant!”

 “I know!”