#twisted metal black was the best one and also the only one i played

[mixedmediareviewspodcast]

I'm not saying Twisted Metal is the best tv show adaptation of a video game. But I'm also not, not saying that. You know?

[acid-ixx]

brutus: out for blood (villain au concept)

ft. neglectful yandere! bruce wayne x gn villain! reader

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: did anybody ask for this? no! did i decide to write this anyways? abso -fucking-lutely. is this a rantfic? mayybee. anyways, this is not my best piece nor will anything i write be my best piece but i just love destroying my happiness with angst and altho writing a very anxiety ridden mc is fun, i also love to dabble in sadomasochistic traits for a main character. like i said, i am not proud of this but i figured i should post something. erm... leave comments bec i love reading whatever stuff u guys have in store hehe.

you've tasted blood on your tongue far longer than you've felt the loving touch of a family.

it's metallic. it's salty. it twists every vein in your gut.

it tastes of broken metal pipes in playgrounds, destructive tantrums and broken dreams, of skipped classes and detention rooms, of ripped test papers and missed diplomas. it reminds you of your bitter past every single time; one you swore you've buried six feet deep into the ground. a burning memory with nothing more than heartaches and heartbreaks.

you taste blood whenever they reject your advances for even a single moment of bonding time. you feel it pumping slowly, steadily, painfully whenever you stumble upon a room, only to see them, smiles and all, huddled together in a group with junk food in their hands and a movie playing in that stupid flat screen tv. you know it's the only thing accompanying you whenever he misses another event in your school. it becomes the only friend you have whenever you're alone, inside your too-small room, with shatters glass scattered around and bruised knuckles.

blood, for most, is vile, utterly repulsive. it reeks in every corner of a room, its scent is overpowering, it stains, it's hard to clean. it imprints. and it will always remind you it's there, in the depths of your body, curdling and boiling and ready to burst out of the seems every time you rip at your skin with a razor sharp blade. blood has always been your only friend, like a scar that will never fade away.

yet you embrace crimson like it was the color of your soul, and accept how it's the only color you allow in your grim life. black has never provided you solace, but red allowed for a mantra of emotions to trail into your very being.

blood. it's more homely than you let it out to be.

and you're far more familiar with it than anything else. you cradle it like an unwanted child, you kiss its wounds, allow it to fester and grow into an abhorrent disease that crawls like a lump in your throat that you could never get rid of.

in moments of solace, of quaint prayers and hours of kneeling into the floor— it is the thing that slides on cold, hard tiles. it is the warmth, the numbness, the thing that seeps out of your bruised knees, your scratched neck and your thighs with fingernails buried deep into flesh.

you've come to love blood, cherish it even.

especially if it's your own.

especially if it came from the punch of none other than your father.

left, right, left, right.

his punches were cruel and his kicks can easily crush bones into powder. he demands answers with every strike he delivers, he exudes an energy far more adrenaline based than yours. batman is methodical in the way he moves, the way he acts, and you're not; you're impulsive, you had no plans to counter the towering man— no counter for the brutal hits he lay upon you. you let him, you open every doorway world to beat your body black and blue, with red painting the canvas as a finishing touch.

he's stronger than you, and every time he bashes your head into the wall, the urge to spit into his face, to piss him off, to laugh at him and his Idiocracy; it all becomes stronger.

yet all you do was allow him multiple openings, denying yourself the pleasure of attempting to even take your abandoned gun at the corner and shoot at his cranium— you want him to suffer, even if it costs you your mobility by the near future, fuck it.

up, down, to the side, then an uppercut to your jaw and you're nearly depleted of anymore moves to counter. you want to seem like you've given up; but you want him pissed off, enough to punch you 'til blood seeps into the fibers of your mask. until your face starts bruising, until your nose breaks, until he finally rips your mask off and sees your face.

and he'll come to regret.

you shift to the side, and ignore the sting of your throat, the lull of your head and the soreness of your entire body.

because if you hadn't dodged, then your head would've left an imprint on the walls. you would've preferred that now, rather than the disgusting feeling of sentimentality that creeps into your heart at the implication that his blows were slowly, but surely, weakening.

he's holding back, you hold back a sneer.

as if he actually cares about you.

maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. you know he cares far more deeply for his enemies than he does you, and you hate how glad you are at the pride that finally, just finally are you being acknowledged. at the opposite end of his side, as enemies. but for once you can feel the care he offers others, most of which were nonexistent back when you were just some... nobody.

batman never kills; but he can hurt, he can injure, and he can destroy. and right now, you feel all the air leaving your body as the cloaked vigilante delivers the last punch to your ribcage.

you fall, on your hands and knees, a loud thump resounding through the empty abandoned building. all you hear are your crackling joints, and heavy breathing. heavy, like your eyelids, about to fall, about to shut until black encompasses your vision. if not for the remaining adrenaline coursing through your veins, you would've fainted— but you won't, you wouldn't, not until you see him, see his face.

the thumping in your heart beats louder, and your hands. god, they feel like jelly, it's burning, it's one step closer on collapsing under gravelly concrete and piercing skin into rocks. yet you're forbidden any time for grace, not when he lightly shoves you out of your position, and not when you fall to your sides, hands paralyzed, tears prickling against your cheeks at the pain that burns throughout your body.

"you don't deserve peace after shooting that family in front of that child, you know it."

his voice, domineering, absolutely fucking vibrating with a tremor of sheer anger. he directs his words at you, without empathy, without mercy. he wants you to learn to never mess with him in the streets of gotham. but you'll never... not until he notices you. fuck, you just want him to notice you. and now, he is, with utter vexation that causes a lump in your throat to form.

shit, you've never felt so happy.

it's when his tussled form — heavy, pitch-black boots slathered with crimson liquid — enters your sight that you cough, violently, out of breath, and you can feel it one second, then taste it in your tongue the next.

blood.

you grin, and slowly, ever-so eminently, did you spiral into a cackle. your throat gurgles crimson liquid, and yet it only builds into a cacophony of a broken record. you move your head, look through your nearly shredded domino mask, with so little strength to accompany you, to look at the man above you, eyes glinting with a glow never so alive until now.

you're genuinely so fucking happy.

batman, he who strikes fear into the hearts of gotham villains and civilians alike. he who protects the city at night. he whose name is said with wavering uncertainty— he's looking at you, only you.

'bruce wayne: my dad— is finally looking at me.'

and you! you're laughing, the sounds that emanate from your throat are so scratchy, so utterly decimated that it sounds like vultures feeding through a dead corpse; but you don't let your chuckles die down, because you're so, so happy.

he looks at you, with contempt, with disgust, you don't know; but you're still so overjoyed.

"y-yeah... it's me, i did it. are you proud of me...?" you ask as you look up, through the tears that flow out your eyes, through the grin that couldn't die down. he looks at you like you're insane, and you know he's confused, shifting uncomfortably as he gives someone a status update through the comms, his eyes never leaving your pathetic form—

you look at him like he means the world all throughout.

"call for red robin, i have one of the culprits," he orders through the intangible device, eyes squinting as he takes you in— you whose chuckles slowly calmed down, as your breathing finally becomes heavier, as blood, yours, seem to seep into clumsily made apparel. you, who bruce realized seem too oddly familiar, too small, too childish, whose moment of spiraling insanity is too damn innocent to ignore.

you're not like the typical rogue he encounters, no. and right before you finally allow sleep to overcome you, you muster the last of your energy, to stare back at him with shining eyes, expectant, and like a child's, you ask with the meekest voice.

"hey... dad, i have a surprise." scratchy, absolutely broken, yet spilling with joy, with... your last word right before you continue, bruce's heart thumps ever the slightest faster.

"take my mask off, please?"

crimson began to overtake your entire body, and bruce should've never complied with your... request, but as he kneels and finally gets a grasp of what you truly look like, he notices the frailness, the vulnerability, as if you were never built for... combat. with just how quickly you succumb to the depths of rest, with how oblivious you are to the fact that if it were anyone else, they would've killed you.

you're not properly trained, you fight out of impulse, and he knows it with just how swift you gave up midfight.

when he pulls the domino mask (which seems oddly inspired by the shape of... his vigilante partners, the robins...) off your face, did his heart finally hastened its pace, loud thumping crawling its way to his ears, his eyes registering your face: its form, its shape, your eyes, your nose—

all similar to his, all an amalgamation of your mother's, too.

no... wait, no.

it's not...

it's not his... child?

you?

your eyes, flickering one last time stared at him, softly, like that of a child who looks at their father with pride like nothing else. your hand, it shakes, it shivers, as your fingers find its way creeping to his hand, holding your mask. fingers so dainty, now pulverized bones lay atop his shivering hand, tenderly, as if trying to comfort the very same man who has nearly killed you.

batman— no, bruce looks at you. at what he's done, and only now did he realize his greatest mistake. a child, his child, one whose innocence retained through heinous acts, now a villain, whose actions were all a testimony to merely wanting their father's attention.

he failed you, his child. he failed to protect you, who he has never held up close until now— as your body is hastily taken into his arms. so small, so easily wrapped around his body, so unbefitting of committing criminal activity. now bloodied and laid into barren ground by their very own father.

bruce wayne never felt this much terror, for nearly killing his child.

this, this day marks his sin.

and you? dearest you feel like today is your greatest day.

crimson, nearly every part of you is stained with that putrid color.

yet blood has always been your best friend, no? and right now as you bleed into the arms of your father, you find yourself grateful that it is the last thing you see before a black cloak wraps around you, before black fills your entire line of sight.

short rant ahead: another author's note??? wow. yeah this was such a hard drabble to write. plsplspls leave a comment or some sort of input. anything will do. ive been so demotivated to write lately and i feel like anything i write is just, so bad 😭 like is my pacing good? are the emotions out of place? am i even doing this right ?? i don't know, and i feel like every time i post something i always put up expectations on myself that I should've done better so yeahh. is this attention seeking behavior? probably. but i don't get how people have come to like the stuff i write when i hate whatever i write hence why im in a constant cycle of hiatuses and short breaks. and really, it's just so hard to come into terms with things and i need input lest i accidentally get into a year or two of hiatus, lmaoo.

[hetalian-veteran]

Hetalia Sleep Headcanons

Here, have my headcanons about how the Hetalia characters sleep because I'm still awake at this ungodly hour of the night.

🇮🇹Italy needs to cling to something to sleep well. Whether it be a pillow, a plushie, or another person, the poor guy needs something or someone there to cuddle.

🇩🇪Germany has really bad insomnia and can only get at most four or five hours of sleep a night, and that's if he's lucky. But when he does sleep, he probably sleeps on his back, still as the grave.

🇯🇵Japan also sleeps on his back and is so still and quiet that every now and then, someone comes by to check and see if he really is asleep and not dead.

🇮🇹Romano sleeps on his side with his arms sort of stretched outward, almost as if he's reaching for someone. That, or he's dreaming of beating someone up. You know, one or the other.

⚔️Prussia will lay down on his back and fall asleep that way. However, he's the kind of guy who moves around a lot in his sleep. So when he wakes up, he's sort of on his face and stretched out like a starfish.

🇪🇸Spain sleeps like a freaking baby and gets a full nine hours every night. Lucky son of a gun.

🇬🇧England has a pretty hard time quieting his mind down enough to get to sleep. So he spends his nights slowly sipping on a cup of tea to try and calm himself down enough to get some shut-eye.

🇺🇸America moves around, twists, and rolls over so often in his sleep that when he wakes up, he typically finds himself tangled up in his blankets. Sometimes, he accidentally rolls out of bed.

🇫🇷France can only sleep if the room is completely dark. Like, pitch black. He also sleeps on his side and sometimes hums a little in his sleep.

🇨🇳China has insomnia pretty bad and, as a result, will often find himself staying up at night drinking tea. When he can sleep, however, he sort of curls up into a ball under the covers.

🇷🇺Russia sleeps on his back and stays in that position the entire night. Sometimes giggles and smiles a little in his sleep.

🇨🇦Canada needs several layers of heavy blankets to sleep, as well as something or someone to cuddle.

🇩🇰Denmark sleeps on his side and has sometimes been heard singing in his sleep, though nobody has been able to make out what exactly he's singing. He also occasionally snores.

🇸🇪Sweden usually falls asleep whilst looking through Ikea catalogs. They seem to really help calm his mind.

🇫🇮Finland often smiles while he sleeps, sometimes even giggling a little every now and again. He also sleeps best when listening to some of the most intense, heavy metal you've ever heard.

🇳🇴Norway plays white noise and curls up into a ball under a couple of layers of thick, heavy blankets. He probably hugs a pillow, thinking of the days when Iceland used to call him big brother as a little kid.

🇮🇸Iceland can only get to sleep in total darkness and in total silence. He's also a light sleeper, so anybody walking around the room will immediately wake him up.

🇭🇺Hungary sleeps like an actual normal person. I really don't know how else to describe it. Though she has been heard saying some pretty weird crap in her sleep before.

🇦🇹Austria sleeps best if he has soft classical music playing. Unfortunately for him, Prussia hacked into his playlist and threw in some of Finland's heavy metal songs.

🇱🇮Liechtenstein is a fairly light sleeper. She's also afraid of the dark, so she typically has a nightlight somewhere in her room.

🇨🇭Switzerland is also another character with insomnia. This is because he is low-key paranoid about making sure the entire house is locked up before he goes to bed at night. He wants to make sure he and Liechtenstein are safe.

[pursuitseternal]

Can I get “Do your worst” for Ascended Astarion x f!tav please? Bonus points if you can get some bdsm in there 🥵

“Do your worst…”

Also now published as: “Choke Me” update for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x f!Reader | Smut Ask fill

CW: BDSM, collar and leash, breath play, choking, spanking, Elven erogenous zones

It started after dinner, you decided to spend your evening in the library tonight, a roaring fire in the grate and books pressed to your faces. Lounging on top of one another on the couch, you stroke his soft silver curls as he rests his head in your lap.

You can feel his warmth through your thin silk skirt, his fingers tracing the seams of your skirt. His book rests in his hands, propped up on his belly, his back resting between the length of your extended legs.

If you close your eyes and ignore the fact your heart barely beats and your skin is corpse cold, it’s almost as if you’re back in the camp on those long, star-kissed nights. Just you… and your Rogue, curled by the fire in the comfort of his tent.

Every soft ambient sound is identical, the crackle of the fire, the whisper of pages as they turn, the soft wash of breath as he sighs and settles tighter against you.

For that moment, you forget that he is your Sire, the Vampire Ascendant.

You swallow, your throat pulsing against his latest gift, a tight fitting necklace that hugs every sinew of your neck. Black velvet ribbon and shining mithral chains. Costly. Precious. And dear.

Just like you, Astarion had said as he closed it around your neck, adjusting that encrusted ring between the chains just so…

Your fingers fidget with those chains now, the sharp, small metallic sounds making Astarion’s pointy ears twitch. “Enjoying your newest gift, little love?” he purrs, eyes still scanning the page of his book.

But somehow you can feel every tendon and sinew in his body coiling, readying to pounce.

“It’s elegant,” you reply, slipping a finger beneath the heavy chains. “But it is a bit tight.”

“Just tight enough to remind you,” he trails off, eyes flashing their crimson gaze towards you, upside down, before turning back to his page.

“Remind me of what?” you ask, almost absentmindedly, your eyes focused on the next few lines of your novel. You raise its soft little cover up in one hand, the plot thickens the more you read… and you can sense a nice smut scene about to unfold on your pages…

You didn’t hear his low voice through the cover…. Until he clears his throat with a noise, almost a snarl. An unamused one.

“Oh, my darling, please don’t tell me you’re ignoring me for some… fictional romance,” his voice whines in silken tones to shroud his suspicion.

Your heart leaps into your throat as he snaps his book shut. Pale fingers curl over the top of your novel as Astarion pulls it, revealing your now blushing face. White hot shame at being caught colors even your undead complexion.

You look down at him, his face upside down as he lies nestled in your skirts. From this angle, his smile is uncanny, that sly fang-glinting smirk that instantly makes you wet. And by the way his nostrils flare, he can scent it already.

It only makes that insufferable grin twist all the more rakish.

Deft fingers pry your smutty novel from your eager hands, setting it on the expanse of his belly. “I said…” he begins, that tone already low and threatening in the best possible way, “your necklace… your collar is to remind you to whom you belong, my treasure.” He frowns, pouting, at least you think he does, it’s disorienting to look at him topsy turvy on your lap. “Tch, not off to a great or convincing start, little love.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your book… only to have his fingers snap shut around your wrist. He keeps you there, hand suspended in one grip. His other hand reaches slowly to stroke the sensitive flesh of your neck, teasing and dipping beneath the soft ribbon and hard links of your necklace.

Your collar, he called it.

“Ah, ah,” he mocks in that chiding tone. “You haven’t earned your little escapism back yet. You might not ever,” he warns. “You think I’m happy letting your mind dwell on some dashing hero that lives on a page?” He pouts his thick lips before he licks them. “Are my words not enough for you?”

You blush, staring at him teasing at you from the middle of your silken skirts.

“Your blush betrays you, little love,” he purrs. “Seems you need reminding that what you have with me will satisfy you better than any man in your mind.”

“I don’t know,” you can’t help but tease back, “I have a very vivid imagina—”

That last word is swallowed as his fingers find the ring in your necklace and pull.

Hells… that tight little necklace locks around your throat, a steely caress of velvet and precious metal that makes your slow undead pulse pound in your ears. You gasp for air you don’t need, panic setting in regardless.

Astarion gives that low, wicked, rolling chuckle. “Should we test my imagination, darling?” he croons, pulling your collar just a smidge tighter as he sits up. He towers over you, pinning your thighs beneath his legs as he straddles you. “All that reading… I hope you can keep up with what I have planned for you in reality,” he taunts, tugging on your collar on the last word.

Your stomach blazes with need, hot desire running through your veins at breakneck speed. Even though you technically don’t need to breathe, your eyes are wide with the thrill of being controlled, your lungs burn at the foreign sensation of being stifled so thoroughly.

He pulls you by your collar, stopping only once your nose presses against his. That paper bound novel of yours in his hand, he waves it next to your head, pinching its offending existence between his fingers. “Perhaps we can repurpose this as a part of your reminder?”

“Hmm,” you feel bold, invincible, now that you have settled into the dull ache of pain and let it inspire you, making your hungry nerves crave more. “Do your worst…”

“Oh you know me, my treasure,” he growls, lips pressed into your ear, fangs scoring on your neck, “I only give you my very best.”

His rumbling laugh, low in his belly, inundates your senses. Yanking you by your collar, you gulp and gag at the force. Eyes shut from the pain, you slowly realize he’s laid you out over the couch’s arm. Vauguely something metallic clicks behind your head, and it’s only after he pulls you taut, bending you back by your collar do you realize he’s attached something to that ring.

A leash, a simple chain of matching shining bright metal he’s still fishing entirely out of his pocket. The links jingle merrily, your only warning before he pulls it tight. “My pretty consort,” he purrs, “I don’t like to see worry cast so on your face. Fear not,” his warm touch lifts your skirts up to bare your ass, “you are mine.”

The metal tugs your head to the side as he bends down, reverencing your ass cheeks with a few blunt-toothed kisses. Nothing to break the skin. Just enough to make you sigh some strangled moans.

Warm, dexterous digits slide their way beneath the gusset of your underwear to tease out that slick he’s been smelling. “Mmmm,” he purrs, “I hope this is all for me and not from that filthy smut you’ve been indulging in without me.” You hear it, that wet slick of his fingers crooking inside you, aiming for that spot that makes your thighs tremble instantly.

“Now, pet,” he sniggers at the moniker, easing your leash to give it a waggle. Just for effect. “Let’s repurpose this novel of yours. After all, if you can find enjoyment in its pages, perhaps I can too…” He tests the weight of it in his grip, the other hand pulling you by your leash and collar to make you strain upwards just slightly. “You asked for my worst, but you are only worthy of my best, darling…”

Smack. Your body jolts, pain-pleasure racing up your spine as the book connects with your rear. A little moaned grunt slips from your lips.

“What was that, my dear? Good enough for you?” he purrs, rubbing the reddening mark on your backside.

You hang your head, laughing breathlessly. “If I said no…” you leave the question unfinished.

He gives a little growl of disapproval, arm swinging back to land your little novel square on the other cheek. Harder this time, you yelp as your body lurches forward.

A smooth tug on your leash guides your face next to his, your lithe back bending as he whispers in your ear. The wash of his warm breath tickles. “Now, little love, good enough at last? Or does the man on these pages still hold sway?”

Leaning against his mouth you sigh, “It’s very good, but I think I’m missing something. My void is aching to be filled… I feel desperate with wanton need… pulsing, throbbing, leaking…”

“Hells below, my dear, is this the kind of drivel you’re consuming?” He chides you as he tosses the book down on the couch. “Well, if you’re wanton hole needs serving, I’d be a cad not to comply. No fictional man will get the better of me,” he chuckles.

You hear it, feel it. His free hand easing his trousers open enough for his cock to spring free. Your hands brace on the arm of the couch, your clothing too tight. You curse that silk on your torso, the bodice that pinches your breasts and irritates your skin.

Only your legs and ass are bare, free for his touch and his tongue. Warm breath washes over your cunt first, and you know he’s pulling out all his tricks to impress you, to distract you from your smutty little novel. Fingers tease at your clit, his skilled tongue lapping in and out of your channel, while you let out a string of colorful curses and florid language.

His laughter vibrates into your cunt, wetness dripping down your thigh. Spit… slick… you can’t tell any longer what’s seeping as his tongue fucks in and out, in perfect rhythm with his fingers as they circle your bud.

Heat coils in your belly, flooding your muscles with ungodly fire and need. Close, so close, you pant as just the right teasing pressure grazes your clit….

…until it all disappears. You scream in frustration. Your hips buck and grind into nothing

Hirrrk… you gag and groan at once as he pulls you by that jingling leash until you land, splayed on your back. Satisfied as you catch your breath he grins at you. You are a mess across the couch. A small mercy, he lets go of your leash and tosses those metal links to rest beside you. “Be a good pet,” he purrs, “and spread those legs for me again….” He cages you in, a wicked smile and arching brows as he hovers over you. “Unless you’d rather enjoy your… fictional pleasures?”

His finger slips inside your necklace, easing the chain apart as he settles comfortably between your thighs. Finally you can swallow and take a deep gulp of air. The relief on your face makes him leer, capturing your softly smiling lips in a kiss. He’s tender and slow, the warm tip of his tongue tracing your lips. As you part them, you taste the tang of your own slick. A hum escapes your throat, and you match the daring darts of this tongue with your own. Your hunger for him eagerly rises, hands pulling on the soft velvet of his breeches, gripping the backs of his thighs to bring him closer.

To guide his cock where you are aching for him.

“You haven’t even asked me once what I was reading about,” you rasp, taunting him with a mischievous tone. “You didn’t even notice its main hero is an elf…”

Those silver brows twist, canting in all their rakish glory. “Is that so?” he purrs, grinding the long shaft of his cock up and down your seam. “Was my little love being a quick study? Care to share your…”

Your fingers brush the shells of his ears, both at once. His cock twitches so hard between you, you can feel the precum leaking onto your belly.

“Hells,” he groans. But you’re not done. One hand at the back of his head, you turn him quickly, taking that soft flesh of his earlobe and sucking it loudly between your smirking lips.

The whimper from his mouth is divine, the shudders that race down his spine ripple in time with the jerks of his cock again.

Quickly, you slot him inside you, eliciting the loudest snarl from him you have ever heard. His hips move quickly, snapping into you, already so close to his release. “Godsdammit, darling,” he hisses even as you keep your lips tracing the shell of his ear. “I’m the one who should be…”

You suckle the soft curve of his ear again, nibbling your way to the tip. The faintest brush of your tongue on his precious, pointy ear has him shuddering and slamming into you with erratic abandon. “I… can’t…” he pants, breathing through his fangs clenched tightly. With one last curse on his own choking breath, he thrusts home, warm cum spurting deep inside you as he convulses and crushes you, the throbbing of his cock in your walls enough to throw you into your own orgasmic oblivion.

Pleasure tears through you, blistering hot as every muscle goes taut. Shaking, panting, you grip around his head, careful not to bite his ear in your fangs.

With one final graze of your teeth on his fleshy earlobe, you relax. You feel him shiver and swallow one last exhausted whimper as he lays all his weight on you.

A few breaths, and all is again as it once was—a warm, post-coital embrace. Wet. Hot. And wordlessly brimming with love.

Something prods at your hip beneath you, and fetching it, you realize it’s your novel. Reaching around his mussy curls, you find your page, fully aware that he’s still hard and seated deep inside you.

He makes no complaint now as you pick up right where you left off. Only his breathing grows steady, his head nuzzling into your neck as his fingers trace the fine metal of your collar. He mumbles something into the hollow of your throat. “What was that?” you reply, as if this was the most mundane evening in existence.

His voice is slurred, worn out from the intensity of his pleasure, and it makes you grin as he rasps, “You certainly did your worst, my darling, and I loved it…”

[cognacdelights]

play wicked games, win wicked prizes [2]

gif by @spacedean.

my supernatural masterlist

play wicked games, win wicked prizes [1]

summary: she craves male validation. he's the best high she's ever gotten. now they're both stuck in a sick and twisted game of foreplay that neither are willing to lose.

warnings: a whole fuck tonne of daddy issues. self-esteem issues. abandonment issues. i am well aware that this is not a healthy relationship and is for entertainment purposes only. sexual content and themes. praise kink. mentions of death and grief. swearing. alcohol use. religious undertones. small age gap romance.

author's note: sorry that it took so long to post. i had a few issues. but we're here. also, i got carried away. it's now going to be in three parts, but i promise that the final part will be worth the wait. minors have been warned. do not interact.

Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel out of boredom. His heavy metal mixtape filled the background as he watched carefully out the windscreen, observing the world before him. He was always watching. Scrutinising. That’s how he managed to stay ten steps ahead — by knowing his environment, noticing when the tiniest of details were off. His eyes scoured every inch of the scene that unfolded in front of him, followed people and their every movement, and noticed every little detail.

The faint smell of chlorine hung in the late-spring air and smoke-like clouds loomed in the distance; there was a flash thunderstorm brewing nearby. The bearded barista’s apron pocket was stuffed full of dollar bills, yet in the six hours that he had been parked there he’d only seen six or seven customers wander inside the upmarket coffee house — and one of them was Sam; he was most likely stealing from the cash register. Short-changing customers and pocketing the difference. And the cops were clearly rattled by the deaths at the boarding school; three patrol cars had cruised past in the last thirty minutes, and there were extra patrols on foot. They were on high alert.

The door to the Impala opened, and Dean instinctively whipped his head towards the passenger side. His malachite eyes found Maggie — dressed in a modest, high-neck blouse and a long, flowing skirt that grazed her ankles. Her dark locks were neatly braided into a sensible bun at the nape of her neck, and a natural layer of make-up cleverly hid the garish welt that stained her cheek. She looked positively prudent. Respectable, even. He almost didn’t recognise her.

“Nice get up,” he teased, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards into a half-smirk as he turned the music down.

Maggie responded with a tight-lipped, sardonic smile — then flipped him her middle finger — as she climbed into the passenger side. She reached into the depths of her leather purse and retrieved two matching pieces of cloth; they were tied neatly into parcels and wreaked of flower-like herbs. She threw them carelessly towards Dean as the door slammed shut behind her.

“Hex bags?” Dean raised an untamed eyebrow. He curiously untied the leather string that held the cloth together and peered inside at the contents. Rabbit’s teeth, bird bones, and lavender.

“Hex bags,” the feisty brunette confirmed. Her fingers found the clear buttons of her blouse and swiftly began unbuttoning — the high-necked garment uncomfortable and suffocating around her throat. “Matching, best friend hex bags. I found them in both their dorm rooms.” Oh, the irony of a witch in a Catholic boarding school.

Dragging his tongue along the dry ridges of his bottom lip as his gaze followed her quick-moving fingers, he watched in anticipation as she exposed her chest to him once again without any hint of hesitation. As the black, lace fringes of her bralette were exposed he cleared his throat and diverted his attention back to the contents of the hex bags. “So, uh—” he twiddled with the bird bones, fighting the urge to take her half-naked body in once again, “—that’s great. We just find the jealous third wheel and case closed.”  

“If only it was that easy.” Maggie ridded herself of the god-awful, itchy blouse. She clumsily kicked off the kitten heels that had rubbed her heels to glory and pushed the waistband of the skirt down her thighs. “Missy Braun was a resident Regina George, and Imogan was her Gretchen Weiners.”

Dean peered towards her out of the corner of his eyes and simply blinked; Maggie may as well have been speaking a foreign language.

Rolling her umber eyes at his lack of pop culture knowledge, she explained, “Missy and Imogen terrorised the school.” Her long, pleated skirt fell into a crumpled pile in the footwell and was soon joined by her tan-coloured tights. “There are about three-hundred potential Sabrina the Teenage Witch’s on roll that those girls have humiliated in some kind of way, and we only have two days to find her. They’re shipping them all back to Mommy and Daddy for an early summer vacation come Friday.”

“Looks like we got some work to do,” he mused in his usual, sarcastic tone. It was then that he caught sight of her in the rear-view mirror — round ass shamelessly in the air and covered only by the thin string of her thong as she leant over the seat, reaching for her clothes in the backseat. Jesus Christ, she really was going to be the death of him. He adjusted himself in his seat, finding a more comfortable position that kept his semi-erection a secret.

“Where’s Sam?” she questioned casually. Maggie had noticed the empty coffee cup that had his name and order scrawled across the side, discarded in the cup holder, and the noticeable lack of his presence. There was an unmentioned tension that hung in the air between them; it surrounded them, holding them in a tight coil and squeezing until the pressure overflowed in way of a petty sibling squabble. Even though Maggie had grown up with the Winchester Brothers, their bickering still drove her to the point of insanity.

“Gone for a walk.”

“Okay—” she twisted her half-naked body back around and slid into a sitting position, t-shirt and shorts in hand, and asked directly, “—what the hell is going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” Dean deflected, folding his arms across his muscular chest in an obvious display of defence, “we’re fine.”

Maggie sent him an unrelenting glare. One that Dean was no match for. He broke instantly with a long exhale and threw his head back against the leather seat.

He was quiet for a second longer, formulating the words in his mind. “He shacked up with Amelia when I was in purgatory,” Dean admitted with a careful choice of words — cleverly calculated to keep his deepest and darkest emotions from surfacing.

“I know.” That was all she said. I know. It was tactical really. She knew Dean Winchester far too well. In fact, she knew the man better than he knew himself, and this was one of his best self-defence tactics. Give just about enough to satisfy them without giving anything away at all. Keep everybody at a distance so when you give an inch, they’ll think it’s a mile. But that didn’t wash with Maggie. Maggie knew better. Maggie used the same damn tactics herself.

She merely shimmied a pair of ripped, denim shorts up her thighs.

It took several moments of an awkward silence before Dean broke once more. “So—” he reluctantly delved further, “—instead of looking for me, he was holed up in a motel room doing the horizontal line dance with Florence Nightingale.”

“First of all—” Maggie pulled a t-shirt that he distinctly recognised as being one of his own over her head, “—Florence Nightingale was a human nurse, not a dog nurse. You’re thinking of Dr Doolittle.” She tied the hem at her abdomen into a crop. “And secondly, I know.”

“If you know all of this, then why are you asking me what’s going on?” His head swivelled to face her abruptly in frustration.

“Because you’re being an asshole, and you’re fobbing me off with some bullshit excuse to shut me up,” she answered, casually shrugging her shoulders. Tugging at the elastic in her hair, she released the braided bun and combed her fingers through her long, sleek locks. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Dean.”

He threw his head back against the seat once more, rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. A loud, defeated groan echoed throughout the Impala; this was the last conversation he wanted to have with a half-mast hard on. “Can we just drop this already?”

Of course, in true Maggie May fashion, she ignored his very obvious pleas to leave this subject well alone. “You’re hurt that he didn’t come looking for you, aren’t you?” she spit-balled her thoughts on the situation, “you’re upset that he moved on without you.”

Dean sent her a look. It was one that she couldn’t quite interpret. A cocktail of emotions swirled around his tired eyes as they glazed over ever so subtly. His stubble-lined lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke, voice considerably timid. “I wouldn’t have stopped until I’d gotten Sam back if he was the one stuck in purgatory.”

“Dean—” her whole demeanour shifted, softened, as she scooted closer to him. Her arm rested atop the back of the seat and her body twisted towards him, her legs haphazardly hanging over his. “There’s a few things that you need to remember here. Sam isn’t you. Your childhood was a lot different to Sam’s. You were raised to protect him at all costs — hell, you raised him yourself. You weren’t just his brother. You were Mom and Dad too. Yeah, Sam was taught family above everything, but he didn’t have the responsibility of someone else’s life in his hands.”

He watched cautiously as she leant forwards, the gentle palm of her hand resting on his shoulder. It was such a simple gesture, but the warmth of her touch comforted him immensely. “It just—” he really did struggle with emotions, even if it was easier with Maggie, “—feels like a punch in the gut.”

“You know, deep down, that Sam never wanted this life. He went to Stanford. He applied to law school. He wanted to be a lawyer, and get married, and buy a house with a white picket fence, and have two point five kids. The whole shebang. He wanted a normal life. And Sam grieved in the same way that a normal person would. He put you to rest and built a new life for himself, and he just so happened to find someone that he really cares about in the process. I might not like her, or agree with what he did, but I understand why he did it. He made a normal life for himself.”

Gradually, he melted into her delicate touch; he found solace in her words and the strokes of her fingers against his skin. He knew that what she was saying made sense, and he knew that she was right, but it didn’t curb the anguish that consumed the very pit of his stomach.

“Sam loves you very much Dean, and he idolises you. Hell, that’s probably why he left this woman that he loves to jump back into a life that he doesn’t want. To be with his big brother. And yeah, he probably feels guilty for not looking for you. For being happy with Amelia whilst you were fighting for your life in purgatory. But you can’t blame him, or even hate him, for going after what he really wanted. He thought you were dead. We all did. You just disappeared. How was he supposed to know where you were, or what happened to you?”

Dean simply exhaled in response. Words were too difficult in that moment. Mostly because everything that Maggie was saying was right. She had rationalised everything for him, plain and simple for him to understand. Now he just had to come to terms with it.

“I’m not taking his side—” Maggie reaffirmed with a tender tone, “—I’m actually on your side.” She dragged her finger carefully down the length of his neck and traced the glimmering metal chain of his cross necklace, toying with it. “I’m on the side of you not holding onto all this resentment and hatred for your brother, that I know you love very deeply. I’m on the side of letting whatever this right now is go and moving on with your own life. You’ll regret it.”

“And what about you?” his eyes flicked up to meet her own.  

A reticent laugh spilled from her throat, “that’s a lot to unpack and we’ve had enough chick flick moments for today.” She couldn’t ignore the obviously elephant in the room any longer that she herself was harbouring a stubborn grudge against the youngest Winchester, too. But she was going to give it her damned best effort. She chose to ignore the disapproving shake of his head that she’d earned.

The fox-eyed brunette reached upwards and placed a loving peck against his cheek before he could respond, signifying the end of their conversation. Her gentle lips lingered against his skin, replaced only with a fervent burning sensation. She untangled her bruised legs from his body and shuffled back into the passenger side.

Dean gave her thigh an appreciative squeeze. A silent thank you, and a hopeful reminder that he was there to listen whenever she was ready.

Maggie’s lips twitched ever so slightly into a smile as she peered out the window. Suddenly, she was one with the clouds. That familiar jolt of electric that she felt every time he touched her.

Maggie and The Winchesters had committed numerous crimes over the years. Breaking and Entering. Impersonating a Federal Agent. Grand Theft Auto. There had to be a case for kidnapping in there somewhere with all the times they’d shoved a demon into their trunk and hit gas. However, stealing confidential information about private school girls and proceeding to stalk them in every area of their sordid lives might just take the biscuit. If anything, this was the one that was going to get them caught. This was the one that was going to stick. It didn’t look good from any angle, and there wasn’t a single explanation that was going to make it any less creepy.

Maggie sat in the leather armchair — her bare leg pulled up in front of her and her spine arched at an unhealthy angle as she scrolled through the social media site. An open, room-temperature beer stood beside her laptop, always within touching distance, with a crumpled-up register of all three hundred and sixteen students beside it. Condensation from her thawing beer had dribbled onto the paper, staining and blurring the ink of her rambling notes. They would only make sense to her anyway.

Sam perched opposite her, fixated on his own laptop. His long hair was dishevelled and tucked behind his ears, and his pin-strip shirt had been unbuttoned to reveal the navy t-shirt beneath. His own beer had gone relatively untouched, now flat and bordering on stale.

“Well, it looks like the field hockey team were out of town during both murders,” his smooth voice filled the room, airing out his findings. His bloodshot eyes peeled away from his brightly lit screen long enough to meet with hers and capture her attention. “We can rule out an Emmy Palladino, Victoria Harding, Shannon Brackenridge, Kayleigh Dougherty, and a Fallon Carpenter. There’s others but they’re not tagged.”

In one swift motion, she placed the pen between her teeth and pulled the ball point free. She searched through the seemingly endless list of suspect names and crossed them off as they appeared.

The harsh taps of Sam’s fingers hitting against the keys sounded through the motel room. Then, he spoke again, reeling off another list of names at an unhelpful speed, “—ah. Verity Montrose, Daphne Alcott, Annaleise—”

“Slow the fuck down,” Maggie grumbled as she tried to keep up with him. Her pen scratching against the thin paper, and the hard wood of the table, filled the awkward silence between.

Until it didn’t. And Sam was left uncomfortably waiting for permission to continue. He looked anywhere but the laptop screen before him as an icky feeling swirled in his stomach; there was just something about digitally stalking teenaged schoolgirls that made him feel dirty. Even though it was rationalised as being a part of the job, it still wasn’t his favourite thing to do.

“You know—” she piped up, popping the cap back on her pen with a purpose, “— you really hurt him, right?”

“Him, or you?” Sam questioned. His dark, thick eyebrows furrowed together, almost accusingly as he stared towards the petite brunette.

“Both,” Maggie admitted candidly. Her posture straightened as her shoulders fell backwards in a defensive move and a blazing glare bounced back towards him. “But this is about Dean.”

“Yeah—” he let out a breath, unfamiliar with the vicious heat of Maggie’s anger being directed towards him, “—I sorta gathered that. He’s giving me the cold shoulder and benching me on cases like he’s Dad.” He sat back, his back falling against the stiffness of the chair. “He won’t talk to me.”

“It’s Dean, he isn’t going to.”

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders out of exasperation, a look of helplessness etched into his fuzzy features. “I don’t know what he wants from me anymore,” he admitted solemnly, “I left Amelia for him. I jumped back on the road at the drop of his hat. I gave up my job, and the first place that I’ve called home in… forever. I don’t know what else he wants me to do.”

“He’s a stubborn asshole sometimes—” Maggie agreed, “—but it only ever comes from a good place.”

“You’re telling me?” he let out an indignant scoff, his voice raising to a pitch he never thought he’d take with her, “—if he’s not digging me out for stupid things, he’s giving me the silent treatment. He won’t listen to anything that I say. Everything is done Dean’s way, in Dean’s time, exactly how Dean wants it. Whether it’s right or not. I’m almost thirty and still being treated like a child. He’s no better than Dad at this point.” His boot-clad foot propped against the wooden leg of the table as he leaned backwards in his chair. “I should have known you would take his side. You always do.”

“This isn’t about taking sides. This is about you two not killing each other so we can get this job done and move on with our damn lives.” She was surprisingly calm in her response, despite her defensive flags being up. The very tips of her ears tinged an angry shade of rouge and her pruned brows dipped inwards. Her tone wasn’t it’s usual melody by any means — and her tongue dripped with poison — but she refrained from raising her voice. “Dean raised you. Dean dragged your ass up and did a damn good job of it given the circumstances. So, excuse him if the lines between brother and father are a little blurred here.”

Sam ran his fingers through his long locks, frustration evident in the way his face contorted into a frown. He opened his mouth to reply but was abruptly silenced when she continued; she wasn’t afraid to speak over him and make sure that her opinion was heard.

“You know, Dean told me that he wouldn’t have stopped until he found you. He would die for you — hell, he has died for you. He sold his soul for you. He went to Hell for you. And you just gave up on him at the first hurdle.” Maggie grabbed her beer and took a long sip, allowing the rage that was slowly building in the pit of her stomach to subside before proceeding. “Dean has a right to be upset that the brother that he loves, that he gave his life for, didn’t even bother to go looking for him. He has a right to be upset that the same sentiment wasn’t returned.”

“Maggie, that’s not what happ—”

“I’m not finished,” she cut him off curtly. Her dark, cinnamon eyes bore into his as she spoke soberly. “And he’s right to bench you from the job. You’ve been out of the game for a year. You’re out of practice and your head isn’t in the game. You’re still caught up on Amelia and that’s going to get somebody killed. The best place for you right now is doing research. And it’s just tough shit that you don’t like that.”

He was left in a pensive silence; she left him to soak up her words, to digest them fully. And he did. Sam saw things a little clearer, but that didn’t mean he liked what he saw. He often liked to live in a world where Dean, his father, and the lifestyle that he had been born into were the root cause of everything that had gone wrong in his life. And, most times, one or the other were to blame. However, Sam often failed to accept his own responsibility in things. After all, it was easier to blame Dean and his father.

Although, after several, drawn-out seconds, she couldn’t resist spilling the words that flooded her brain once more. “Maybe I am taking his side—” she contemplated aloud, “—but, this time, he deserves it.”

“So, what does he want?” he asked genuinely, “an apology?”

Maggie merely shrugged her petite shoulders. “An apology wouldn’t be the worst place to start.”

He raised an untamed eyebrow as he questioned cautiously, “and what about you?”

She stared at her beer on the table. The label was soggy and peeling off the side of the bottle. Small, carbonated bubbles rose from the very bottom of the bottle to the quarter line, where the liquid stopped. “I want the last year of my life back,” she told him. The viper had retreated and had left a door mouse in it’s place.

“Mags—” Sam breathed out unsteadily, still feeling the heat of their exchange, “—I’m sorry.”

“You turfed me out on my ass and told me to git,” Maggie recounted with a detached tone. Her cold gaze peeked above the rim of the bottle and pierced through him. “Dean was gone and you just left me. Alone. You, of all freaking people, left me alone. It took me weeks to catch up with you in Texas. Weeks. And when I finally did, you tossed me out like I was some piece of trash. I had no one, and I needed you. But you were too busy cosying up with Amelia. You didn’t give a shit about me anymore.”

“You ever thought that, maybe, I didn’t want to be found?” he spat back with sharp words, each syllable lacerating her diminished defence. He dragged his tongue along the upper row of his teeth. “I was grieving for my brother in my own way, and that didn’t involve you, Maggie.”

She was overcome with emotion. A fuck tonne of heavy, painful emotions. All of the grief that had consumed her — strangled her, choked her, suffocated her — over the past year had finally come to a head. It had churned her stomach sick for twelve long months; it had burned the inside of her throat; and it had decayed her insides until she was nothing but a walking meat sack of anguish and despair. Not anymore. She was about to expel that demon.

“So was I,” she screeched, her bottom lip rippling ever so slightly as her eyes burned with salt-laden tears, “I was grieving Dean, too.” Her chest heaved up and down as she took deep breaths; exhaustion poured out of her from every angle as all of the pent-up emotions from the past year began to creep to the surface and seep out.

“That’s enough—” Dean’s gravel-like tone filled the motel room as he appeared in the doorway, a take-out bag full of waffle fries and chicken tenders clutched against his chest, “—the both of you.”

The palms of her hands pressed against the table as she pushed herself to standing. Maggie made for the motel room door, a well of tears fighting to escape against the barricade of her waterline. Her heart thudded tenfold against her chest when she felt his ring-cladded fingers wrap around her wrist as she attempted to slip past him, and a high-pitched ringing blared through her ears. She simply shook her head at him, and slid herself from his grip, before disappearing out the door.

Maggie had vowed to sleep in her truck that night. The stubborn, defiant side of her had reared its ugly head and was seemingly there to stay. A permanent scowl had etched itself into her fair features — her full, rose lips pulled into a downturned pout and deep-rooted frown lines crinkled her forehead. Her umber eyes were reddened from the sting of tears, and her flushed cheeks were stained with streaks of strays that slipped past her reinforced defences. An empty cone of waffle fries and a half-used barbecue dip occupied her passenger side seat, as an empty beer bottle sat, in pride of place, in the cup holder.

However, as the clock ticked over into the am and the temperatures ran cruelly bitter, Maggie begrudgingly relinquished. She tip-toed back into the dark motel room and slipped into bed, beside Dean. She was careful with her movements, slow and steady, as she lifted the quilted blanket and nestled herself inside.

Dean stirred when he felt the spring-filled mattress dip, yet his eyes remained closed. A shiver danced along his spine in an elegant ballet sequence as she burrowed her ice-like toes between his legs, pressing them against his calves. His sweltering skin burned at the contact and felt her feet thawing against him. God, he hated with an undying passion when she did that.

“Maggie May—” he let out a low grumble, “—get them goddamn feet off me.”

“It’s just until they warm up,” she whispered back, her voice dainty and quiet. It was never just until they warmed up.

His burly arm casually stretched across the flattened pillows in an open invitation to the petite brunette. She currently resided on the opposite side of the bed, clinging onto the edge of the mattress. He knew that she would come to him in her own time — when she was good and ready. She always did. However, for the sake of an extra half an hour of much-needed shut-eye, there was no harm in hurrying that along. “Get here,” he rasped deeply.

Maggie shuffled closer, nestling into his side. As she laid her cheek against the bare skin of his chest, it burned. Dean emanated heat, from everywhere. Her arm lay casually across his stomach as she burrowed her feet further between his legs. She felt the gravelly vibrations of his disapproving grunts as a small smile curled the corners of her lips upwards.

The palm of his hand found her back — his thumb gently caressing the bumps of her spine. Slow, tender movements eventually faded into nothing as he fell back asleep. The sound of his soft breaths eventually turned to gruff snores.

When Maggie woke in the morning, it was abrupt. She turned herself over, eyes remained closed as she desperately grasped onto the frayed strings of a peaceful slumber. She poised her bare leg, ready for her thigh to fall over Dean’s thick, muscular ones. But it didn’t. All she felt was the cool crumples of the bed sheet, where he once laid. There were no chainsaw-like snores reverberating around the room. There were no cadenced breaths that fanned against her forehead, tippling down to the very tip of her nose. There were no calloused palms caressing the lengths of her half-naked body. There was no feverish heat radiating from his side of the bed.

Her sleep-filled eyes peeled open instantly and she propped herself up by her elbows. Her heartbeat pounded with rapid thuds and her stomach churned with bile — forcing it up into the crevices of her throat. Static coated her exposed skin, making the hairs stand on end. In a bleary haze, she scanned the room and her gaze fell on the nightstand. Car keys. Phone. Gun. All still laying, haphazardly discarded, exactly where Dean had left them. A long exhale deflated her lungs as she allowed her eyes to wander the motel room further, feeling the trepidation slowly leaving her body; it seeped out through her pores, evaporated off her skin into the musty motel air. His boots lay at the foot of the leather armchair and his jacket lay in a rumpled heap over the arm.

She let out another deep breath and let the relief overcome her. It gave her more clarity as she spied the harsh, white lighting emerging from the cracks in the doorway to the bathroom. The sound of the running shower soon filled the room, alongside the grating echoes of Sam’s snores.

There was something that that just drew Maggie to him. It was an ever-present presence, a sensation, a feeling. The invisible string. The slightest of tugs had her gravitating towards him, and vice versa. And that moment wasn’t any different. She felt the ever-familiar tug in the very pit of her stomach, and she answered to it. There was no use in fighting with it.

Climbing out of bed, she made her way across the motel room. Her feet were bare and padded lightly against the dull carpet until she reached the bathroom door. Carefully, she turned it and slipped inside. Sam remained sleeping not so peacefully, and none the wiser.

It was considerably warmer than outside in the main living space; the room fogged over with tepid steam as condensation laced the mirror. Maggie stepped onto the apricot bathmat and slinked out of her sleepwear. The old, logo-printed t-shirt and her plaid shorts ended up in a crumpled pile on the floor. Her lemon-coloured thong skimmed her bruised thighs as it dropped to the floor, and she stepped out, embracing the nakedness.

Maggie slowly peeled back the curtain and stepped inside the tub.

Dean turned to face her — his eyebrow arched questioningly, and his body draped with glistening water droplets, “can I help you?” His voice was low and scratchy; just how Maggie liked it. He’d caught the soft click of the door as it opened, and the blurry outline of her silhouette as she undressed herself out of the corner of his eye.

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” she answered with a reticent tone. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she felt a wave of nervousness; Maggie was in a newfound state of rawness. She was riding the wave of raw, untouched emotions and with that came a raw sense of vulnerability. She spoke her truth, even if hesitant. It was as though a dam had been broken the night prior, and all the pent-up emotions had been released.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he told her, stepping aside, “I thought you could use the sleep.”

Her slender figure slipped past him, under the water stream. Immediately, she was overcome with a warm and comforting feeling. Her dark lashes fluttered closed, and her muscles relaxed, her shoulders dropping backwards. She took a moment to relish the peacefulness of it all; the water pattered against her back at a heavenly pressure, and the warmth of the water felt like a loving embrace.

Dean took the opportunity to admire her naked self. Her breasts were full and pert — her taut nipples a glorious rose colour as the silver bars reflected under the harsh lights. Her curves were spectacular as an hourglass figure carved out her waistline. Her thighs were thick and juicy, and her pussy was freshly shaven. She truly was a sight to behold; full lips parted ever so slightly, dark locks slicked back, and a hint of a flush rouging her cheeks. He would savour this moment for the duration of his lifetime with several mental polaroids. Mentally framed and displayed in his Hall of Fame. He’d waited years for this moment, and it suddenly all became worth it.

Feeling the sear of his lust-filled eyes tearing her naked body apart, she opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I thought you’d left me,” she admitted quietly, chewing involuntarily on her bottom lip.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassured. She needed that.

Dean reached his thumb upwards and, with one gentle motion, pulled her bottom lip from between her teeth. He then, ever so tenderly, placed a finger against her shoulder — guiding her to face away from him. She complied without question in her fragile state. His ring-clad finger meandered slowly down the length of her spine, until he reached her rounded ass. He wanted to give it a rough and playful squeeze — digging the crescent-shaped tips of his nails onto her fair skin and leaving his mark. But now wasn’t the time for rough; now was the time for tenderness. Maggie was delicate in more ways than one, and she needed soft. She needed comfort. She needed to feel his presence.

“You know—” he began, running his fingers through the lengths of her wet hair, “—you should take your own advice every once in a while.” He combed her chestnut wisps until they were sopping wet beneath the warm streams of water.

“What do you mean?” Maggie asked in response. She allowed herself to indulge in the feeling of the tepid water running along her body; it was calming — restorative even. It was as though she was washing away the memories of her emotional outburst from the previous night.

“You should let this thing with Sam go. Not for him, but for you.” Dean squeezed a generous dollop of her fruity-smelling shampoo onto the palm of his hand before massaging it through her hair. The tips of his nails grazed against her scalp in a gentle massage, working the product into a lather. “You told me to do it for me because it’s bad to hold onto so much anger and resentment. That same sentiment goes for you. It’ll eat you alive in the same way it would me, Mags.”

Her long lashes fluttered closed as she melted under his touch; the way in which his fingers worked her scalp scratched at her soul. “I can’t—” she deflated with a saddened exhale, “—I just can’t.” Her head tipped backwards as his masterful fingers found the sweet spot, a soft purring noise slipping from between her parted lips. “He was all I had left, and he still chose to leave me. I’ve spent the last year alone because of him. I needed him. I needed you.”

“Hey—” his palm carefully covered her forehead as he rinsed the shampoo from her roots, “—I’m here now.”

“But nobody was here this past year—” her voice cracked, making way for the heartache that she had held so deep inside of her, “—nobody was here when I needed them the most. Nobody was here when I bumped into my father on a hunt. Nobody was here when I was stabbed by a demon and was laying in the hospital as a Jane Doe for weeks. Nobody was here on the anniversary of Bobby’s death. Nobody was here on my freaking birthday. But Sam should have been. He promised me he would always be here.”

He continued rinsing down to the ends of her sopping locks, ensuring that he had gotten all the suds. “I agree. He should have been.” Placing the showerhead back in the holder, he picked up the bottle of conditioner. He squeezed out another generous blob and started running it through the ends of her hair. “Just think about it, yeah?”

Maggie stayed silent. She didn’t want to make any promises that she couldn’t keep — and if there was one thing about Maggie, the girl could hold a damn grudge.

Dean didn’t push her; he knew that would only push her in the opposite direction. Maggie did as Maggie pleased — or Maggie did as what made Maggie feel the least shitty about herself. She may know him better than he knows himself, but he knew her just as well. He knew her like the back of his hand; he knew the games that she played and exactly why she played them. Sometimes it was just a case of playing into them games. Sometimes it was anything to put a smile back on her face, and pull her out of the gloomy funk that she’d gotten herself in.

He simply rinsed the condition from her long, luscious strands. He took extra care to ensure that he’d got it all before reaching for her loofah. He lathered it with a sweet-smelling body wash and began scrubbing down her skin. He ghosted over her petite shoulders and arms, caressing each breast with an acute attention before continuing down to her stomach. He could feel the scald of her attentive eyes as she watched his every move. He continued down her body — seizing the opportunity to fondle her pert ass and exploring every inch of her juicy thighs. He reached her lilac-painted toes before trailing the loofah all the way back up. He skimmed the inside of her leg, grazed the mound of her pussy and past her naval, and brushed across her rigid nipple. She was enjoying that.

Once more, he detached the showerhead from the tiled wall and aimed it at her body. The pressure was just right as the stream hit against her shoulders, washing the suds away. He moved down to her ample breasts. A haughty smirk quirked the corners of his lips upwards as a low hum vibrated through her chest — the water hitting perfectly against her pierced buds. He took a half step closer to her as he slowly swirled the jet around her nipple, her back pressing against his sculpted chest. His hand snaked slowly around the concave of her waistline and settled against her hipbone as he continued downwards. He gently rinsed down her thighs.

Then, with one soft but commanding movement, he nudged her bruised thighs apart.

Maggie, consumed by the drips of dopamine coursing through her, obliged immediately. She spread her thighs apart, just enough to give him access to her aching cunt.

“Atta girl,” Dean praised with his usual, gravel-like tone. He aimed the water jet between her legs, letting the stream hit against her.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden contact. A familiar tingle crept along her spine and down into the very tips of her fingers. Her skin tinged with the fire that she had been keeping at bay — locked within the dark, dingy caverns of her soul. Her eyes fluttered shut as heavy breaths slipped from between her chewed-up lips. The jet circled around her clit in lazy ministrations, forcing a strangled whine to claw it’s way out of her throat. She caught it with her hand, pressing her dainty fingers against her lips in a knee-jerk reaction.

Arching her back at an unholy angle, she threw her head back against the robust muscles of her shoulder. Her mahogany tresses splayed across his tattooed chest as her hand reached up to grip onto his collar bone. She needed an anchor as the tension began to build up inside her. Her fingernails sunk into his wet skin, scraping and scratching until she broke the barrier. Heavy, sordid pants spilled from her mouth as the metaphorical rope began to coil around itself in the very pit of her stomach. It knotted once, twice, three times as her hips bucked candidly against the water stream — hitting her most sensitive of nerves.

“Dean,” his name rolled so effortlessly off her tongue with a salacious whine, her voice barley above a whisper. Her breath-like pants grew faster, and the metaphorical rope pulled tighter and tighter. Until her hand found her mouth once again, capturing the sinful moans that carelessly spewed from between her lips. Her curvaceous hips rocked back and forth in frantic motions, her back leveraged against his solid body, as she rode out her orgasmic high.

Dean eventually placed the showerhead back against the wall when she let out an overwhelmed whimper. His calloused palm still gripped her waist, keeping her naked body pressed against his own. His jade eyes peered downwards at the beauty before him, brimming with pride at the mess he had created; her cheeks were stained a fervent rose and her chest rose and fell in a rapid cadence as her lungs desperately pleaded for air.

Maggie nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck, her eyes still closed. She felt the warmth of his lips as he placed a soft kiss into her hairline. Oxytocin and dopamine drowned everything surrounding her out. Everything but him. For several moments, the only sound she could hear was the gentle thuds of his heartbeat; the only thing that she could feel was the delicate traces of his fingertips against her hipbone; the only thing to exist was him.

Then, she felt a surge of adrenaline and her natural instincts took over. No thoughts or considerations of the consequences — just pure desire. She pulled herself from his tight embrace and turned on the tips of her toes. Her fix-like eyes gazed upwards into his as her arms wrapped around his neck, her bare silhouette pressing against his own. Her full lips ghosted against his, caressed them with a sweet embrace. It was nothing like either of them had anticipated; it was loving, and tender, and fragile. She continued with her soft touch as his hands clung onto her waistline — securing her in place. Their tongues moved together as one. Exploring. Tasting. Embracing.

After what felt like a hundred lifetimes, Dean retreated slowly. He brushed the pad of his thumb over her jawline. “We better get you back to Mary Magdalene’s, Sister Maggie. We’ve got a witch to find.”

[lilac-5ky]

Roommates from Hell, pt.1 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Stolen Fries taste best

(pic from loving yamada at lvl999, adorable manga, recommend)

Chapter 2 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

Plot: Out of all the women that come and go in Toji's life, you're the only one he calls his friend. But when he suddenly forces his way into your apartment, the feelings you've kept from him are put to the test.

Setting: Pre Hidden Inventory Arc. Toji and reader are both in their late twenties, no Megumi in picture... yet :p

Themes: Cohabitation, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers

Warning: Slight sexual content minus the actual smut.

A/N at the bottom

“You’re late. Again.”

The small silver bell at the top of the glass door notified you of a man’s arrival, his heavy steps refusing to wipe themselves upon entry, spreading mud all over the now-blotted checkered tiles of the dimly lit diner. You’d been expecting the owner of those shoes for the past six hours, his untimely arrival coming as a bitter aftertaste to an afternoon full of childish joy and mayhem— popped balloons, colorful confetti, and half-eaten pieces of cakes swept into one big pile at the room’s southernmost corner by yours truly.

“I never said I was coming,” the voice retorted, its defiant sound overshadowed by the gruesome screech of a metallic chair. “Not interested in celebrating some brat’s b-day, ‘specially if it ain’t mine.”

“How many helpless children must have spent their birthdays without their no-good father, I wonder,” you wiped your hands against your cherry-red apron, pushing the broom back into place. “If your goal is to repopulate Japan, I’m certain you’ll succeed.”

Hefty fingers mindlessly combed through a head of obsidian black, little spikes forming and then settling back down. “None, as far as I’m concerned,” sarcasm dripped from his tongue.

“Well, I find that hard to believe,” you mumbled under your breath, circling through the room to ensure everything was dealt with: leftovers in the fridge, gift wrappings in the bin, and the large aforementioned pile of garbage waiting to be scooped up. “You’ve known Kenzo since birth. Even if this ain’t your thing, the least you could’ve done was make an appearance. He kept asking about his favorite uncle all night long.”

“Except I’m not his uncle. Don’t mix me in with your sister’s family, I ride solo.”

Sigh.

“My sister’s family might as well be your family, Toji. You know how much Hinata and her kids adore you.”

“Good for them, I suppose.”

Another sigh.

“Can you at least tell me what was so important for you to not even pick the goddamn phone up?”

As if the device had grown sentient, a generic tune began tooting from the back pocket of his sweatpants, eradicating your final hope that it’d simply run out of battery.

Without budging from his seat, Toji twisted an arm around his back to pull his flip-phone out, the silver-tinted lid slamming shut as soon as he’d peered at the caller’s number, his next immediate move being to drown the sound in a glass of leftover Coke, fizzy bubbles playing the device’s final requiem.

You didn’t need to ask to know it was a woman, and he didn’t need to answer that she, whatever the name of his latest conquest was, happened to also be the reason for his being unfashionably late.

It was always like that. He was always like that. He went out with one girl after the other; from women of extreme beauty and poise to mindless bimbos who couldn’t tell tea leaves and coffee beans apart. He’d spend some cash to butter them up with expensive meals at overpriced restaurants, or VIP entrance at the hottest club, or even pay for the name tag on their designer clothes, but come next morning, he was either caught stealing straight out of their pockets or checking whether the tag was still attached to the dress for him to return it to the store—at which point, the vast majority gave up, except for those few poor souls who earnestly believed they could fix him, though they never would.

If there were two things in this world that remained unfaltering and resolute throughout the eons, then that was the earth’s orbiting the sun, and Zen’in Toji’s being the bastard of a man you knew and loved— special intonation of that last part.

It was quite the oxymoron. To know him as an irredeemable scumbag with no intention of changing, and to love him for all he was; a sentence as contradictory and controversial as the man before you. What was there to love? He never gave two shits about the people around him dying, and if he could encourage or partake in their deaths then he certainly would. He gambled every cent of cash in his hands away, and his every attachment ended with the disposal of his used-up condom. He was vulgar, cynical, and brass, and he possessed a great charisma of making people dislike him at first glance. His only saving grace was his good looks and even those he managed to scrape on a daily basis.

So, really, what was there to love about a man whose place fitted best among the pile of garbage in the corner? What was the point in all that?

He never answered your question, and when you realized he wasn’t planning to, you dragged a second chair to his side, propping your elbows first and then your chin over the vinyl backrest, feet landing at each side. You took in his expression— sour and undeniably agitated, with a frown tugging at the scarred corner of his lower lip, and a glare too icy to be meant for the wall of American-styled neon billboards he mercilessly studied. Something definitely bothered him, and as a huff stiffened his chin, the reason became evident enough for you to point at it.

“Woman or work?” you gestured at the blood that dribbled below his ear and down his neck.

He followed your forefinger with his eyes, thumb scrubbing where the gush began. He seemed oblivious to his injury, though it wasn’t as if his becoming aware changed a thing.

“So it is a woman,” you gladly seized the chance to rub salt into his wound, drawing a frustrated grumble from him.“What did you do this time? Stole her car and crashed it into a tree? Blew all her savings on cockfight betting?”

“Horse races,” he had the nerve to correct.

“Or… did you by any chance bring an uncalled ménage à trois to her bed?”

“What kind of man you take me for?” Toji protested.

“A very, very, veeeery bad man,” you smirked, and he returned it. You knew him like the back of your hand. There was no need to pretend otherwise after well over a decade’s worth of friendship.

“If a very bad man is what I am, then why’d ya let me in?” he asked. “A young unprotected woman all by herself in the middle of the night letting such scum in never ends well. Thought you were smarter than this.”

“If I was smarter, then I wouldn’t be calling you my friend, would I?”

His grimace turned into a full-blown devilish grin, the kind that secretly had your heart buzzing against the frail set of bones of your chest. He always looked so dazzling when he smiled, that sometimes you couldn’t find fault in those women wanting to believe in his pretty lies, because you, too, wanted to. You hoped that whatever the price for those smiles was, you would one day be able to afford it and gain ownership of his heart, no matter how wretched or blackened it was.

“You are a real idiot to mix it up with me,” he conceded. “Though, you are a greater idiot for letting that term define us. I bet your nights serving meals at some kiddie place get rather lonely. But I could help. I could make you feel really good, Y/N. So good that you’d risk some prick getting in, lest he is me.”

His tongue poked out his mouth, giving his bottom lip a brief lick while he peered at you through half-lidded eyes. He had this way of turning things sexual in the blink of an eye, selling himself so well that your refusal to buy seemed commendable— despite the unmistakable affection you held for his face. Little did he know how much you longed to push that chair to the side and rip his cocky expression along his black-sleeved shirt off his body, making it so that neither of you had a place to hide from the other.

Now, that’d feel good.

“My nights are fine as they are, thank you very much,” you countered your instincts much to his disappointment. “And if I ever needed myself a helping hand, know that you’d be the last I’d call!” Not as if you’d pick up, anyway, you mentally added.

His gust of interest fizzled out as soon as it surged, your rejection forcing him to rock back and forth between the chair’s legs. He wasn’t interested in continuing this. It was enough for him to take in the dusty pink shading of your ears and smile to himself, knowing you were still the kind of woman affected by his charms. Yes, that certainly was enough, for now.

“I’ll clean you up,” you declared, getting off your spot in haste and strolling through the bar in search of a clean towel.

Once you found it, you let it soak under the faucet and brought it back to him, rubbing against his skin regardless of his petty attempt at gritting his teeth. You placed one hand on his shoulder and another at his jaw, pushing them apart to no avail. Every muscle in his body was stronger than your entire bodily force combined, and he was awfully willing to flex that difference between you, just as he was at letting you straddle his hips and climb all over his body like some sort of feral monkey in heat.

A string of profanities that ranged from “bastard” to “shit-eating-asshole-shithead” poured out your mouth while Toji smirked, and smiled, and grinned, and didn’t even try to stop you from knocking the two of you onto the ground, palms barely managing to stable your head over his face. Your pleated skirt had risen, or rather flipped, over your panties, revealing the strawberry pattern panties you were wearing to his greedy hands as they hiked up your flesh without an ounce of shame.

“Wh-What are you doing?!”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he cooed, burying his calloused fingers under the elastic waistband of your underwear.

You felt him trace the inward of your thighs in languid strokes, the fabric stretching the further his hand dipped— closer, and closer to your now-pulsing core, but never so close as to make actual contact. His hot breath tingled your lips, smelling of nothing in particular, but a sweaty tang of a woman’s deodorant that still lingered in his clothes. Had he fucked her before making it here, you wondered, heart tightening at the thought.

Your legs wiggled shut, unable to fully repel his hand, and for a brief moment, you considered letting him go through with this— whatever this was. Even if you came to be another conquest won, you didn’t care. All you needed was for him to hush all logic from your brain, and fuck you senselessly against the checkered tile floor of the “kiddie food place” you served meals at.

“Toji…” you begged, uncertain what you were begging him for until you felt the warmth in your thighs subside.

“Makin’ sure to preserve your maiden’s dignity,” he said as he fixed your skirt in place. “Wouldn’t want some perv catching sight of your cute little ass, would we?”

His condescending tone made you want to throw a slap across his face and then yours; for thinking that maybe this wasn’t a mistake, that you could really move past the pretense of friendship and aim at what you really sought. But he’d been right once before. You were stupid, stupider than all those girls combined, considering you knew and still wouldn’t mind being dragged down with him one bit.

“Fucking asshole,” you blurted as you pushed yourself off him, dumping the cloth on his smug face.

Your lip quivered as you stepped onto your feet, unable to quite shake the feeling of incompletion from your core, walls pathetically clenching around nothingness. You refused to look at him, lest you caved in a second time, and thus you paced around the booths, stopping before the one window whose blinds didn’t block the magnificent parking lot view. Only a black SUV was left— most likely his newest rental.

Following a beep, you watched the lights flicker white, his reflection in the window lifting the chair back up. You crossed your arms over your chest and waited, your impatience and frustration churning into a dangerous mix within your guts, as the asshole whose name wasn’t worth saying moved past you and walked straight to the door, not a single word or goodbye said.

“What about your phone?” you asked, at last paying him a look of spite.

“I’ll text ya my new number.”

“We both know you won’t.”

He glanced over his shoulder and showed you his pearly white canines, his expression not polished enough to be called a smile. You rolled your eyes in the opposite direction, spotting his old device blinking a variety of different lights, refusing to die just like its bastard of an owner.

“What should I do with this?”

“How the hell should I know?” Toji shrugged. “Get rid of it, or toss it in some burger. I’m sure no one will be able to tell the difference. Later,” the bell chimed as the door collided with the frame, chiming a second time as his head popped in a moment later. “Loved the raspberries.”

“They were strawberries, you scatterbrained swine,” you cursed, but he’d heard none of it. The car was gone, and so was he, and it was for the best that he didn’t get to witness the strawberry-colored shadow that loomed over both your cheeks.

Fanning some of that heat away, you returned to the table, surprised to find a white envelope with the name Kenzo hastily written on the front. Cash. Lots of cash. Enough cash to keep a low-end apartment afloat for at least a couple of months. An excuse and simultaneously the answer to all your previous questions.

“You fucking bastard,” you hummed, the term switching to one of utter endearment.

When the first instance of a wintry breeze came charging at the semi-exposed features of your face—a scarf’s fluff tucked right below your nose— you knew that walking all the way to the location where the unknown ID claiming to be Zen’in Toji ordered you to meet up was probably a bad idea.

For starters, you’d turn into an icicle long before making it back to your workplace. Not to mention you had no foolproof way of guaranteeing the person you were about to meet wasn’t some random impersonating psychopath. But when you finally spotted the yellow curvy “M” upon the rectangular red sign that spelled the fast food chain’s name, you narrowed down the psychopaths to that one cheapskate you happened to know.

Walking into the nearly vacant dining area —only the first two booths near the door occupying a family of four each— you detected him almost immediately. He was the only one seated in his wing. Head slightly tilted to look past the window, golden highlights showering the curve of a nose as it arched into thin eyebrows, calm eyes glinting with subtle emerald, and fingers that absentmindedly tapped away onto one of the two paper-covered trays. He had the decency to wait for you before getting into his food, though that didn’t stop him from munching on the occasional fry.

You tugged the handbag off your shoulder and slowly approached him, hesitating to enter his field of view, if just for a moment. He seemed so peaceful and serene, that if you had the guts, you’d snap a picture of him right then and there and make it into your phone’s wallpaper. But you didn’t. You’d never be able to explain it to him in a non-humiliating way, should he catch you in the act, and so, you shook the notion off and marched in his direction, his eyes lighting up in recognition.

“What’s the point of calling me out here for lunch if we are gonna have burgers?” you dropped your bag at the far end of the table. “Why not eat at our place?”

“I like the fries here better,” he bit onto one as if to affirm his claim, licking the salty essence off his fingers. “You should be glad I got you some, too,” he nodded toward the closed dome-shaped box that lay in front of you. “Nuggets over burgers, right? Didn’t know what toy ya wanted though. Cashier girl told me bunnies are quite popular with girls your age, so I went with that.”

Ignoring, or rather postponing your answer to his outrageous suggestion, you peered through the contents of your meal’s box, spotting the wrapped-in-plastic purple-colored bunny key chain right at the bottom between the small portion of deluxe potatoes and even smaller portion of chicken nuggets that still steamed hot air. You were surprised he remembered everything about your order, down to your preference for milkshake over other beverages, and perhaps you would have shown your gratitude if it wasn’t for that last comment of his gnawing at your pride.

“How old did you tell the cashier I was, again?” you gritted, trying to suppress the toy’s cuteness within your fist.

“Didn’t. Just said it’s for some kid I know. Probably thought it was for my daughter or something.”

A pair of googly eyes popped out from their sockets, the bunny’s head in serious danger of coming right off.

“Stop acting like an old man,” you muttered in embarrassment. “A nine-month head start in life doesn’t make you old enough to be my father.”

“Still older than you, kid,” said Toji, his fingers latching onto his wrapped-up burger. “Now eat up. Didn’t pay ya lunch for it to go cold.”

Annoyed by his remarks, but oh-so terribly starved, you decided to let things slide, the two of you lunching in a period of temporal truce. He went through his burger in big bites, clearing it out before you even finished your portion of nuggets. You mildly wondered why he’d held off if he was this hungry, but didn’t press on the reason behind his invitation until after his tray was half-emptied.

“So… why’d you wanna meet up? Got something to tell me?”

“Mhm, I actually do. How would you like us to be room—Nah, that doesn’t sound too right,” Toji shook his head off, dusting the excess salt off his fingers. “I decided I’m moving in with you.”

“You, what?!?” You shrieked, eyes wide with shock, resembling those of your newly acquired key chain.

“What I just said. I’m moving in,” he repeated as if you hadn’t heard him the first time around. “Got everything right here. I’ll pop by later so you can show me my room.”

You glanced down at what he tapped as “here”, spotting a large black duffel bag that rested on his feet. He wasn’t joking, you panicked. He was being 100% serious about this. Directing your milkshake to your mouth, you took a nervous sip, nearly choking on the plastic straw between your teeth, while Toji kept staring at you, awaiting no answer in particular. After all, he wasn’t asking. He was proclaiming.

“Why would you want that?” you asked once you regained the ability to think rationally. “Weren’t you the one who said you ride solo?”

“Numerous reasons,” he stated, drawing his forefinger forth as if to recount. “For starters, rental prices going up, gas too. Inflation in the market and all that crap. Your place is also closer to work, and” he leaned closer, “wasn’t your neighborhood the one on the news recently? You know, those serial break-and-enter cases? As far as I’m aware, the culprit’s still running loose, could be a cursed spirit or something. You can’t see ‘em, but I can. I’ll keep ya safe. Wouldn’t you want that? Sounds like a fair deal to me, at least.”

The repetitive pattern of a catchy pop song blasting from the speakers served as a backdrop to your thoughts, eyes flickering between the table and his face. He wasn’t exactly wrong about what he said. The girl next door was the robber’s last victim, and from what you’d gathered, it seemed like the ones targeted were exclusively single women in their twenties. Curse or not, that was the intruder’s type, and you just so happened to tick both of those boxes.

From a standpoint of reason, his suggestion sounded fair alright, but this was Toji we were talking about. The man whose name was your first thought in the morning and the final afterthought in the night. The man you were coincidentally in love with.

Living with him would entail being around him a lot more than you could handle. Waking and sleeping and eating in the same house as him, spending your days off together, bickering about bills, take-out, and the TV remote’s ownership, doing things that only couples got to do, and of course, sharing a bathroom, which on its own meant seeing him parade through the cramped little space of your apartment in nothing but a soggy towel, hair slick and teeth beaming as he’d be asking if you’d like to join him in the shower—

You hit the break on these thoughts and pressed your forehead flat against both palms, feeling the heat exuding through your fingers. You were only able to keep this relationship platonic because of the distance he put between you. If he were to suddenly close it, what would come of you? How on earth would you be able to hold back?

“Don’t you want me?”

“Huh?” you bit at the straw again, snapping it in half.

“I said, you hate the idea of living with me that much?”

Toji certainly didn’t mince his words, but the way he was looking at you, brows furrowing and lips quivering into a frown despite the edge in his tone, almost made it seem as if hearing your rejection out loud would hurt him, and because of that, you had no choice, but to shake your head in denial. You wanted this. More than words could express, you wanted to be with him like that, even if you refrained from disclosing that truth.

You wanted him.

“What about your girlfriends? Wouldn’t they be against you living with some woman?”

“Nah, I’m done with that. Done with all of ‘em.”

“But my apartment is too small. I don’t think it’d suit you—”

“I’ll manage,” he cut you off.

“I don’t even have a second bed-”

“We can always share,” he smirked, letting out a light-hearted chuckle as he watched color paint your cheeks. “Couch is fine, too. So, whaddya say, roomie?”

“…Fine,” you conceded, very well knowing you’d come to regret this decision. “But we need to set some ground rules! No trashing the apartment, no throwing your ‘work tools’ all over the place, no smoking, no drinking, no loud music, and no bringing in random women. No starting fights either! You’ll help around and pay half of what’s needed, so no gambling your money away. Those are my terms.”

“You drive a hard bargain, roomie,” Toji said, balancing his chin atop his elbow. “Fine by me. Told you I’m done with half those things anyway, and I don’t mind helping you with anything. I mean that.”

But I could help. I could make you feel really good, Y/N.

His words from that night still lingered in your mind like an unfulfilled promise, and when he phrased it like that, you couldn’t help but be reminded of how good his hands felt that night, creeping all over your skin as if he owned it— as if he owned you.

“G-good!” you said, picking up a fry off his tray and tossing it in your mouth, lest you said something stupid.

“No one taught you stealing other people’s food is rude?” Toji shot you a glare unequal to your crime.

“It’s not stealing if you are done with it!” you protested. “You haven’t touched your fries in over ten minutes now.”

His tongue clicked against his mouth’s roof, producing a series of “tsk” sounds while he shook his head in disapproval. “Didn’t take ya for such a brat, Y/N. Disrespecting me in my face right after we came to an agreement? That’s some bad business ethics.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment, barely keeping yourself from groaning. “I’m so terribly sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have stolen your esteemed fries, sir. Won’t ever happen again, sir. Please allow me to express my profound remorse, sir.”

Although Toji knew you only addressed him as such to get on his nerves, he was still pleased enough to grace with you an unsuspecting smile, seconds before you shoved a ketchup-covered potato against his mouth, smudging the left corner of his lips in a way akin to that of his right corner scar. He blinked, clouds of fury gathering in the bleakness of his eyes and cheeks puffing up, painting the most adorable expression you’d ever seen him wear.

“So cute,” you gushed, unable to suppress a hearty laughter that agitated him even more, red blooming across his cheeks— most likely by the lack of oxygen, you interpreted.

“Fucking brat,” he hissed, dipping the last of his fries in ketchup and then stuffing your mouth with it before you could even react. “I’ll show ya how it’s done!” he declared, your lips puckering against his fingers, condiment spreading all over like lipstick. His other hand forced your head in place, stilling your chin for him to work on his masterpiece, making a much bigger mess out of you than you had made of him.

“Hmphmmph!” you hummed while Toji laughed, a deep sound that reverberated straight from his guts, his eyes glinting along with his teeth in sheer joy that convinced you to give up so as to not spoil his fun. It was rare to see him genuinely happy.

“That should teach ya to behave,” he spat, smugness in every aspect of his features as he pressed his thumb onto his mouth, cleaning the ketchup off with a lick. “But you did address me properly, so you’ve earned the right to choose. Napkin or my lips? Which one?”

Stupefied as you were, you didn’t understand the full context of his question until you felt the sudden warmth of his mouth flutter over your skin, the tip of his tongue sloppily gathering the leftover ketchup off your right cheek. Your jaw popped open, a small gasp escaping as a result of his action.

“Too slow,” Toji whispered, hooded green eyes peering right into yours. “I’ll ask again. Napkin or my lips? What’s it gonna be, doll?”

“N-n-n-napkin!” you must have stuttered at least a thousand times before forming a comprehensible answer. He was so close that if he tilted his head any closer your lips were sure to touch. “P-please get me a napkin.”

“Please?” he chuckled, acting as if was really going to kiss you and then pulling away. “Be right back.”

Even after Toji let go, you could still feel the weight of his thumb holding you down, your eyes zeroing in on his black sweater as he set off for the other side of the room where the napkin and condiments stand was located. You heard a few whispers coming from beside your table, catching three pairs of eyes shooting daggers right at your back.

“Don’t they have a home?” a woman’s voice echoed first.

“Kids these days…” a man added.

“Honey, don’t look at their sinfulness, it’s the devil’s work.” A second woman concluded.

You were on the verge of experiencing a cardiac arrest, and you were pretty darn sure you would have if Toji hadn’t returned with the napkins in time, his hand snatched by yours as you forcefully dragged him out of the place, spelling frantic apologies at whoever was listening.

Once you’d made it outside, you sighed in relief, winter’s viciousness coming as a much-needed slap across your face. You took in a few breaths, letting go of his hand and padding a few steps away from the store’s windows, afraid you were still the focus of their attention. Toji followed, one hand stuffed inside his jeans pocket, while the other held the duffel bag over his shoulder in a lazy manner.

“Can you give me a lift to work?” you managed to ask, dodging his stare even as he stepped to the front.

“I would, but I can’t. Gave the car away.”

“You did what?”

Nothing about your reaction was funny in any shape or form, but he seemed amused enough to break into a soft chuckle, his eyes, too, softening ever so slightly.

“Planning to walk around town like a bloodsucker?” he asked, bringing a napkin to wipe your lips with greater care than you’d think. “How dirty,” he cooed, gently tapping at the center. “Next time, I won’t ask for permission to kiss you, roomie. Let’s go.”

“W-Where?” your voice came out so frail that you doubted he’d heard your question, his bag bouncing over his taut body with every step he took outside the parking lot.

“You asked for a ride, didn’t ya? Come.”

A/N: Launching a new series because I have so many feelings bottled up that I'm in danger of farting hearts and rainbows and shit. Decided to take the time off and write this fic for myself cause I needed it, but then I thought why not share it with the world? First time writing for Jujutsu Kaisen and Toji in particular, so hopefully it's received well!

[mordrer]

PRE-IMMORTAL

Old Funeral is a death metal band formed in May 1988, located in Bergen. They were only 15 when Olve and Tore started a band(Only Padden was 18). They were one of the first bands to form in the Norwegian extreme metal scene.

Old Funeral lineup(1988) from left to right:

Tore Bratseth(Guitars), Padden(Drums), Olve Eikemo(Vocals, Bass)

With this lineup they recorded their first demo in 1989 titled «The Fart That Should Not Be»

Fun Fact: Their first rehearsal place was Tore’s father basement. They rehearsed there almost every day

That demo was recorded on a 4-track fostex tape machine in their rehearsal room. Tore handwrote the cover, but it was xeroxed and released in 50 copies. It was just their friends who got them, so it is a total underground tape.

Another Fun Fact: they had only played their instruments for 10 months when it was recorded.

In July 1990 they released another demo called «Abduction of Limbs». It was the first metal recording made in Grieghallen Studio in Bergen. Pytten(Eirik Hundvin) was the producer, who was an old classmate of Tore’s father. This was the first time they had been in a professional studio, it took some days to record and mix(6-7 days were spent in the studio altogether). 600 copies were released in cassette format.

Old Funeral(1990) from left to right:

Olve Eikemo(Bass, Vocals), Padden(Drums), Tore Bratseth(Guitars, Lyrics)

Kristian Vikernes joined Old Funeral in 1990, they played few gigs, and compose songs for the «Devoured Carcass» demo before Olve would leave band in order to form Immortal. The role of vocalist fell to Padden.

Old Funeral(Also 1990) from left to right:

Kristian Vikernes(Guitars), Olve Eikemo(Bass, Vocals), Padden(Drums), Tore Bratseth(Guitars)

Also in 1991 Thorlak came as a bass-guitarist

With this new line-up they recorded a demo «Devoured Carcass». They went to Grieghallen to record again, but not to do a demo, but a 7” vinyl EP. Thorlak does not play on this EP as he became a member too late to learn the songs, even though he is pictured on the cover. Both, Tore and Padden, did the bass lines for it. On June 17th 1991 these 7 vinyls have come to light

Fun Fact: They got that deal because of Thrash Records that approached them after listening to the demo. The reaction was very good and the 1100 copies sold out in 2 weeks only!

They played about 10 gigs with Kristian, there was even one gig in Notodden with both Kristian and Olve before he quit. It was just before Thorlak joined on bass.

That’s it for Old Funeral! And before we move to «Amputation» i’d like to show you some moments from interviews with Tore!

You told me that you went to school with Olve (Abbath) since you were 8 years old. How were these days? Were you the only children who were so crazy about MOTÖRHEAD, BLACK SABBATH, THE BEATLES? Did you use to fuck things up, or were you quite quiet boys?

«He-he, these days were quite wild. Especially Olve got quite a lot of bad remarks from the teacher in his books. I actually have a tape from 1984 when we are 11 years old from a history class and we take the total piss out of the teacher. He had to go and get the principal because we were making so much noise. Also on the same tape there is a part where me and Olve and another guy is singing ‘Shoot ‘Em Down’ by Twisted Sister. Fucking brutal shit he-he. No, you can’t have the tape. Some things are meant to stay very underground. Olve along with Padden were my best friends (and still are) from childhood years.»

Was Padden also in the same school than you and Olve? You told me that he bought «Hell Awaits» and «Morbid Tales» around 1986. How did you react when hearing such a music? What pushed you to dig it more, and later to get involved into tape trading?

«Padden was at the same school as us yes, but not in the same class, because he was 2 years older than us. He was the first one of my friends to buy extreme records. I remember me and Olve looked at each other when we listened to «Hell Awaits» for the first time. It was a feeling of aggression, laughter and awe. We just laughed for minutes because we didn’t think it was possible to make such brutal music. I remember this record was listened to by maybe 6-7 people in our little village called Lysekloster. We all thought that this was the music that fitted our personalities and we started to seek more information about this kind of music. Then Padden, who was the only one with some money, bought Celtic Frost «Morbid Tales» and Possessed «Seven Churches», then came «Reign In Blood» and it was no way back.»

When exactly did you start OLD FUNERAL? Did you play covers in the beginning or just tried to come along with your own stuff? Was it also the first band for Olve and Padden?

«We started on the 17th of May 1988 rehearsing in my parents basement. This is the constitution day of Norway. Old Funeral was the first band of all of us, and nobody had played any instrument before this date»

How strong was the influence of the new members on the way to compose songs for the «Devoured Carcass» demo?

«Varg was a very good musician, so he participated a lot in the songwriting. Thorlak was more the lazy guy, but he was good to have in the band as well...»

You can read full interview with Tore here – https://www.voicesfromthedarkside.de/interview/old-funeral/

I also highly you to read other interviews with him talking about Old funeral. Click here and here to read it!

Amputation is a death metal band formed in 1987-1988, located in Bergen and created by Harald Nævdal(Demonaz). At first the band went by Sacrecy, but it was changed to Amputation. They only released two demos before disbanding.

Fun Fact: Around that time(1987-1988) Harald met Olve!

Amputation’s original recording lineup consisted:

Harald Nævdal(Demonaz) – Guitars & Vocals

Truls Kvernhusvik – Guitars

Padden – Bass

Jørn Inge Tunsberg – Drums

«Achieve in Mutilation» demo tape self-released in 1989 in cassette format. Regular xeroxed covers. Ordinary tape. Tracks 2 and 3 are listed in the wrong order on the tape cover; track 2 is labeled as "Merciless Slaughter" and track 3 is labeled as "Death Is Not the End". Logo and cover art by Harald.

Kvernhusvik exited the band prior to the recording of the second demo, leaving the remaining trio as Amputation's final lineup.

In July they released their second and last demo titled «Slaughtered in the Arms of God». It was recorded at Grieghallen recording studio in Bergen.

Last Amputation’s lineup from left to right:

Jørn Inge Tunsberg(Bass),Padden(Drums), Harald Nævdal(Guitars & Vocals)

[in-death-we-fall]

Wham, Glam, Thank You Mam…

Kerrang 910, June 29 2002

The unmasked Joey Jordison’s Murderdolls are not Slipknot Mark II. Can you imagine the Clown wearing make-up and stack-heels?...

Oh Kerrang, we absolutely can... but that's not the point here

Words: Joshua Sindell Photos: P R Brown, Lisa Johnson

(drive link)

In a dimly lit room at the Sunset Marquis hotel, five heavily mascara’d men in black leather, each with immaculately back-combed hair, pose and purse their lips for a photographer’s lens. Only a single white curtain against the window protects their pale skin from the outside sun’s piercing rays. Last night’s expedition to famed strip club Crazy Girls has left some of them feeling bleary and achy, but, as the band Junkyard once sang so sagely, ‘That’s life in Hollywood’. Yes, this is LA, the home of all things tawdry and torrid, where giants in spandex so famously used to stride down the Strip. But this is not 1986. These events are happening in June of 2002. And one of these pouting prima donnas happens to be a member of Slipknot.

Murderdolls are the new baby of Joey Jordison – Slipknot’s diminutive drummer – but in stark contrast to his unrelentingly intense day job, their music is a trashy pastiche of glam-rock, New York punk circa 1977, schlock-horror, and heavy metal. Jordison has swapped his mask for make-up and his sticks for a guitar, and has created a band that embody practically everything you don’t ever hear on the radio these days. Alongside him are Static-X guitarist Tripp Eisen, singer Wednesday 13 who previously fronted the Frankenstein Drag Queens From Planet 13 and two friends of Tripp from LA – bassist Erik Griffin and appropriately-named drummer Ben Graves.

Just one listen to the Murderdolls’ debut album will be enough to have a legion of Slipknot fans chomping on their home-made boiler suits in confusion. Cheesy songs about grave robbing? Tributes to ‘The Exorcist’’s possessed devil-doll Linda Blair? Zombies? Mad scientists? Ghouls? What the hell is going on?

Jordison, barely five-foot-five even in his new stack heels, allows himself a sly smile.

“This is so far removed from Slipknot that it’s actually the best thing about it,” he says. “When we play, it’s just so fucking funny. We’re very serious about not being serious.”

To change gears from the testosterone-filled, uncontrolled anger of ‘Iowa’ to the sexually charged grind of Murderdolls is certainly something of a role-reversal. Butt Tripp Eisen, who, like Jordison, is also on shore leave from his day job, finds the turn-around almost hilarious.

“It’s kind of like being bisexual,” he jokes. “You’re doing a guy for now, but you’re not giving up on the ‘girl’ thing.”

The seeds of this project were sown years ago, in the mind and garage of Joey Jordison, under the name The Rejects. This was long before Slipknot and nu-metal’s all-conquering domination of the rock scene. The Rejects would eventually morph into Murderdolls, and to Joey, this is no mere side-project.

“I just feel that there’s no point in doing anything that’s even remotely similar to Slipknot,” he reasons, seated at a small table inside the cool, dark hotel room. “For me, it’s a chance to play guitar, which I played long before I played drums.”

Murderdolls began to become more than just a figment of Joey’s imagination three years ago when Slipknot toured with New Yorkers Dope, who had Eisen in their line-up at the time. The two bonded over a mutual love of such bands as Manowar, The Ramones and The Plasmatics.

“I had spent my whole life being kind of a glam guy, but also digging the heavy, heavy music,” says Tripp, a soft-spoken man with dreadlocks that sprout from his head like drooping asparagus. “It’s rare to find someone who can relate to both, and that’s what drew me to Joey. He’s into Slayer and Twisted Sister with equal intensity, and there’s not many people like that.”

To Tripp, there’s not all that much difference between the two. Both metal and glam are escapist and theatrical in nature, and he points out that Mötley Crüe and Slayer both used pentagrams on their albums.

Together, during the off time from their respective bands, Joey and Tripp dug up some of Joey’s old Rejects songs and dusted them off. They discovered a voice in North Carolina native Wednesday 13, and he brought several of his own songs with him. Then, after the album was finished, the band’s line-up was completed by Griffin and Graves.

The record itself is an absolute blast. Roaring guitars, skull-rattling drums and sneering, screaming vocals, all set to fast-paced tunes of terror and turmoil. Imagine the Ramones, the Misfits and the Dead Boys wearing long-haired wigs and goofing on love, lust and comic books. Add to the mix a soupçon of Marilyn Manson, plus a few screaming metal electric guitar leads, and stir. What pours out ain’t pretty, but it will certainly raise some eyebrows.

Joey couldn’t be more excited at the prospect of his Slipknot fans lending Murderdolls an ear.

“Not to take anything away from Slipknot, because I love that band and I’m still very much in it. But playing the guitar is not the same as playing the drums. Wearing make-up and trashy clothes is not the same as wearing coveralls and a mask.”

But what is to become of that famed Slipknot ‘mystique’? Won’t it forever be ruined by the fact that Joey is the first of them to go mask-less? Joey downplays the importance of his decision, saying that the internet has basically removed whatever secrecy Slipknot had tried to maintain anyway.

“We meet and talk to the kids without our masks every day,” he points out. He also says that Slipknot’s singer Corey Taylor and guitarist Jim Root will soon be performing sans masks in their own side-project, Stone Sour.

“I’ve said this a million times before, but wearing the masks is what the music ‘made’ us do,” says Joey. “It was not to just hide our faces. After knowing what Kiss looked like without their make-up for so many years, when I went to see them on their reunion tour, I didn’t give a fuck if I knew what they looked like under their make-up. When I saw them in make-up, I said, ‘That’s fuckin’ Kiss’.”

Scheduling the Murderdolls sessions and upcoming tour was never an issue with Slipknot either. All of the nine members decided that their loving maggots could allow them a few months’ rest, and many of them are pursuing solo projects.

“It was a mutual decision,” says Joey, “It wasn’t like we all needed the time away from one another. I told them that I felt that this stuff was worthy of being put out on a record. I think that it’s worthy for people to see it live as well. I’ve been spinning upside-down on a drum riser for the past 10 months, and now I’m going to go jam with this other band for a while, and they were totally cool with that. They knew from the start, even before the first Slipknot record, that I was going to do this, so it was no surprise to them.”

As for the other members, this much is known. Tripp Eisen says he’s still very much a part of Static-X, who are just about ready to wrap up their touring scenario for 2002 and will immediately begin writing their third album. Singer Wednesday 13, recruited to replace Rejects singer Dizzy, is an aficionado of ‘80s glam acts like Pretty Boy Gloyd and Tuff, and claims, quite horrifically, to have the soundtrack albums to every one of Sylvester Stalone’s movies – including ‘Over The Top’ and ‘Rhinestone’. Wednesday, who speaks in a warm southern drawl, plays a big role in the band’s theme and sound. He explains the song ‘Dawn Of The Dead’.

“I’ve always loved that movie,” he says, “and I thought, ‘How great would it be to have a Quiet Riot, ‘Cum On Feel Tha Noize’-type chorus for a song like that?’.” The singer described the sound of Murderdolls as a “Frankenstein monster we stitched together.”

The two newest members are Ben and Erik, friends of Tripp’s from LA. They do not play on the record, and both were struggling musicians who felt left out by the onslaught of post-grunge blandness and down-tuned rap-rock. Secretly, they wished they’d get hired to play just this kind of balls-out rock that just didn’t seem to exist outside of their old CD collections. They were working in shops on trendy Melrose Avenue when Tripp gave them a call.

“Once we all agreed that Nikki Sixx was God, we knew they were the right guys,” observes Wednesday.

Joey is loath to describe the band’s sound as metal or punk, though clearly it has elements of both, as well as some of the more frenzied moments of Marilyn Manson’s catalogue. In particular, ‘Dead In Hollywood’ truly sounds as if the God Of Fuck was somewhere in the mix, lending a helping shout. As it turns out, Joey asked the man himself to contribute, but not on any of the songs that have turned up on the record.

“Marilyn’s a friend of mine and we’ve always helped each other out,” says Joey. “I played some guitar for him and hooked him up with a remix, which he just recently used on the ‘Resident Evil’ soundtrack. He said that he’s going to sing on one of our songs now.” Unfortunately, what with his own deadline looming shortly, Manson’s tracks – either ‘People Hate Me’ or ‘Nineteen Seventy 666’ – may have to wait until after the release of the new Manson disc.

If all this sleaze and disorderly conduct sounds a little backward thinking, it is no accident. Even Trip agrees that the ‘Dolls pay tribute to a bygone time.

“I feel that kids today don’t know about what we grew up on, and I think that we’re trying to bring the whole package to them. The Union Underground and Sinisstar are similar in the respect that they’re bringing trashy rock back, but we just feel like we can do it better.”

Wednesday speaks with an endearing confidence that borders on pride.

“Nobody’s done it to the extent that we will,” he brags. “There were bands like Buckcherry and Beautiful Creatures who were doing the whole Guns N’Roses rock thing, but nobody’s done it at the level that we’re going to.”

Without too much Slipknot business to attend to, aside from the upcoming Reading and Leeds appearances this summer, Joey is clearly basking in his new-found freedom. Returning from the bathroom after applying his make-up, he jokes that posing for photos in Slipknot is so much easier than this current Murderdolls shoot. “You just throw on a mask and make hand gestures!”

Joey says that he’s looking forward to sharing his band with the world, and playing guitar live.

“I think that we’re original, but we’re not trying to reinvent the wheel,” he muses. “I think that in Slipknot, we broke down a lot of doors. I’m very proud of that, and I’m very fulfilled there. This is just another way to keep the glass full.”

Murderdolls release their debut album, ‘Beneath (sic) The Valley Of The Murderdolls’, on August 19 via Roadrunner.

Doll Parts

Joey Jordison’s guide to his new bandmates…

Ben Graves Joey: “Again, Tripp found him. Does he look like Twiggy Ramirez? Absolutely no comment.”

Wednesday 13 Joey: “He and I wrote all the music and the lyrics together. It’s fun when we’re singing about grave robbing. It’s much more tongue-in-cheek than anything Slipknot’s ever done.”

Erik Griffin Joey: “Tripp brought him into the band. I saw a video that Tripp did of them jamming, and he looked right for the band.”

Tripp Eisen Joey: “When we met, we instantly knew that we had the same taste in music. I really love his leads on the album. Live he’s great, and he’s a great friend.”

[nomsthecat]

BREAKS INTO YOUR INBOX-- hello there :D

i suggest 12: candles, 16: in dreams, and 46: shimmer. you can use 1, two, or all three! leaves through the me shaped hole i've left

oooo finally answers this because it’s late at night and that’s when I write best :sun thumbs up:

be warned of angst

muhahaha. I’m so evil (also I don’t know the word count and too tired to check soz)

A flickering sea of candles surrounds you, and this little circular clearing you happen to be standing in. You can’t tell what the ground was made of, (if it was even there,) but the sky above shimmers with twinkling pinpricks of dazzling light. A constellation of stars that seems to reflect the candlelight.

The candles go on forever, eventually becoming nothing but blackened mist that twists and turns and eats the worn down wax like a life no longer lived. Maybe that was what the candles meant.

Life.

You would smile, you would be amazed at this once in a lifetime view, if only the weight in your stomach and the fogginess that make up your fragile consciousness didn’t nag at you.

If only it wasn’t telling you that this wasn’t right. You’re not supposed to be happy.

They’re supposed to be dead.

You can’t be happy like this. The one you looked at so fondly— (the ones you looked at so fondly you should say,) with warm colors of tan, yellow, oranges and reds… a perfect resemblance of the sun with triangular rays decorating a circular face, and then he, with shades of blues, silver, white and bright yellow, patterned with stars and the waning crescent of the moon. One meant to play, one meant to sleep, both meant to act.

Neither meant to live.

You reach out for what isn’t there. To cup the side of a circular face and to smile so softly at them, to let them know you’re here for them. You weren’t.

You weren’t there for them when the building was sent aflame, when the floor caved and when they were abandoned. Ruined.

You went back for them, you did- you tried.

They were left on the floor. A caretaker with none to care for and none to seek care from.

And now they stand before you. You reached out for what wasn’t there, and they reached back.

Cold metal hands you cannot feel cradle your hand close, against their irreparable chassis and close to where would have been a heart, should they have had one. A face unmistakable to you, crowned with both rays and a night cap outdated for this era. Both are just as broken as the other.

But oh.

His smile. A smile that you saw often, ever unmoving but filled with such emotion, now torn in half just like the rest of his face. One eye the color of marigold, and the other a burning red, but both look at you with a plead. With hope. With grief and loss.

You’re supposed to be dead. you could’ve whispered, but find yourself incapable to speak with them. And you find your hand reluctantly released from their caring hold, where instead they now hold a candle.

Just like the many that surround you, that envelop the rolling hills made of nothing in this moment that could be described as everything. But this candle. This candle with the wax nearly gone and the wick burned black till there was nothing more. There is no flame to burn because there is nothing.

They died in that fire.

They died in that fire and this is their goodbye.

A gentle weight is placed on top of your head. An animatronic leans over you, the candle gone and replaced with your hands.

You didn’t deserve their grief, you didn’t deserve to cry. So why do they hold you so close, and why do these tears fall?

.

.

.

You wake up.

Thank you puff for your lovely prompts I wave goodbye before putting plastic wrap over the you shaped hole in my inbox for when you next decide to visit<3 (prank em’ john/ref/silly)

[nadiegesabate1990]

What a nice girl!

This was my hairstyle in 2001. Medium-length hair and bangs on my forehead. People would see the photo and say, "That boy is homosexual." My father and mother twisted with laughter when they saw the photo.

To belittle me, people would say, "You look like your mother."

No!!! I look like my father. But I don't like to compare myself to anyone.

It's the only photo I have of myself as a child. Because my idiot mother lost it.

At the time, I used to look forward to getting home early and turning on the TV to watch cartoons. I remember Astroboy, Batman Beyond, and Spider-Man. But my father sold the satellite dish. I was very sad.

Then I bought a scooter. That toy was the best of all. But I realized that I was annoying people. I would ride on other people's sidewalks and I know they didn't like it. I had to get rid of it because it rusted and I still miss it a lot.

During party season, my grandmother's house would be filled with people. Relatives would come to visit us. I didn't like to see those people in my house, but my grandmother did. She was a whore. The good side was that she would let me lick the spoon when she finished making cakes. I would get a stomachache. The only good thing she did for me was when she told me that I had to drink orange juice so that I wouldn't get sick in the future. I also had another one that I called grandma, I liked her more. She was a very beautiful black woman. I had to distance myself because she was very sick and didn't recognize me anymore. She suffered from Alzheimer's.

I loved my school but going to school is very boring because there were subjects that I didn't like and I had to read or study. I was getting sick. I went to school in the morning, switched to the afternoon shift, and then they sent me to another school. My friends were very boring. I had a black classmate who told me, "Everyone in the class has traveled to the United States and if I didn't go it's because you're poor." And then I realized that she didn't want anything to do with me and I replied to her, "I don't want to go to the United States. I want to go to Argentina because only white people live there." I know she took it as a joke. But behind all of this, I just wanted to be close to my father. He was a teacher. I would skip a lot of classes, especially religion class. I would say I am a Jehovah's Witness. Then I would go to a video game arcade owned by a relative and spend some time there. I would play a cowboy game called Sunset Riders. At the time, I would pay 50 cents to play for half an hour. It's funny because I never skipped a physical education class. Until one day I gave up on all of that.

Here I am, Nadiege Sabate, 33 years old with a mohawk haircut and hair gel. People might think I'm a punk wearing my worn-out headphones and shirt, and with this peculiar hairstyle.

What else do you think of me? I'm just a scowling young woman making an irritating yet good sound, (And I don't share this with anyone). I'm influenced by the heavy sound of London rock and punk. Looking at me in the picture, some idiot might think; poor girl! Or they might think I'm a rat in the basement. But with my new music, I hope to get out of this ghetto and into the opera houses.

And some people say; you're from Pernambuco. No one will listen to your music. You're a Nazi! Remember?

You're right; I don't succeed because I'm from here.

But listen to my music, I combine an operatic voice with aggressive lyrics accompanied by punk rock and metal music.

[disticfiction]

Cable cried out, turning to face the man next to him. At least, he thought it was a man. He was blue with a slight stubble and a red crane-like object stuck to his head, but he was fastened in the same position. Both men were on their backs, their legs spread and cuffed by chains, and both writhed as a long speculum was inserted into their exposed pussy.

"S-stop it!" Cable roared, his cheeks blushing as the cold metal stretched his walls.

He wasn't sure where he was or what was being done to him, but nothing in the room looked human. He grit his teeth as a brief moment of pain was eclipsed by intense pleasure, his hole fighting against the blades as his fluids rushed to his cervix. It felt good. He hated it, but it felt good.

"Stop!" he begged, his clit growing harder the deeper he instrument dove. "I-I can't take it!"

His eyes winced as the pale creature, whatever it was, ignored him. All he could do was shake his head, trapped in his restraints, and take some selfish comfort in the fact that he wasn't alone. The man next to him, the blue alien, also blushed, his toes curling as his hole pried apart. His pleasure was also obvious, and something about it made Cable's stomach coil. Quickly, he looked away, but he couldn't block out the deep, riveting moans that filled the room, adding to his own.

"Y-Yondu," he stuttered.

Cable blinked. "What?"

"N-name's Yondu. How'd you get here?"

Cable struggled to think. The tool hit his end, earning a pleasant shriek, his head spinning. The creature was merciless, twisting the screw to open him wider. How did he get there? The last thing he remembered was Wade playing with some shiny stone. He warned him not to mess with it, but the incorrigible merc just wouldn't listen. He tossed it back and forth in his hands until, suddenly, a bright light blinded the old man, and when his sight returned he was surrounded by unfamiliar creatures. Understandably, they panicked, and the next thing he knew he was in chains, incarcerated.

"G-gonna cum!" Yondu wailed as a large brush rolled around inside his gape, tickling his walls. "Aaugh!"

His crease squeezed down on the speculum, but it couldn't close. The creature simply held the tool in place as it continued, scrubbing away, emotionless. Through his orgasm, Yondu shook so hard Cable could feel his own slab jitter from the vibrations.

He knew he would be next.

"Fuck!" Yondu cried, his chest heaving as the brush pulled out. "Oh fuck..."

He took a moment to recover as the creature handed the brush, coated with his fluids, to the one beside it. That one looked female. She nodded and handed a new brush to her colleague, who then shifted to Cable.

"No! Keep that thing away from me!"

"First time?" Yondu huffed. "Don' worry, it won' hurt none. They're just takin' samples."

"Samples of what?!"

"Diseases."

"I'm not diseased!"

"Me neither, but they don' care. They're bein' thorough."

Cable jerked his body, trying his best to break free, but the moment the bristles touched his uncovered walls and cervix, he gasped. Whatever it was made of, rubber or silicone, spoiled his nerves in the most unspeakable way. He realised then why the man next to him accepted the abuse so readily. It wasn't because he wanted to, it was because he had to. The pleasure broke his concentration, and all he could do was smile, his eyes rolling back as the object twisted inside him.

"Don' fight it," Yondu warned. "There ain't no point. Jus' cum."

"Oh God! Auuugh!"

A stream of clear liquid burst from his core as he quaked around the brush and speculum. The rough texture reminded him of Wade, which only added to the ecstasy. As much as that man drove him crazy, he knew how to fuck him in all the right ways. He couldn't handle it. To go from zero to one hundred so quickly was overwhelming, but wonderful.

"That was a good one," Yondu teased.

Cable opened his eyes, just in time to see the creature bag his sample. He blacked out. He actually blacked out, albeit for only a few seconds; but as the afterglow dimmed, he felt ashamed.

"I ... I can't believe I just--!"

"I know, man. I get it."

As both men wallowed in pity, the creature swivled two screens over their heads. As they flicked on, Cable found himself staring at a closeup image of Yondu's hole, which dripped and pulsed. He may have been an alien, but it looked very similar to his own, only a deep, irritated purple, and it looked distressed. A cloud of sorrow darkened his face as he realised, by the loose, wrinkled state of it, that the strange blue alien had likely been fucked many times.

"Please ... don' look at it."

"S-sorry!" Cable yelled, his eyes darting to the wall.

But part of him wanted to, just as Yondu wanted to look at his. Through lidded squints, he couldn't help but peak up at Cable's hole, his breath heavy. It was red and strained around the speculum, but even despite its tightness, its history of abuse was clear. The human, too, had been fucked many times.

"You'll make it through this, partner. Jus' accept it and it won't break ya. It'll only break yer cunt."

"That's not exactly--!"

"It's the best advice I got."

Cable locked eyes with the alien. He'd been through it many times, he could tell, and likely alone. He didn't know why he could understand him or where he was or what even happened, but he took some solace in knowing that someone was on his side. He'd never felt so vulnerable, so helpless, but at least he wasn't alone.

"What happens now?"

"Well, if yer sample comes back clear, they'll test yer stamina."

"My what?"

Before Yondu could answer, a machine in the background dinged loudly with a green light. To that, the creatures nodded, and the female ran to her colleague with a large, phallic device.

"I guess you'll find out now," Yondu sighed.

His speculum was slowly removed, his slick clinging to the blades, as his jagged teeth bit his lip. Though empty, his hole still gaped, and Cable couldn't keep himself from watching the screen with both morbid and terrified curiosity. Still reeling from its first orgasm, the hole winked, pangs of pleasure shooting up Yondu's spine and down his legs. It was oddly arousing, though Cable tried to deny it.

"Wh-what are they gonna do?"

"Whaddya think?" Yondu scoffed, his spirit shattered. "Test my stamina."

The thick, massive dildo attached to a long, metal pole, then forced into his cunt with the push of a button. Immediately Yondu arched back, as much as his cuffs would allow, and screamed. His voice was low and rugged, but riddled with bliss. His face glowed and eyes watered as the toy thrust in and out at an inexcusable pace, stretching his hole to its limit, but wrapping him in a suffocating blanket of euphoria.

"Oh God..." Cable wisped as he watched the machine pound Yondu's hole to ruin.

"F-fuck! Aaaaugh!"

He came, and Cable's own hole throbbed with envy as Yondu's orgasm veered out of control. Sweat and tears rolled down his face, the machine punching through every wave, every convulsion. It didn't stop.

"Turn it off!" Cable growled to his captors. "Can't you see it's too much for him?!"

The creature pointed to his screen, and Cable watched as Yondu's walls gripped the edges, desperate for more. His hole, it liked the trauma--loved it. Even if Yondu couldn't take anymore, his hole betrayed him.

"Oh, yeah! Do it! Come on! Fuck me!"

Cable's heart shank as Yondu's hips began to buck with the thrusting. Watching him lose control, watching his tongue hang out as he lost himself in the pleasure, made him gulp. And when he came a third time, Cable couldn't help but reach out for his hand. In response, Yondu clutched his fingers, thankful for that small, merciful purchase. He needed it.

"ҕѬӃҵҿҴѬ. ӁұҾѬӅ. ѬҼҸҭҺұӀѺѬҜҸ."

Cable heard the strange language, then the same beeping as before. He knew what it meant. His sample was clean. Slowly, his speculum, which had nearly numbed his hole, was removed, drenched in his fluids. Like Yondu, a gape remained, pulsing in anticipation.

It was time.

Weakly, Cable lifted his head, pupils shallow as he watched another huge dildo clip to the pole between his legs. He didn't think it would fit, but he felt a warm sense of comfort as Yondu, still moaning and squealing, grasped his fingers harder.

"Y-you got this, boy!"

Cable's vision blurred and flashed with white as the girthy length tore through him, banging his end. He was right, it was too big, yet he found himself viciously enraptured. Drool flew from his mouth as he screamed, his walls scrambling to adjust. It was so good. So wrong, but so good.

"Watch my hole, boy! Jus' focus on me!"

Cable came, his deep sobs echoing off the walls. Watching that bluish cunt get annihilated, and knowing his own hole was going through the same torment, wasn't the distraction Yondu thought it would be. If anything, it was all the more exciting.

"My hole!"

Yondu gripped harder. "It'd gettin' fucked, boy, but you'll make it through this! J-jus'--! Auuuugh!"

They came together, eyes rolling back. The toy was ploughing so fast, it blurred on the screen, sending both men spiraling into madness. Hot, brutal, relentless madness. The abuse dragged on for another hour, which felt like an eternity, before both machines came to a grinding halt, a red flash blinking at the side.

As they trembled and heaved, both dildos were slipped from their holes, which spurt and spasmed with the most magnificent damage either of them ever thought possible. Though they couldn't speak, they whimpered, each one catching a glimpse of the other's battered gape. So stretched, so swollen. Different species, yet the same experience, the same elation. Every muscle in their body twitched, spent but overestimated.

They would never be the same again.

"C-C-Cable..." the man coughed, fading into an irresistible slumber.

"Wh-what?"

"M-my n-name ... is Cable."

Yondu barley managed half a grin. "N-nice cunt, Cable."

Cable wheezed, a laugh too difficult to muster. "Y-you, too."

"ҕѬӃҵҿҴѬ ӀһѬүһҺ ҽӁұҾѬӅһӁҾѬҼҸҭҺұӀѺѬҜ ҸұҭҿұѬҰһ ҺѳӀѬӀұҸҸѺ."

"...What's that mean?" Cable asked, losing consciousness.

Though out of strength, Yondu refused to let go of his new friend's hand. "...D-don' worry about it, boy."

He too slipped away, knowing full well that there was plenty more to worry about.

[chrisbale1199]

The Art of Curating: Incorporating Vintage Photography into Modern Interiors

Bringing the past into the present is an art form in itself, and one of the most captivating ways to do this is through vintage photography. Imagine a room filled with sleek, modern furniture, and then picture a black-and-white photograph from the early 1900s hanging on the wall. The contrast immediately adds intrigue, depth, and a sense of history. This fusion of old and new, particularly with antique photography, is a growing trend that not only beautifies but also personalizes your living space. But why does this pairing work so well? Let’s dive into the unique aesthetic that vintage photography brings to modern interiors.

Why Vintage Photography Fits Modern Interiors

One of the most exciting aspects of this photography is its ability to tell a story. Each photo is like a time capsule, capturing moments from another era. When you blend these historic images with sleek, modern decor, the result is an eclectic mix that feels both nostalgic and contemporary. Think of it as mixing old wine with new glassware — you get the best of both worlds. The antique photography pieces stand out as statement elements, subtly adding layers of history and depth to otherwise minimalist settings.

What makes this photography even more appealing is its timelessness. Unlike some contemporary art that can fade out of style, antique photographs have already stood the test of time. Whether you're drawn to sepia-toned family portraits or atmospheric landscapes, these pieces are guaranteed to add a lasting touch of elegance to your home.

Tips for Curating Vintage Photography in Your Home

Curating vintage photography isn’t just about hanging pictures on the wall — it’s about creating a conversation between the past and present. Start by selecting frames that enhance the photograph without overshadowing it. Wooden frames can lend a rustic touch, while metallic or black frames offer a modern twist to antique images.

Lighting also plays a crucial role. Think of your home as a gallery where each photograph deserves its own spotlight. Soft lighting will enhance the details in your vintage pieces and create a warm, inviting atmosphere. As for placement, balance is key. A vintage photo gallery wall or a single large photograph over the mantel can serve as the focal point of the room.

Conclusion

Incorporating this photography into your modern interior is like inviting a whisper of history into your home. It’s a way to create a curated, personalized space that feels both timeless and contemporary. For authentic and beautifully curated pieces, explore the stunning collections at leading online auction platform Bidsquare. With an array of carefully sourced vintage photography and antique photography, you're bound to find the perfect piece that not only complements your decor but also sparks curiosity and conversation.

FAQs

How do I know which vintage photograph fits my modern space?

Choose a photo that complements your color scheme or adds a striking contrast to make it a focal point.

What kind of frame works best for vintage photography?

Simple black or metallic frames work well in modern spaces, while wooden frames can add a vintage flair.

Can I mix vintage and contemporary photos in the same room?

Absolutely! Mixing eras adds depth and interest to your space.

What lighting should I use to highlight vintage photography?

Use soft, focused lighting to enhance details without casting harsh shadows.

Where can I buy authentic vintage photography?

You can find a wide selection of authentic vintage and antique photography at Bidsquare.

[squarebill]

so, how did you and your Ford get together?

IT'S A LONG STORY WITH MANY TWISTS AND TURNS. I'LL TRY TO SUMMARIZE. FIRST, A LITTLE BACKGROUND: IN ONE OF MY FAVORITE DIMENSIONS - ALSO KNOWN AS MY FORDSY'S DIMENSION, I GOT BANISHED FROM THAT UNIVERSE'S ENTIRE EARTH FOR COMPLETELY UNFAIR REASONS. I PRACTICALLY ELEVATED THE HUMAN RACE DUE TO ALL THE THINGS I SOLD THEM, AND THAT WAS THE THANKS I GOT? TERRIBLE. ANYWAY, IN MY FORDSY'S DIMENSION, A LOT OF THINGS HAPPENED DIFFERENTLY THAN IT DOES IN MOST DIMENSIONS WITH A STANFORD PINES; THOUGH, SOME THINGS ARE ALSO SIMILAR. FORDSY AND STANLEY'S RELATIONSHIP BROKE APART IN THEIR YOUNG ADULTHOOD, BUT IT WASN'T DUE TO A SABOTAGED SCIENCE PROJECT. STANLEY BECOMES A WANTED CRIMINAL AND CON ARTIST BUT ONLY AFTER HE DESERTED IN THE WAR BETWEEN THE BRITISH EMPIRE AND CHINA. FORDSY BECOMES A SCIENTIST, BUT... SEE, HE DOES END UP BREAKING MY BANISHMENT SPELL AND SUMMONING ME VIA ONE OF MY "BUSINESS CARDS"! I KNEW RIGHT AWAY I WAS DEALING WITH A GENIUS. IT WAS PERFECT! GENIUSES LOVE FANCY TECH AND MAGICAL DOODADS. YOU CAN HAWK SO MUCH JUNK TO THEM, IT'S INSANE. THEY EVEN LIKE SCRAP METAL! BUT I HAD NO INTEREST IN BUILDING A PORTAL TO THE NIGHTMARE REALM - I DON'T LIKE OTHER BILLS MUSCLING IN ON AREAS I CONSIDER "MY TURF." PLUS HAVING A BASE OF OPERATIONS IN THE RETAIL DIMENSION COMES WITH PERKS. SURE, THERE ARE A FEW "RULES" THAT I HAVE TO "FOLLOW" BUT I FEEL LIKE I HAVE A LOT MORE FREE REIGN THAN BILLS THAT ARE REGULATED TO THE NIGHTMARE REALM. SO, FORDSY WAS UP TO A DIFFERENT PROJECT ENTIRELY. FOR A WHILE, I DIDN'T REALLY CARE WHAT HE WAS UP TO AS LONG AS HE KEPT COMING TO ME FOR STUFF AND SELLING HIS VALUABLES - PREVIOUS BIRTHDAY PRESENTS, A SIGNED COPY OF ONE OF HIS FAVORITE BOOKS, HOMEWORK WITH NOTES OF PRAISE WRITTEN IN THE MARGINS BY HIS PROFESSORS - MAN, I LOVE HIM BUT WHAT A NERD! I EVEN GOT HIS LEFT KIDNEY! BUT THERE WAS JUST SOMETHING ABOUT HIM. WHEN I FIRST SHOOK HIS HAND AND DISCOVERED HE HAD SIX FINGERS INSTEAD OF FIVE. HIS WONDER OF ME. HIS ADORATION. HOW DETERMINED HE WAS TO PROVE HIMSELF. I DUNNO. IT ALL CAME TO A HEAD WHEN I GOT CURIOUS AND LOOKED AT WHAT HE WAS BUILDING WITH HIS FRIEND WHO HAD RESERVATIONS ABOUT THE PROJECT. IT WAS A MACHINE SPECIFICALLY DESIGNED TO GENERATE ANOMALIES. FUN STUFF! EXCEPT AT THE RATE HE WAS GOING, THAT MACHINE WAS PROBABLY GOING TO CAUSE HIS DIMENSION TO COLLAPSE LIKE CARDBOARD. IT FELT KIND OF FAMILIAR FOR SOME REASON.

HUH. KIND OF BLACKED OUT A MINUTE THERE. WHERE WAS I? OH, RIGHT. FORDSY ASKED ME FOR ONE LAST PIECE OF EQUIPMENT TO FINISH HIS PROJECT. AND I HAD JUST WHAT HE NEEDED, BUT IT WAS GOING TO COST HIM A LOT. WHAT HE HAD ON OFFER? A PHOTOGRAPH OF HIM AND HIS BROTHER WHEN THEY WERE KIDS. WELL-WORN. CARRIED FOR YEARS NEXT TO ONE OF HIS MOST VITAL AND OFTEN ROMANTICIZED ORGANS: HIS HEART. IT WAS WORTH A FORTUNE. I COULD'VE GOTTEN A RAISE MAYBE WITH THAT KIND OF SALE! MAYBE. IT'S ALWAYS A BIT IFFY WHEN YOU'RE DEALING WITH ELDRITCH AI OVERLORDS IN A CAPITALISTIC HELLSCAPE KNOWN AS RETAIL. SO, YOU KNOW, I ASKED IF WE COULD TALK. JUST TALK. AHAHAHAHA! ABOUT BUSINESS, OF COURSE! DEFINITELY NOT ABOUT... LONELINESS OR FEELINGS OR OR OR... WE TALKED FOR DAYS. LOOK, I TRIED MY BEST TO GET THAT PHOTOGRAPH, BUT IN THE END, FORDSY DECIDED TO KEEP IT AFTER ALL AND SHUT DOWN HIS PROJECT. A GOOD THING, TOO! COULD YOU IMAGINE THE LOSS OF THE CUSTOMER BASE? I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT DECISION HE MADE. HE MADE IT ON HIS OWN. IT WASN'T MY FAULT! SURE, AFTERWARDS, I MADE SURE TO PUT IN A REQUEST FOR TIME OFF THAT I HADN'T ASKED FOR IN BILLIONS UPON BILLIONS OF YEARS BECAUSE THE BOSSES GET TOUCHY ABOUT PERSONAL STUFF ON COMPANY TIME. BUT THAT WAS FOR UNRELATED REASONS THAT STILL INVOLVED FORDSY. THERE WAS NO CATALYZING EVENT. IT WAS ALL THOSE INTERDIMENSIONAL CHESS GAMES WE PLAYED! I SOLD HIM ONE OF THOSE, TOO! NOW, DO YOU WANNA BUY SOMETHING OR NOT?

[daggerzine]

45 With An Epic(Part 3): Ben Holton interviewed by Eric Eggleson

What comes first, lyrics or melody? Melody first, always. I really do believe you find the best melodies by ‘free singing’ over the music. Even lyrics can stick from this approach too. That said, I do write lyrics, but never usually have any music in mind when I’m writing them. They can then be twisted into shape using the melody I’ve come up with at a later date. What instrument do you usually begin writing songs with? Probably the guitar. However, I actually find it a lot more satisfying starting from unusual samples and loops, even rhythms. I’m finding more and more that melodies and lyrics can form over the most abstract and sparse sound beds; then you can add flesh to the bones gradually. I really like starting off really minimally and going from there. If you could switch to any other type of music, what would it be? Why? Probably some kind of metal or noise thing, as I like the freedom and release that comes with that kind of stuff. But I’d also love to make jazz-based music too and not knowing any techniques or being particularly proficient makes that quite an exciting prospect. Other than that, maybe some kind of minimal techno stuff would be fun too. How has Covid-19 affected you? For starters, it resulted in the cancellation of a tour of Japan in 2020. That was a pretty massive blow. We don’t really play live a lot, so I suppose it didn’t make too much difference in that area. To be honest, it’s Brexit that has had the most effect. It has made touring Europe a lot harder and also selling records. How has Covid-19 affected your songwriting? That’s hard to say. In 2020, we released the We Were Never Here photobook and album and I think a lot of people thought it was a response to what was happening, but we’d started work on it a few months prior. It just so happened to chime, eerily, with the times. However, the songs I wrote during the lockdowns, that eventually appeared on You’ll Only See Us When The Light Has Gone were definitely coming from a place of further scrutinization of society, possibly due to having a lot more time to (over)think things. Any new bands you like or would recommend? I have to say, I don’t really get a lot out of listening to new bands, apart from in the extreme metal side of things (which I won’t go into here – oh, go on then, listen to the latest Thantifaxeth album). (Wow, I just listened to “Solar Witch,” quite a difference from epic45!) Yes, indeed! But probably one of the most unique and exciting artists I’ve heard in recent times is Fire-Toolz, who makes an insane mash of vaporwave, shoegaze, dreampop, smooth jazz, and black metal. It’s like all of those things filtered through Autechre/Aphex Twin/Oneohtrix Point Never. Other than that, I just listen to tons of ECM artists from the 70s, 80s and 90s. How is the album, You'll Only See Us When The Light Has Gone selling? Pretty well, nearly out of the vinyl edition and a few CDs left. I’m amazed we sell as many as we do in this age of streaming, etc. It’s certainly nowhere near what we used to sell though, but times are different and weird now. Finish this sentence: I want to be remembered for… Sticking doggedly to my own lonely furrow.

(left to right: Rob Glover and Ben Holton; photo: Rob Glover)

http://epic45.com/

https://store.waysideandwoodland.com/

https://waysideandwoodlandrecordings.bandcamp.com/

[fitz202]

My Writing

The River Queen Part 1

The Airboat cruised across the placid black water, carelessly swerving between the twists and turns of the river. The world around me began to mesh into a blur of tangled saw grass and towering cypress trees. Each sharp erratic turn felt like a moment from disaster, my stomach seemingly knotting itself together, encouraging a vile stream of bile to escape me. Disregarding my unwarranted fears, the Airboat skillfully drifted between the unmarked river bends, carrying us further into this alien world.

"You boys ever been to the Everglades?" A thick southern voice did its best to cut through the roaring whooping of the Airboat's propeller blades cutting through the dense swampy air around us. Behind my surprisingly cushioned black leather seat was a short middle-aged man who sat perfectly above us. His seat was positioned just behind the boat's rusted prop cage; the only indication of his position was the long, rusted silver pole that steered us.

"Say that again, Jack?" to my left, Elliot's voice also attempted to cut through the constant droning whir of the propeller blades. But, unfortunately, Elliot didn't carry the same amount of southern charm or power capable of reaching past the Airboat's constant roar.

My gaze shifted to Elliot, the blonde doing his best to keep his back straight as the boat rocked and churned. He was my age, going to turn twenty-one this coming year, precisely one month before I did. He was a six foot one, maybe even a generous six-two; it didn't help that he never slouched his back, always a pillar of the male figure. The man had a well-built rectangular frame, nothing too crazy, just the benefits of playing baseball most of his life.

I always thought he should have shifted his attention to running my argument, being supported by what I thought were some of the soundest and most compelling benefits paired with athletic activity. But instead, the brief time between or after his four-hour practices consisted of video games, pizza, and me relentlessly begging the guy to move his attention to the Track team. Between slices, I would list the benefits it would provide, including but not limited to less than four-hour practices, meetings including girls, physical endurance, and, oh yeah, Girls!

It bewildered me that a young man who had chosen to avoid the polluted mesh of garbage and sugar-filled traps that had taken so much of America's youth had such a bad streak with women. Maybe it was his sense of clothing, but then again, anyone in shape could pull off at least, in my mind, the classic workout garb.

Looking at him now, Elliot had tucked his thick blonde hair beneath the restricting confines of a simple crimson-red baseball cap with ivory-white eyelets and a coal-black interior. The hat was paired with a jet-black Adidas sports shirt. The thin black fabric didn't strain against his chest but provided an excellent outline of his well-trimmed form. The shirt was neatly tucked into the well-rimmed confines of crimson red Nike shorts, perhaps a shade darker than his cap. I cringed at the ivory-white brands stapled onto his chest and legs.

The guy looked like a walking-talking ad for baseball. Still, besides my petty envy, I couldn't deny that my friend made the outfit work, becoming a trim crimson-black staple of masculinity hidden within the Spanish moss and cypress of the swamp.

In a flash, mear moments after Elliot's question, the airboats screaming blades began to fade, and the flying scrap metal we had found ourselves in slowly began to ease closer to a standstill. As the boat's roar gradually halted, reducing its invasive presence out of the swamp, Jack motioned for us to remove our headphones.

"Sorry, boys, we don't usually drift this late at night," Jack was what I imagined to be the very embodiment of the rumored Southern charm. Jack looked to be in his forties but talked with the attitude of a guy in his eighties. His educated and well-formed words carried the cheerful and somewhat alien addition of unknown phrases and slang that I didn't dare to repeat. When some unknown group of medium-sized birds had flown from a patch of sawgrass earlier, Jack had pulled the boat to an immediate stop. Then, frantically motioning towards the retreating birds, Jack began to ramble about grass guzzlers and frog-stealing buzzards.

"Well, we don't usually go air boating, so we're a little too dumb to notice a good night from a shit one," The sound of my voice uncensored by the confines of the sound-dampening headphones gave some form of bliss relief to my growing anxiety. But, unfortunately, the grim reality beyond the small motorized steel fan was a shrouded and unrecognizable environment. The only prominent light source was the blinding LED flood light perched an inch above Jack's chair. However, even this tiny spark of clearance was nothing against the towering cypress and unending saw grass around us.

Maybe it was that after an hour of drifting, the only animals we saw were the veiled outlines of retreating birds. We were in the heart of the Everglades, drifting amidst the night common sense, and Jack told us that the more appealing and crowd-driven animals were more active among the moonlight. And sure, we heard them every time we stopped; a mixture of clicks, chirps, and low growls emanated from the hidden world around us. But it seemed like every time we stopped and Jack positioned the light for a look, our reward was nothing, not a trace of their existence or a hint of their presence.

The absence of animals was my main disappointment and the most prominent factor contributing to my growing fear of the swampy landscape around us. Seeing the animals would have eased my nerves but hearing them snorting and stirring around us from seemingly all corners was beginning to make me doubt the security of the boat. Unjustified fears of pumas or gators breaching the darkness around us filled my consciousness, their unseen bright yellow eyes burning into my soul. The beast's teeth and claws rip into my flesh, dragging my mutilated body into the water, my screams echoing throughout the night.

"Haha, HA! That certainly is accurate; most of you Yankees don't dare dream of a ride through the Muck City," Jack's laughter broke my conscious away from the unjust fears plaguing the tips of my mind. It was impossible not to love the man. His ever-consistent warm white, tooth smile, and odd silver-witted tongue instantly washed the aimless worries from me.

Jack was tan, unlike the nice coat of Florida bronze; no, this forty-something-year-old man had the recovering burnt tan look. He was a short man, roughly five foot eight, and to be frank, Elliot or I could take him. He had warm, welcoming navy blue eyes and a stern yet soft nose that, and his melting southern smile, gave his objectively sharp face a respectful well kept but welcoming look. A short, well-defined chin was hidden poorly behind the long, silver stubble beard.

I initially expected our guide to be a young, spry man with a thick, tangled mess of hair that risked being eaten by the Airboat's propeller. Instead, Jack was an appropriate correction to my northern expectations. A welcoming funny, charismatic man filled with all sorts of unknown jargon, all topped off with a thin cut mesh of ivory white hair. He wore a pair of ridiculously short khaki shorts and a light brown fishing vest, and as if to piss someone off, Jack tried to point out his abnormity. Revealing his footwear, Jack declared himself a man of many passions, socks, and free toes being one of them. Before I could register what he was referring to, Jack displayed his left foot bare, his toes wiggling in the humid Florida air. And before I could protest, his right soon joined the left, a concealed and misplaced sock obstructing his feet from the crisp air.

Elliot rightfully didn't much care. I mean, who would but as soon as Jack had declared this rightfully strange choice, I immediately got on board. Both figuratively, and I was in the Airboat ten seconds later, his left barefoot, not even a foot away from the back of my head. Sure, Elliot had looked at me like I would a furry, his hazel eyes looking down upon me with disappointment and just plain-ass confusion, but I returned a look that could be determined as "fuck it." Truthfully Jack had the character I had wanted but, frankly, had never expected.

What we were doing was insane, an airboat tour in the freaking Everglades. It was, on paper, one of the strangest excursions one could take in Florida besides perhaps going to Florida. Jack instantly sold the trip and calmed all the unjust fears I roused, leading to this financially and morally questionable decision.

"Come on now, Jack, don't tell me you are disappointed. Look at it this way two strapping young Yanke boys from the city taken deep into the heart of the Everglades," I did my best to lower my voice and attempted in some way to convey the strong, brave young man I was pretending to be. Jack's thin sunburnt lips slowly leaned into a grin revealing his goldenrod teeth shining in the darkness. I nodded to Elliot moving my eyebrows to emphasize my unspoken request, silently praying the dolt would pick up where I left off.

"Yeah, what other idiots are going to be doing this," Not what I exactly wanted, but Jack's short spurts of exaggerated crackling laughter seemed to confirm he had won.

"Hehe, you boys are the sweetest little fools I've had on this job," Jack laughed, his right arm beating his chest, forcing his wheezing body to breathe through the cringefest that was our humor. Elliot's cheeks quickly burned a bright red, clearly embarrassed by Jack's infectious laughter. Sadly Jack's inhuman chuckling claimed me, and before I could catch myself, the swamps ambiance was dulled by the exaggerated fits of laughter between myself and this five-foot legend.

For a solid minute, we laughed, the boat quickly drifting through the three feet of water beneath us. My nerves had magically vanished, vanquished by the odd chemistry shared between our strange little boat. I was wiping a tear from my eye when the stirring world around us seemed to introduce itself, a small bird-like chirp.

"What was th-" Whatever Elliot was going to ask was silenced by one quick and decisive shoosh from Jack, his blistered-up finger pushed against his dry lips. The man slowly shook his eyes, narrowing his gaze to the thick roots of the cypress beside us. Jack slowly began to turn the boat, his hand gently moving the rudder, his eyes never leaving the towering trees beside us.

The Cypress trees, in a way, seemed almost alien, a forest of towering pines growing beneath the water. Natural cages formed by the thin grey roots stuck prominently out of the water leading to a thick ash-grey trunk that reached into the mossy canopy above. Seeing the stems of the trees sticking arrogantly above the water didn't seem right. Jack flashing the bright flood light didn't give them any sense of ease or familiarity either. Instead, Jack's light surveyed the water, casting large, intimidating shadows across the water beyond the cypress cages and sage moss. A series of unnatural shapes and nightmares were born from the artificial light moving along the swamps facet.

His light pierced through the water, the inky black cover turning a murky but more transparent shade of sable. Slowly the world below was revealed to us, the floodlight displaying the intricate but tangled mesh of tubes stemming from beneath a series of endless basil lilies. The short stems descended to the muddy floor below, reaching between the edges and cracks of the massive pebble-like rocks littered amongst the murky shallows.

"What are we looking for ?" Elliot's voice was barely above a whisper, but Jack nonetheless cast him a sharp stern look. There was nothing aggressive or demanding, just a clear signal that we needed to be quiet. However, another small chirp echoed through the area as if in reply. Jack's gaze shifted, his light trailing quickly behind him, focussing our attention on a lone Cypress sticking the farthest from the shallow forest to our left, its roots barely visible, most of its intrinsic stems swallowed by the channel.

"We're looking for a pod of hatchlings," as if on cue, a cacophony of chirps and gentle splashes erupted from the tree. Three pairs of tinny golden orbs popped into existence, moving blissfully across the water's surface, retreating further into the forest cover.

"Oh my god," I felt the words escape me without thinking. They were baby alligators. My mind questioned my presumptions, but what other creature could it be not? My assumption was undoubtedly correct. The light outlined the small reptilians silhouette hidden beneath the water. The three rushed their petite bodies, desperately retreating more profoundly into the cypress trees.

"That boy is what we call a group of hatchlings," Jack leaned his head out of the boat, his frame scanning what lay behind the ship. Elliot had already taken his phone out, zooming in on the baby crocodilians. Jack's words took a minute to register within me; however, my head gears slowly turned into realization, my form creeping towards the boat's center, and my body pressed hard against my seat.

"yeah, these three are a long way from the main congregation, but I suppose Margret didn't want them near the mainstream," I glanced at Elliot, his form, however, over the edge of the boat, his frame dipping towards the border of the swamps territory. I wanted to say anything to warn him of the nature I could only rationalize through my unjust fears. Surprising. However, I wasn't given a chance. In a flash, Jack moved to intercept the blonde, a single arm dragging Elliot's body back into the confines of the Airboat, slamming his back against the crumbled black and crusty grey leather seat.

Elliot moved to protest, his face slightly red from both shock and anger. Still, in a quick movement, Jack was between us, his body moving gracefully among the boat, steeping intricately between us until his frame was mere inches from the water's edge. The swamp man popped a small flashlight from his front pocket, gracefully flipping it into the left side of his mouth, his free hands never leaving the boat's stability.

"Look, arth herth," his flashlight gleamed directly beside the boat, its sheen piercing through the shallow muck that was the swamp. His eyes gestured for us to come forward, but his hands separated us from the vulnerable expanse of water beyond the boat. Slowly Elliot and I approached Jack, our eyes following the light he provided.

What I saw slowly crept into actual unfiltered realization. Hidden among the veil of the depths of the swamp below its surface was the broad intimidating snout of an Aligator. An enormous alligator lurks just beneath the bog. Its very head alone scaled surprisingly well with the boat itself. The dark black scales shining off of Jack's tiny flashlight illuminated its form obviously within the night.

"It's a fucking Dinosaur," the words left my head without my mind truly addressing what was happening. It was huge looking at it from above; the overgrown reptile's long rounded snout and orange beady eyes were only a fraction of the titanic form lurking beneath the boat. God, how it left so much to the imagination. The cruel visage of a titan, a monster lurking beneath the small little airship, filled my mind.

"That boys is mother Bell," Jack slowly turned the boat to the left, revealing the rest of the massive reptile. I felt my breath stop, and the urge to fight or flee began to stir. She could easily tip the boat and be in her world at the monster's mercy. Delusions of my body ripped to sunders and strewn across the swamp filled my head. I felt my cheeks burn a bright red and winced at every bead of sweat dripping down my rosy face.

"Dude, Holly shit, she's huge," Elliot's shrill voice cut through my delusions, his form edging over the railing of the boat and staring into the mass that was the alligator beneath us. Jack began to laugh, his condition still preventing Elliots from falling into the swamp.

"Isn't she beautiful, boys, a creature lost to time ruler of these waters," Jack moved himself to sit beside Elliot, his body cramping the shared space between us. Then, in one swift motion, he lifted the cushion from Elliot's seat and revealed a hidden cooler. The stark white plastic was covered in light pink and brown stains, and in one swift motion, Jack popped out an entirely plucked chicken. Translucent yellow water dripped onto the boat's haul before he chucked the dead animal a few feet away from the ship.

"Boys, sit down and watch the show," With that said, Jack almost simultaneously moved back to his seat while the Aligator or Bell dropped beneath the surface of the flood light. Her body was lost to the swamp. Elliot and I took Jack's advice and strapped ourselves into our seats. Elliot took a moment to wipe whatever remnant of the chicken had infected his side of the boat.

For a moment, silence infected the bog around us. The constant buzz and chirping of the insects and frogs seemed to become nothing more than a distant memory. The creepy energy they had once presented was quickly missed because this silence was fucking killing me. God, I knew there were alligators, but this thing was huge. Any clue or sign of its whereabouts would be appreciated, but now the swamp decides to shut up because a dinosaur chose to show its fat stubby head.

"Does she usually take this long," Elliot broke the silence, his words cutting through my meager defenses. I turned to him in a flash, my face plastered with malicious intentions.

"Elliot, for the love of god, shut the fuck-" the creature burst from the water. Then, like a giant belching, a low bellow echoed throughout the bog as the giant reptile sprinted across the water's surface toward the chicken. A mixture of blood scales and water seemed to blur together, the animal ripping through the dead bird, its contents staining the swamp around us. Bits of flesh and skin are now floating around us, the smell of the carcass filling the air. It was inevitable that someone would get sick. I just thought it was going to be me.

Elliot appeared at the side of the boat in a flash, his head bobbing over the edge mere inches from the water. A bucket of chum leaked into the swamp, and a bittersweet smell of vomit followed. For a moment, I thought the sight and smell of the vomit would provoke my own body to exert the vile substance from within me. But instead, a loud series of infectious laughter filled the space behind us as Jack's body began to cough up rather unhealthy spurts of joy. His body seemed to spasm with pleasure, his head rolling in harmony with his laughter, tears flowing unaltered down his tanned face.

Eliot and I shared a look before it could register within me; however, Elliot's face still held pasty chunks of road-stop junk food. Nevertheless, his dumbass look of confusion was comedy gold, and I soon found myself laughing along with a jack. My sharp cackle silenced Jack for a moment before he pointed at me and laughed.

"God, Sean, why do you sound like a dying bird," Elliot wiped his face, and Suddenly, we found ourselves laughing with the crazy fucker, his joy infecting us a few feet away from the ravenous monster. The moment lasted for probably a solid two minutes more than it should have, but some form of my instinct believed that denial in this pathetic form was better than the fear of the still ravenous beast feeding nearby.

"Ok, boys, that was real swell, but I think we should meet up at the boat and head home," Jack wiped tears from his eyes as he spoke, his body finally recovering from the session we all experienced.

"Oh, come on, we just started," It felt like I was punching the words out of my body, hints of hysterics across my face as I desperately attempted to establish my stature. Even Elliot seemed to have his head screwed back on straight, his once-flushed face reverting to his pale baseball tan. Slowly I eased myself back into my chair before whatever Southern explanation I was about to receive.

"We're on borrowed time, Boys last thing we want is to be late for our Midnight Snack," Elliot and I looked at each other, confusion plastered across our faces. Jack rushed us initially onto the boat quickly. His greeting was quick, and his safety rules regarding the ship were even faster. The man stated roughly put on your headphones and stay in your seat. If you fuck up, you die. He then laughed, sat in his chair, waited two seconds for us to strap in, and informed us that halfway through the tour was a prepared meal swamp style.

"Marry hates it when I'm late for dinner, plus she got two other girls with her tonight, so think of it as a triple date, gentlemen. I got top hats ready for us in the back," an exaggerated wink followed his rather blunt rebuttal, the man taking one last look at the gator, which had by now ceased its assault on the dead bird. Its massive form had floated just above the surface, the bulky mass of scales and muscle, and of course, every light shown near the creature illuminated a pair of glowing orange eyes that still sent a chill down my spine.

"I feel like this is the first cool thing we've seen all night. But, come on, Jack, let's not leave just yet," Jack didn't respond, nor did he express any interest in my proposal. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the alligator, never straying from its stationary form.

That's when I heard the small snap or slap that sent a pathetic echo through the water. It was a weird noise to describe the best thing my mind could come up with for reference was a child no older than five slapping their hands against the chlorine-filled pool. Before I could comment on how sad the noise was, another relatively low clap popped into our peripheral, a few feet to our left, a good two feet from the alligator. My head snapped to the source, my eyes searching the water Jack's floodlight rotated from left to right, slowly surveying the swamp's surface. We looked like cops searching for an escaped convict. All we needed was some guns and dogs; if I was realistic, one of the two had a seventy percent chance of being present on the boat.

Suddenly Jack's floodlights focused on a tiny black silhouette moving slowly beneath the surface of the water. I thought it was big fish for a moment, but as the light loomed longer on the tiny creature moving among the lilies and weeds, I felt a grim sense of familiarity.

"You know what, Sean, maybe your right. Maybe we should stay a little longer," Jack leaned down to my ear level. A wave of days-old meals and chewed-up tobacco filled my nose, his hot breath steaming down my neck.

"Maybe we should get closer," I wanted to yell, and I tried to punch the charming man even more. However, his implications sent panic throughout my body, and before I could respond, the once-hidden form revealed what I had initially suspected.

"Awe, it is one of the babies," Elliot's words cut through my panic and immediately ruined whatever suspense jack was building on. Jack recoiled from his looming position in defeat, and I was brought back into reality, relishing in my unearned victory. Jack moved us closer to the baby, its form now fully revealed to us, the tiny infant swimming gracefully through the bog with a ripped-off chunk of the chicken. Finally, Jack cruised us just three feet from the small thing allowing Elliot and me a better view of the baby reptile.

"you know what, man, I'm glad we came out tonight," I looked at Elliot. We had both moved slightly toward the edge of the boat, our minds eager to be appeased by the endearing nature of the baby killer beneath us. But, God, this close, the eyes on the baby were enormous, and when the floodlight didn't illuminate them, they had an ashen green look.

"You know Sean, maybe we sho- Holly Shit!" Bell Burst from the water in front of us. Her massive jaws opened, presenting rows and rows of sharp white teeth, her throat releasing a deep course hiss. I felt my body slam into my seat, Bell's head just over the edge of the boat, the rest of her body hidden beneath the water. The massive tail that surfaced a few feet behind her was the only reminder of its existence. Again, my mouth opened to scream, and my mind and body followed suit this time.

"Shut your pie holes, pansies," in a swift motion. Jack moved to tap the gator on her snout. Bell, in turn, hissed in anger, her jaws snapping close with a loud snap like an axe being dug into the side of a tree, only to open again and snarl in our direction.

"Haha, easy girl, easy," Jack moved the boat to the left, exposing Elliot's side alone to the reptile. In an instant, his body was pressing into the confines of my space; his sweaty ass back pushed into my face.

"Alright, boys, say goodbye to Bell," Bell bellowed one last time, her jaws snapping into the air, her thick neck slashing back and forth. Jack laughed as the Airboat drifted away from the raging gator, the propeller at just the right pace not to blow out our eardrums but keep us far away from the murderous mother.

Speedily, Elliot returned to his space and recovered from our embarrassing moment. His face turned from a bright red to a light pink, his breath slowing to a much more normal pace. Elliot's rather unique displays of fear alerted me to my reaction, quickly checking my pants and face for unwanted liquids. I seemed fine to my unhinged and panicked mind, so I acted without console or courtesy to the other group members without thinking or processing what I was about to say.

"Jack, what the fuck is wrong with you !" I spun around in my seat, my nails digging into the leather out of fear and anger. The man in question just smiled back at me, the quite crazed smile you'd get uncomfortable with in trapped with a stranger in the wilderness without proper communication. Then, a cold realization hit me briefly, and the bittersweet fondness of pure, unaltered fear entered my body.

"Relax, kid Bell wouldn't hurt a fly; I mean, that's a lie, but I wouldn't let her touch you," Jack began to put his headset back on, nodding for Elliot and me to follow suit pressing a series of buttons near his chair. Following suit, the roar of the propeller began to grow, and the boat began to lurch further and faster toward the main river.

I was ashamed that Elliot and I put on our headsets and faced the approaching river without question. It was like the incident hadn't even happened, like a five-hundred-ton monster hadn't even come close to ripping our fucking heads off. But, no, we would be good little boys and listen to Daddy Jack as he took us deeper into this hell hole. Once the crude headset was back on my head and the cold wave of static had passed, Jack's sing-song of southern heaven filled my ears.

"We're going to have a nice romantic snack near the end of the river," The boat broke through the Cypress forest, breaking into the river and soaring past the miles of tall grass surrounding us.

"Why the hell are we eating in the Everglades ?" Jack maneuvered the boat expertly through the tall grass, seeming to follow a well-laid path of swamp water.

"Also, how the hell do you know where we're going," Jack took a hard right turn that seemed to come out of nowhere, my body forced to the side, my stomach threatening to vomit up what little remained into the water.

"Boy, the world is one river. All you need to give her is a little time, and she'll take you wherever you need to go," Jack took a softer turn, and the boat soared into a relatively open water area with very little vegetation impeding the ship ahead.

"We must respect the river boys, for she is both generous but cruel," His tone was different from the southern charm I had come to both hate and love. A more harsh and unfiltered reality than the charming in-your-face hustle as if he had remembered some foul inconvenience. I looked to see if Elliot shared the same feeling, but the man was hanging on by a thread, one hand clutching his stomach and the other cupped around his mouth. The man was one turn away from throwing up again.

"Can I ask why you refer to the river as she," Jack shifted the boat further to the left side of the river? Elliot, in response, curled up further into a ball, his head shaking slowly in what I can only sympathize with as the most uncomfortable experience imaginable.

"The river is neither he nor she, but here in this swamp, I like to look to the past, see her story, and understand her purpose." The tall grass around us seemed to be becoming less and less dense. The once towering reeds seemed to shrink as we ventured further into the open water.

"What kind of history?" I scanned the water around us, searching for any sign of life, anything to catch my interest outside the rather dull conversation between me and jack. Sadly the boat had to be moving at roughly fifty to seventy miles per hour, so the world around us was a sad mixture of passing grass and black water. For a moment, I thought Jack hadn't heard me or didn't care; the silence between myself and strangers always ruined whatever false self-confidence I had developed.

"It's not my history, and I doubt it's your's pale face, but there is a legend passed from the remnants of the Okeechobee tribe," his words carried no comedy or charm, just a dull unenthused response as if he were explaining how watch paint dry.

"The what tribe ?" Elliot took a brief moment from dying internally to glance back toward Jack in subtle confusion before he returned to his stomach tearing itself apart.

"The Okeechobee boy, are you deaf? They were the river people, masters of this land and water," Jack spoke with a weird sense of pride as if the people were of some great importance like we should have known about them beforehand.

"What happened to them," I was expecting some sad half-hazard explanation about reservations and property between the land and natives.

"They died," his words were spoken and final, with no smugness, no sass, just straight to the point, accurate depressing information. For a moment, I let the silence between us fester, allowing the buzz of the propeller and the churning friction between the boat and the water to fill the awkward vibe.

"is that it-," Of course, I opened my mouth to challenge the silence, but Jack was already a step ahead, leading the conversation with this rather strange bravado and mystique. Leaning forward into his words, his foul breath fighting against the rage of the blistering swamp wind.

"they're not all dead. Let me correct myself. Just the old ones are the ones that lived among these same waters," His form cut between Elliot and me, his free hand gesturing to the wilds surrounding us.

"Years ago, lost within this very swamp, a colony came to live amongst them," the droning purr of the propeller seemed to die out as he spoke, a newfound power radiating off his confidence enthralling Elliot and me in his story.

"They had very little to trade. The cold season had ravaged their people and had destroyed what little goods they had," His tone kept shifting now; it seemed like a solemn beginning as if each new part of the story needed a new pitch.

"for some time, they lived in harmony, two people sharing the water and land," The pitch in his tone changed again. It was honestly the most annoying part of this seemingly dull story.

"Then some idiot had to get the native's daughter pregnant and spawn a half-blood child," I held back a disgusted smile at the rather intense mention of half-blood like the kid was a mixture between a demon and man. Looking at Elliot, I could see a slight smile hidden behind his obvious mask of pain.

"Before we continue, how bleak does this get," my tone was rather dull uncaring, and, most of all, bored. Jack instantly lost his bravado, looked me in the eyes, and sighed in disappointment until he looked at me, looking from him to Elliot, and nodded in sad understanding.

"Basically, the mother of the demon child died soon after birth, and a few years later, her father died from a strange uncurable illness," I stared at Jack, my mind slightly surprised by the rather bleak turn the story had led down.

"So what, the swamps cursed, or the child is cursed kinda deal ?" Elliot moaned out the words, each sounding like a quick jab in the gut. The boat didn't give him many options. The water is now bashing against the haul, making every attempted word come out as an annoying and sad attempt to communicate.

"No, the child was a child, but like you, both the tribe and the people saw her as a monster, an omen of malnourishment and sins to come," The boat lurched to the left. The tall grass seemed to retreat behind us completely. A vast expanse of open water now laid bare in front of us; the distant sparkles of a city rested beyond a bright yellow and gold display, revealing the only evidence of land.

"The child was cast out, abandoned, lost to this very swamp, forgotten by both people, left to rot in this shit hole," The boat turned again and sped alongside the tall grass I assumed to be behind us. Now the swamp was to the left and the lake to the right. It was odd but pleasing that our Airboat acted as a hot knife slicing between the marsh and the lake.

"A Witch found the girl," jacks words silenced whatever pleasant thoughts I had regarding the swamp night's scenery. His words carried little charm or spectacle. The words didn't sound like Jack, like some more civilized tour guide replaced him, detailing a very practiced and enforced rule.

"The Natives didn't speak its name, and the colony wasn't aware of the Witch's presence," Jack continued with his tale, his tone becoming more severe after the passing of every word. I looked over at Elliot to see if he was as invested as I was in Jack's tale, and the pale expression plastered across his face was more than enough proof to confirm my sad theory.

"She took that little girl, corned her hopeless, desperate soul, offering a fool's deal to a starving child," Jack almost yelled the words into the mike, his southern accent breaking through the layer of seriousness he had made.

"She promised her salvation, the tiniest hope that she could survive this terrible fate, move past the people that had forsaken her, and gift her the strength to live amongst this land's most vile creatures," The boat began to cruise closer towards the tall grass just as Jack started to lean down towards us his eyes portraying a rather unkempt ravenous look within them.

"She gave herself to the Witch, but her heart, her broken and tiny heart, was so filled with hatred." Jack took a breath, and even with our faces pressed against the river's humid wind, I could see the sweat beading down his face as if the story had taken some amount of unseen strength to tell.

"Using her hatred, the Witch twisted the girl's desires and morphed her reality into that of a beast summoning a monster with her ravenous intentions to consume those unworthy of the swamp," Jack was yelling again, screaming into the air his free hand triumphantly gesturing to the tall grass beside us.

"This beast was born from the child's hatred and consumed her existence; from that day on, the people of this swamp have known and feared the thing that lurks within its depths," Jack leaned back, exhausted from his own story, his sweaty back colliding with his seat sending a subtle vibration throughout the boat.

"The River Queen! A demon lost to time, a beast that roams these water preying on all who take advantage of her territory, a creature set on harming all of those with malicious intentions that dare to set forth into her unholy bog," Jack leaned down to us; his dramatic display had returned, his voice booming through the headset and into the air, around us unhindered by the once mighty propeller.

"The Queen devoured the people and forced the survivors out of her home," Jack then sped up the boat, lurching back to life, speeding towards a large patch of trees between the swamp and lake.

"And what remained of the little girl, this demon child, was lost to the swamp, and legend has it that her spirit still roams the bog, her soul caught in an endless struggle between torment and strife!" Jack screamed the words yelling into the dark void of the watery world surrounding us—as brave as I wanted to seem, the combination between the boat's speed and the enveloping darkness made for a terrifying mixture. I looked at Elliot, but he didn't seem to care. The color had left his face, and his eyes were glued to the floor of the Airboat, his body slowly shaking. He looked two minutes away from shitting himself or throwing up whatever remained from our previous dinner.

"But that's just a swamp story, haha," Jack slowed the boat down and turned towards a small patch of land seemingly appearing out of nowhere—a series or patch of medium-sized dark grey trees protruding between the lake and the swamp. As we approached, the trees revealed themselves to be a small group of ferns and cute little cypress scattered amongst the outskirts of a small muddy patch of land. Jack led the boat towards a clear area to beach our Airboat next to a rather odd-looking beach boat. The real attention grabber was the big ass ferry partly beached and hidden beyond the small layer of trees.

"Dude, what is this," I could almost feel my eyes popping out of my head as I gawked at the beautiful, rusted relic before me. It looked like an old ferry, like the one you'd see in a party movie about some old forgotten jazz musician. Remnants of ivory-white paint were scattered among the boat's dark orangish-brown rust. Over half the windows were broken, and a small makeshift trial existed between the muddy beach and the ship. We were too far for a proper introduction, but the sheer size of the relic alone was enough to sell whatever final bravado Jack had planned for the night.

"That boy's is Mary and me's secret stash, our home away from home if you will, a paradise bey-" the boat roughly slid onto the muddy shore of the island, lurching the boat forward and thankfully interrupting whatever long boastful drawl Jack had prepared.

The propeller's raging twirl began to dim, allowing the bustling world of the swamp to fill our ears again. A series of frogs, birds, and insects filled the air; their chirps, croaks, and rhythmic humming soothed me from what would otherwise be an empty and dark void that added to the beauty and unknown horror of this untamed territory.

"That's odd," Jack's words collided with the swamps ambiance and were soon followed by a small splash to signify his departure from the Airboat. He strode through the shallow water and walked purposely up to the island's surface.

I slowly began to take in more and more of our surroundings picking apart the tiny trail of stamped grass set apart from the longer strands beside them. The ferns and Cypress trees around us provided a shelter or shield from the surrounding waters. The land's interior had a fern or small cypress scattered within, isolated by an army of tall grass and small bushes.

"What seems to be the problem," Elliot seemed to have reclaimed his cool and had already joined Jack on shore, the two staring at the Fairry waiting for us beyond the tall grass.

"Marry's boat is here; her party tracks are here, but the lights on the boat are off," Jack began to stride past Elliot slowly, his gaze trailing the earth beneath him. Elliot looked back at me momentarily in confusion before stepping towards Jack again. I meanwhile began to leave the boat, gathering myself before I allowed my tender body to be served by the army of insects that eagerly awaited my arrival. All this dir-

"Don't take another step!" Jack didn't yell the words or scream at us, but his tone lacked any of the familiar Southern charms we were getting back into. Instead, his voice was dead serious, staring directly at Elliot, who had frozen mid-step between the bundles of grass twigs and mud beneath him.

Jack got low, his body mere inches from the dirty surface beneath him. He moved from our boat to Marrys, his gaze following some unseen trail between them until he snapped his head to the valley of tall grass between us and the beached ferry. The tall grass in question was parted by a worn-out path that seemed to stem from our direction heading directly towards the ferry.

"Boys stay here a while and keep by the boats," Jack moved back towards the Airboat, leaving his crouched position in a rather abrupt change of pace. Jack strode past the two of us and leaped gracefully onto the boat. I watched, stunned, as Jack tip-toed across our seats until he opened the compartment beneath his seat and rummaged through a series of loud and unseen boggles.

"heads up," as if he was a professional football player Jack tossed a radio over his shoulder to me. I watched the black radio swirl in the air before I reached out to snag it desperately, nabbing at the device mid-air. I clutched the device to my chest as Elliot caught his own, looked back at Jack in confusion, and was just in time to see what he had acquired.

Jack quickly put it away, but an old rustic-looking revolver spun between his left hand. I watched him turn the revolver expertly between his fingers until he strapped the frame to the back of his belt just above his cheap shorts. I stared at Jack, a shocked expression plastered across my face; he stared back, his eyes seeming to say "What?" to my confusion.

"you ok, boys," Jack sounded like he was trying to keep up some long-gone confidence that had been extinguished when he pulled out the gun. I stared at our tour guide, the grip on the radio he had tossed me growing tighter and tighter. Then, finally, the world around me began to dim, the buzzing and chirping of the swamp fading into nothingness; my mind and body focussed on whatever Jack was worried about.

"What's with the gun?" Elliot's words broke the silence. Jack tipped his head and glanced around my form to stare at him, a severely cold expression on his face.

"Something ain't right," Jack jumped off the boat and back onto the muddy ground, bits of his return landing on my jeans. I would have cared if it wasn't for now, cold tone that lurked between us all.

"There are tracks that go from Marry's boat to the trail, but there are four sets, and one of them is coming from the trail and heading directly towards the boat," Jack motioned for a single trail of muddy and scrambled footsteps that lead through the grass to the edge of the water.

"Now, I'm not one to be a worry wort, but this and the lack of lights on the boat means there may be trouble," I stared at Jack as he circled the patch of grass around us before he stopped a few feet from the tall grass trail staring aimlessly towards the ferry beyond.

"of course, I might be spitballing boys, and the power might have just gone out, and the trail back is just one of the girls forgetting something on the riverboat," no one spoke after Jack's words because almost instantly, he had raised a radio of his own to the air. A short series of static filled the air around us, the annoying noise sending a clear but chilling conclusion.

"But too much seems to be going wrong for there to be anything right," it was the most chilling Southern thing I've ever heard in my life. I looked at Elliot he looked, and without much of a take, I could see he was just as scared as I was.

"I'm going to check on the ferry. You boys stay by the boats, and if anything was to happen," Jack tossed Elliot a pair of keys in a flash. Jack pointed at the Marrys motor boat and nodded.

"take the motorboat and head towards the city," Jack pointed at the tiny sparkling lights reflecting off the water's surface. Then, without another word, the charming Southerner disappeared into the tall grass. For a moment that felt like an hour of silence, we stood there stupidly staring at the void where Jack once stood. Everything seemed to happen so fast that it was hard to register that this night which was supposed to be fun, was turning out to be a rather grim experience.

"Dude, what is happening?" Elliot stared blankly at me, demanding an explanation. I looked back at him, a confused and rightfully pissed notion plastered on my growing red face.

"I don't fucking know, man," I wasted no time getting comfortable and landed uncaring onto the soft but sticky chairs of the motorboat. Somehow even amidst the air of the swamp, I could still smell the faint but alluring scent of the women. I cringed at how creepy I sounded at this moment, my eyes searching the water behind us.

"What do we do?" I watched Elliot pace the mud-filled beach until he stopped just before the motorboat I rested on. I mentally noted his worry and personally disregarded my own.

"We wait, and we relax; I mean, let's be reasonable; Jack knows the ins and outs of this swamp. Their nothing and no one that can get to us threw him," I leaned further back into the chair, my gaze now shifting towards the ferry beyond, admiring the massive haul of the forgotten ship.

"Dude can you come with me to the bathroom," Elliot's words stopped my admirable gaze, and I stared blankly at him. I could tell he already knew the answer I would give him, so before I could even get my sarcastic ass remark, he turned and walked towards a patch of trees to the left.

"Why don't you just piss in the lake," he returned the same deadpanned stair I had given him and continued into the bush until I finally couldn't see the light of his flashlight.

Why do we act like that hell? Why did I let him go alone? How much of an arrogant, selfish piece of shit was I that I would just let my only company, my friend, disappear into the woods. The night began to consume me, and I sat in a small tiny boat alone in the dark, surrounded by creatures that would have no issue devouring me whole. Snakes or gators, the reptile didn't matter, and whatever creepy-crawly lurked within the bushes beyond had no place in my mind.

I took a small but paced breath in and out, recycling my mind and trying to reason that all of this fear was irrationally placed within me. I resumed gawking at the ferry beyond and pondered how big she was. Such a boat was eno-

"Jack," Everything seemed to stop. The chirping of the bugs and frogs around me seemed to fade, and the world stopped. Every part of my body seemed to freeze. The hairs on my back, arms, and legs sprang to life. Everything inside screamed to run. But I didn't. I just sat there in silence, almost acting in a desperate attempt to rationalize the soft-spoken woman's voice from behind me.

Ok, Sean, your easily imagine things. It's just your fear of the swamp getting to you. There is nothing out there. There's no one calling out desperately-

"Help Me!" the voice was just above a whisper from the water beyond. The same feminine voice echoed over the water. Nope, fuck this. In one swift motion, I lunged off the boat and trambled in the direction Elliot had gone, not even daring to look back at the source of said voice or attempt to run into the tall grass. Elliot was the closest, and I was going insane. Why didn't I fucking listen to him? Why didn't I join him in peeing in the woods?

I ran through the weeds, ferns, and leaves of the small patch of trees in the area. I felt my feet dig into puddles of thick muddy water and internally sighed as a pool filled my shoes and seeped into the cotton material of my socks. Now with heavy steps, I rushed further into the bush until I hit something hard and fast, running directly toward me. I opened my mouth to yell but found my face pressed into the soft disgusting dirt of the earth below. In a flurry, I glared at the thing that had collided with me, only to find Elliot's face and flashlight staring blankly at me.

"Dude, what the hell, man!" I stared at Elliot, who looked as scared as I was; his clothes were covered in dirt and leaves, and his face was red with even more sweat.

"What the fuck are you talking about? You're the one running through the forest," Elliot whispered and yelled the words out of him, glaring at me while offering a helping hand up from the soggy ground, a hand I gratefully accepted. I pondered whether or not I should tell him what I heard; the options were hed laugh at my fear or call me an idiot and label my concerns as crazy delusions. I opened my mouth to retort, but before I could, a series of bright Christmas lights filled the void around the island; the ferry was covered in these lights, and the glow of some hidden energy within the vessel filled the gap between us.

"Well, would you look at that," As if the swamp heard my sense of relief, a single gunshot crack filled the air around us? The swamp suddenly stirred to life. A series of bird calls, squawks, and cries filled the dark sky around us, and soon distinct flutter of wings retreating from this island mocked us bellow. Other smaller creatures, probably rats, lizards, and frogs, could be heard splashing into the water behind us and breaking the twigs from the few branches above us. It seemed like so much had happened in so little time, and it was due to a single shot. The island had gone from a bustling ramble of creatures in less than a minute to the silent stretch of dirt, grass, and trees scattered amongst the damp, murky swamp.

Neither of us said a word, our gazes fixed on the now-illuminated ferry, then just as I saw Elliot's mouth slowly open as if to break our shared silence, three back-to-back shots filled the air. What followed was a loud wail or scream of a man replacing the natural retreat of the swamp's inhabitants. Elliot stared a time, and without speaking to each other, the two of us bolted towards the boats. Neither of us seemed to care as a loud static filled the radios Jack had given us, nor did I care when I dropped mine from surprise, the small black box falling to the swamp below.

Time seemed to slow as the swamps of dark silhouetted trees and ferns blurred around me. I could feel my body's anticipation and the muscles in my legs shift; my body was turning now the scattered rationality hiding in the back of my mind was replaced by the overwhelming need to run. It was to my horror, however, when as my body began to turn, I felt the snag of something pining my foot to the ground, some force pushing against my escape. As my eyes slowly drifted below, I saw the thick outline of a root wrapped around my foot, and at that moment, time seemed to speed up. Before I could register what was happening, the air seemed to leave my body, and my left arm braced the upper half of my body for impact. I expected pain; I anticipated the cruel surface of the earth pushing against my body, rocks, and dirt scrapping into my clothes and skin.

Instead, I felt a soft layer of wet grass cover the front of my body, and soon after impact, I felt the mud slowly seep in. It was a warm, soggy feeling like the first pellets of water in a warm shower, but I took it in all the wrong ways, the mud and grass sticking to the parts of my face unprotected by my left hand while the rest of my body and clothes absorbed the bogs mucky embrace.

Just before the liquid could seep into my hair, I hurriedly ignored whatever pain or annoyance my fall had caused; I could tell I was hurt, and every part of my body felt wet, my clothes acting as a damp sponge for the swamp water. I looked behind me, expecting to see some severe but humorous face plastered across his skin, but I was instead greeted with the tiny outline of his retreating form. I could see his shorts beaming through the night; in a flash of stupidity, one word echoed out of my mouth.

"Dude!" He stopped dead in his tracks and stared back at me, his eyes glaring daggers into me through the night. I waved my muddy arms and gestured to the beams cast over us. In return, he pointed to the swamp lands that rested behind him.

" Get up and fucking run," he slowly walked towards me, now his voice yelling at me in some weird angered whisper. I slowly made my way over to him, a slight pain tickling my once-entrapped right foot.

"You're going to run into the swamp, are you dumb man!" I yelled at him in the quietest tone possible, my voice still coming across as loud. He stammered back at me, gesturing to the fucking tall grass just a few feet away from us.

" I'm not going to risk my life running back to the boat when god knows what is out there," Elliot pointed to the tall grass, his finger aimed directly at the lit-up ferry. We were now only a few feet away from each other, tones shifting to a wholly angered whisper.

"You'd rather swim through miles of swamp water filled to the brim with hundreds to potentially thousands of Aligators and snakes than risk leaving in the fucking boat!" he looked at me for a minute, and I could tell as his eyes widened, and glanced towards the swamp beyond that he understood my point of view.

" Jack?" a voice called out from beyond our spot, the same voice I heard beside the boats, the same soft-spoken, feminine voice that drove me into the forest. I could tell now that it wasn't the swamp that had gotten to me as I registered the fear plastered across Eliot's face, his eyes staring coldly into mine. Then, from the tall grass, we heard the sickening laughter of a woman, her voice screaming throughout the small island. I heard Eliot move before my body rushed to join him, my legs sprinting through the pain and thrashing through the thickets of the swamp.

"I say if the boat isn't an option, we say screw it and swim through the lake fuck the animals and just take the risk," I heard him hum in agreement beside me. Just as a loud crack echoed through the bush behind us, another reason to get the fuck out of here.

Less than two minutes from the boats, I felt Elliot's hand snatch the back of my shirt, pulling me away from my sprint. I glared back at him and noticed he had a terrified expression plastered across his face; his eyes locked onto mine, but his head was shifted towards the tall grass just outside the small thicket of trees. Then, before I could register what he was doing, I felt his hand snatch the light from my head, shutting it off just as he did with his own; that was when I began to hear it.

"Bing bang goes your bones. The nurses are out to find you; saw and scrape, we'll cut your face. The doctor needs to see you," the voice of a young woman delightfully singing between the tall grass beside us. Her words sent a chill down my spine, and I felt my last breath get sucked into my body.

"Clip and cut. We'll steal your wings. The nurses need to see you," the sick lullaby continued. The girl's words now were paired with the swing or thrashing ray of light that jerked its way up and down the tall grass.

We regrettably followed the woman's trail toward the boats. The girl's voice seemed to kill any hope that whatever terrible actions or mistakes had occurred would elude us. Then, just before we broke through the forest, the girl broke through the tall grass, strode onto the beach, and walked towards the motorboat. She was a girl that was for sure; the rest of her was hard to make out, seeming like blood dripping from the top of her head. Her entire body was covered head to toe in blood. As if it was a leisure strip, the woman skipped over to the Airboat and sniffed the area between Elliot and my seats. A sickening laugh followed suit. Then, from the tall grass, two others emerged. A more describable girl emerged carrying Jack's limp and bleeding body beneath her. I watched in horror as she raised the gun to the sky and blasted three more shots.

"Come on out, boys!"

Moto Wehi prologue

Lucas Cross smiled as the cool sea breeze gently passed his face; the world behind him seemed to disappear as the beach ambiance took over. After the sleepless nights of student loans and days working to pay for textbooks, he vanished under the gentle waves crashing magnificently into the water's clear blue surface. He let his feet dig into the clear white sand beneath the shallow water and felt the brisk grains seep between his toes. For a moment, he felt the urge to let the gentle surf take him away forever, blissfully floating into the unknown depths of the sea, free of the hindrance of the real world.

A Seagull's cry erupted whatever peace the ocean had given him, and slowly, the world around him began to rise back into his self-consciousness. The bird's call was loud and obnoxious, the perfect pitch of annoyance for the sea scavenger. Slowly, Lucas opened his eyes, small puffs of crust hand formed on the bridges of his eyelids, and as the gates to his vision opened, he felt them trivially strain to stay between him and the waking world.

His ears tracked the persistent cry of the bird; cries reminded him of a baby, a flying, whining baby. The bird was somewhere to his left. His consistent squawks mixed terribly with the sea despite the bird's name. Opening his eyes, Lucas gazed in the estimated direction of this flying rat, and sure enough, flying a few feet above the shore, pale white feathers plastered rudely together into a bird.

The bird's stark yellow beak and dark black feathers had been plastered with its pale, trashy white feathers. When the bird turned towards the shore and glided effortlessly back towards his direction, Lucas could have sworn the bird had a wicked smile plastered across its emotionless face. For a moment, he considered rousing from the beach, grabbing the nearest pebble or rock, and trying vainly to strike the bird. But reason won over anger, and without another malicious thought towards the gull or trivial attempt at revenge, Lucas Cross rose from his beach slumber and turned back to the paradise behind him.

Nearly one month ago, in early May, Lucas Cross had the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance given to a select few and one he wouldn't let slip through his fingers. The twenty-one-year-old computer science major had been combing through his weekly emails a few months ago, searching effortlessly for replies about a brighter future. A future that hopefully provided a single apartment all to himself, free from noisy roommates and unflushed toilets. The young man graduated from Full Sail University in Florida; the tuition at said university was out of his pay grade. Instead, the money for his well-made education had been earned through multiple jobs and pulled from his life savings.

It was no secret that now, somewhat free from student debt burdens, Lucas had been looking for work. Of course, any job to get him on his feet to make an impact in his industry, coding or software maintenance, was his usual preference, but any small work or internship was a welcomed idea.

Lucas had been sitting in a local cafe, a Starbucks, using the free wifi and good coffee as a means to an end, searching through dozens of emails and useless ads. They consisted of his school's local bookstore sales and returning events; nothing was helpful to him. The young man had lost himself in yet another day of disappointment through sips of sugar-infested coffee and depressing emails.

Walking into the crowded, multicolored cafe, Lucas had hoped for more than good news; the cheery demeanor of the Starbucks was enough to forgive the massive line preventing him from any hope of a quick stay at the coffee shop. The line consisted of three gentlemen, including himself, and roughly thirteen young women ranging from many weights and sizes. Most girls were white, with two black girls wearing gym shorts and purple t-shirts near the front. The line at Starbucks was always this way: girls from the college getting their second to third dose of caffeinated sugar.

The chance of arriving during the witching hour was enough of a drive to encourage the annoying yet convenient visit to the commercial coffee shop. Lucas had defined the hour as a moment of solitude where all the girls and boys had to go to class or work. A moment where you walk through the glass doors framed by the red chestnut-stained frame and experience the serenity of a free Starbucks. Lucas had experienced maybe three to four truly peaceful trips to the shop, a quick stop in and out through the line and onto the short leather couches. Once at peace, he could browse his emails and uncompleted projects at ease, complimented by the quick and well-made service resulting in a warm chocolatey mocha or whatever cheap coffee he could afford that day.

However, Lucas had not been privy to one of these rare moments in time and had instead worked through outrageous lines filled with the trivial conversations of first-year students. Softmores were talking about whatever stupid TikTok or dance had made the top page in media today. Lucas had become accustomed to writing through lines of giggling girls talking gossip, laughing, and whispering to themselves in somewhat ironic conversation, giving no attention or care to anyone else besides them. It was annoying and outright rude to the public, but no man or woman dared speak up about the now-normalized fashion of conversation near the university. The fear of being seen as sexist or rude was prominent, but nothing controlled a man more than the internet threat. Being called out as a bigot was a death sentence to your social life, real or digital, and the idea of being a Karen was feared amongst young women, desperately preventing the mother within them from spreading.

Eventually, the young man received his coffee and found a space beside the public bathroom near the back of the cafe. Here, Lucas eagerly looked through his emails, craving opportunity, and, to his dismay, the many interviews and messages he had posted fishing for something big had all been ignored. Another day, another let down reluctantly, Lucas Cross moved into his spam folder to file through all the useless ads and pop-ups preying upon his search history when he encountered something peculiar.

A TDP email caught Luca's attention; this small abbreviation stood out among the spam ads and scams that usually plagued his inbox, desperately pawning for his meager bank account. No, the letters assembled here were professional code; his luck seemed to have changed, but he kept his cool. It wasn't mature to get excited over an email from the title. Reading further into the subject, Lucas found the company domain or the portrait of the company domain. The company's title was Ishtar Collective Industry; hesitantly, Lucas clicked the domain and prayed for the email to send him to the proper location.

Instantly, his laptop rushed him to a company website, where he was greeted with a beautiful display of media management. The site's menu was decorated in lined columns separating information sections and links to other forums. The background was a beautiful Latina woman hugging a red panda bear while it slowly chewed on a piece of vegetation. Above the attractive woman, he decided not to linger too much on the company name plastered above a summary. In short, the brief Pandora-style text read off the company's connection and essential funding.

The text detailed the company's reality, a mass organization of subsidiary companies spread throughout the globe. From genetic labs to exotic commercial tours, the Ishtar was the center of dozens of attractions and foundations driving entertainment and conservation. The bold summary emphasized their work alongside the WWF or the World Wildlife Fund. The company worked alongside the WWF to commercialize endangered species and environmental preservation.

A newfound curiosity already tested Lucas's interest; he wondered how a company in this business could own many subsidiaries. Indeed, they weren't in a profitable business; most foundations based on conservation weren't the most beneficial. More importantly, he wondered what a company founded in biological research and conservation would want with a graduate based entirely from the opposite position. What work would a company based on the natural world have for a Computer Science major?

The Company email wasn't directed or based on the Ishtar corporation; instead, Lucas found it was an up-and-coming subsidiary company founded by Ishtar's founder. The TDP email stood for Technology Development Program, and an offer of ten thousand lifetimes out of his league followed. The proposal was three months on a disclosed server, maintaining the services and accessibility of technology on a resort.

The offer proposed three months of computer maintenance and coding to prepare the individual for a full-time position. The first week was to be viewed as an introduction, and the rate of income was established as two grand per month. The email clarified that the employee's time over the summer would be a tightly watched prohibition period based entirely on testing the waters for the company's future staff. Without much thought or question, a number starting with six had consumed his attention, followed consecutively by four consecutive zeros.

The offer was too much to ignore; a desperate Lucas read more into the resort. Finally, he found an alternative thousands of miles away from his home. To his surprise, he found the resort amidst the Pacific Ocean. An island located within the Tasman Sea, a tropical paradise sticking out between the dark blue expanse consuming most of the earth. An island in the middle of the Tasman Sea, a tropical tear drop-shaped paradise filling out to be about six miles long.

What followed for Lucas was a very intense call between board executives asking for security details and openings. The aspired man had told his folks the good news and left his crowded rooming situation. Cut to a week later, and Lucas Cross was flown out to the island of Tasmania. In less than three hours, a bewildered and somewhat nervous Lucas was shipped to a remote island amidst the Tasman Sea. He was given no time to explore the country and even less time to register exactly where he was.

Lucas had never left the country before and had especially never been so far from home. He knew very little of Australia and its small island state of Tasmania and less about where he would work. Nevertheless, the small cabin cruiser expertly managed to hit every wave and surf through the Tasman Sea, making extensive, unpredictable jolts that rocked his stomach. The sea was a combination of untamed waves and foamy clouds shrouding the ship in a veil prohibiting everything twenty feet from the boat.

It was a moment of veneration when the boat finally crashed through the mist and began its smooth berthing toward the island. The island itself was something Lucas had never thought to be privileged to a paradise straight from Eden. It seemed like a cheap name for the masterpiece he had been somehow fortunate enough to look at. The island was extensive, roughly five to six miles long, shaped like a teardrop falling south through the Pacific Ocean. The curve of the island was a vast expanse of bright white sand speckled lightly by tiny rocks or broken trees. The white expanse was only interrupted by a lone river cutting deep through the island, marking a natural barrier between the north and south halves of the tropical paradise.

Beyond the beaches was a vast expanse of trees and vegetation Lucas could not identify outside the common palm tree. Small hills and breaks in the thick tree line gave the island a strange feeling, a paradise of unknown creatures and scenery formulated over years of human absence. Then, in the north, a large mountain, the slopes and crests covered by layers of thick jungle. The base leading away from the hill was home to a large cyan-blue and white building sitting beautifully amongst the jungle island, the only explicit notification of human interference scattered amongst the natural world.

"Lucas, get your head out of the fucking sand and help me," A light Southern feminine accent broke him from whatever trance the sea had locked him into. Looking to his right, Lucas saw the beautiful image of his new girlfriend, Sydney Stephan, blissfully skipping through the clear blue water. There was, of course, no balance or grace in how she cut along the shore, her feet picking up scoops of wet sand. As she approached her ridiculous-looking skip, she suddenly turned into a desperate run along the beach. Her face displayed a sense of determination. A confidence Lucas rarely saw in the young woman, even though he knew she was more capable than people gave her credit for.

Lucas had adapted quickly to the requirements the resort had given him or the parameters the company established for him to succeed. The programming and maintenance of the computer system was a job of coding and reading through more coding, searching for bugs and problems hidden beneath pages of code. The resort's maintenance revolved around the website, interface, and the island's system and settings. This included various devices he didn't care much about, including motion sensors, floodlights, and other cameras displaying unknown or hidden areas of the island.

The island was still under heavy construction, and the maintenance of said rather expensive technology was routed through one central location. So the tech shack was formed, a sweaty, unkept hut about two kilometers from the main building and lodging area, cramming around ten sweaty techies into the same room. Lucas quickly learned that under immense heat and pressure from your superior, you know much about your peers faster than you usually would.

For instance, the liaison between global communications and Kath was a very emotional woman who seemed to take the most side-hand comments to heart. She sat roughly two seats across from Luca's cramped work environment between at most three people but somehow always managed to get her loud, annoying voice across the room. In addition, the room was filled with a continuous streamlined period of business calls and promotional ads for the resort. It was every engineer's worst nightmare, but with limited time and his work under constant surveillance and testing, Lucas found ways to push through the hell hole he dragged himself into.

Through his time in the literal hell of the tech hut, Lucas had met the one person who gave him the spirit to push forward. He found that person on one of his few breaks, hidden behind a tree not too far from the tech hut, smoking a cigarette, absently staring into the thick, impenetrable jungle before her. Lucas could recall the moment as if it had happened yesterday in reality. However, the actual meetup occurred a month and a half ago, an unliking duo finding each other amidst the jungle and mist of the island.

Lucas worked day and night on a system to support and maintain an autonomous motion system. When he arrived, he was given a list of bugs and codes to ensure the best interest of the resort and its technology. The motion sensors were specifically built to provide a clear idea of where everyone and everything was on the island. These tiny black boxes tracked the movements of everything in their general vicinity. From what Lucas could tell, hundreds scattered randomly throughout the island, each picking up rats and other animals scurrying about. This wasn't their primary intention, so Lucas was tasked with providing a clear-based system for the trackers to pick up on specific motions based on the size and assumed weight of the individual.

Lucas spent his early days shuffling through a list of descriptions and numbers associated with different classified or unofficial titles in the code. Each represented another label or identification for the motion sensors. Over five hundred had to be built into the system one after the other. The work was beginning to drive him insane, and the constant blabbering of his peers cramped into a tiny box in the middle of the hot jungle wasn't helping. Finally, in a brief moment of control, the young man had managed to push himself through one last line of code before roughly signing out of his workspace and taking the rest of the day off.

He reasoned that he was halfway through the period, and Lucas had already completed more than half of the assigned work. He was already working on a final report for his superiors, discussing the work he accomplished over his three-month trial and summarizing all the shit he's done for this island. Of course, it would help if some of the code and database defining the technical mechanics of the island weren't shrouded in mystery. Lucas had worked on every list with at least two or more lines of code with a brief summary of the subject, their specifics, and classified or TBD systems. Stepping outside the Tech Hut, Lucas began the beautiful but hot walk back toward the main resort and lodges.

The track was marked by a thin layer of gravel following a creek leading to his desired destination. Lucas had become accustomed to the modern jungle life of the island with a variety of different birds and bugs, waking him early in the morning with a diverse set of cries and shrieks welcoming each new day. Being a Florida man, he had been accustomed to the heat but still hated each sweaty moment it provided. However, he wasn't prepared for the variety of trees the island had provided and the darkness they could cast. The local guide had told us that the forest was composed of many different forms of vegetation, and the majority of trees found closest to the resort were a triad of trees known as totara, silver beech, and Rimu.

The guide had gone on about how these trees were the basis of life in the surrounding ecosystem. Providing a home for many organisms occupying the island, and that the less we intervene, the better. Along this path, Lucas had often found himself intimidated by the sheer size of the Rimu trees. These towering giants had strong, thick trunks that spread far into the hidden canopy above, covering the smaller trees around them in a shroud of consistent darkness. As a result, very little light seeped through the cracks in the giant's branches, and even then, the mass alone was enough to back the power of the island itself. It was funny to Lucas that such a large tree could support such a small island, yet the guide had said these trees made essential homes to over half the forest ecology.

He didn't care much about ecology. But, to his knowledge, this island was one of many filled with a variety of small birds, reptiles, and bats, followed by a vast number of giant insects that forced him to shower four times a day. The guide had said the behavior and population of this island, mainly, was crucial in understanding the future for islands across the Pacific regarding some small population of red deer sustained amongst the ferns and vines of this paradise.

Overall, it didn't matter. Ultimately, the forest could become the constant shroud plaguing Lucas's worst fears. He tried to reason that no one or thing on this island had malicious intent and that the notorious crocodiles were only a part of northern Australia. No documented predator could perform deadly or fatal damage to a human. This was discussed during the original introduction for those outside Australia's borders. For those anxious about our time in Eden, they ensured our safety and security were one of the company's top priorities.

At the same time, the company asked they work with us to ensure the preservation and beauty of the island's biomes. As a result, a series of reasonable but still annoying rules were made to protect the resort's main tourist trap. The pleasures of smoking, drinking, and other wasteful activities became much harder to participate in; for instance, anyone smoking outside a smoking zone was to be reported to their supervisor for further punishment. Leaving trash scattered throughout our day was strictly monitored, and anyone responsible was to be sued for the estimated damage at risk.

With this in mind, you can imagine Lucas's surprise when his nose picked up on the distinctive whiff of a cigarette; the toxic smell was seemingly born from a tree a few feet off the employee's path. To his surprise, a woman was hunched under a lone palm tree, a poorly chosen outfit given her away amongst the foliage. She wore a simple black top; its dark fabric paired well with a navy blue sleeveless leather jacket. The dark colors were a stark giveaway of her presence amongst the green foliage of the forest around them. Lucas couldn't imagine wearing anything other than shorts, a T-shirt, or maybe no shirt altogether. The young man was bewildered by her choice of clothing, and as he looked her over, he was shocked to find the biker had a long pair of ripped jeans.

In her hands, he saw the dimly lit butt of a cigarette, its tiny ember burning bright within the shrouded jungle. Even in the shade of the canopy above, Lucas could make out the woman before him, a rather strange find from his point of view. She had dark brownish-red hair just above her shoulder length; the medium cut included a cute set of bangs blissfully covering her forehead. She had large, dark, surpassingly well-kept eyelashes that he had pressed used to be impossible to maintain in this weather. The girl had small brown glasses that highlighted her dark blue eyes.

At that moment, Lucas thought he could stare and inspect the beautiful but strange woman before him. At that moment, he stepped on a twig, and a loud snap echoed through the forest around them. In an instant, the girl lept to her feet, her glasses almost flying off her face. Lucas smiled as he watched her desperately hide the cigarette butt beneath her brown Dr. Martens. Further intriguing Lucas, the girl before him was now revealed to be no more than five foot three, her little form dwarfed further by the towering trees around her. Looking at him, she saw a mixture of fear, curiosity, and anxiety, all bundled up into one little white girl.

When Sydney first laid her eyes on Lucas, she immediately associated the young man with a giant. The man before her quickly rose above six foot four, standing amidst the towering giants beside them. He was a skinny man with a cute but rather long face, with one of Edie's sets of bangs she had ever been blessed with. He wore bright pink Jacky shorts and Adele's, revealing the lower half of his legs and surprisingly well-kept toes. A bland grey Hawaiian shirt covered his torso with a dark green dolphin symbol covering his left pec. His eyes were sharp, and when he smiled at her with an unexpected goofy grin, she couldn't help but smile back.

What followed was a series of questions and awkward greetings between the two. Each question was paired with a quick smoke, their secret sin hidden within the dense jungle surrounding them. Lucas learned over time that Sydney was a public communications assistant at the resort, transferring calls and reservations at the resort's main lodging area. Essentially, she handled all the essential deals and clientele that mattered for the early business and investors for the resort. However, Lucas later THought this job to be too much for her, and the young woman was an anxious and sensitive soul not built for public relations.

The girl often took the most minor, trivial, and minuscule part of any conversation that sounded somewhat deflating and either lost her shit or brooded about it for hours at a time. Lucas couldn't understand why, despite her size, Sydney was a beautiful young woman, neither fat nor skinny, despite her constant worrying about her weight. So Lucas found himself under the same tree chatting away their lackluster afternoons, smoking and talking gossip that she somehow always found a way to ask or clarify herself through all the useless talks they made up.

Eventually, Lucas stopped saying you look fine, and don't worry about it, telling her not to be her own worst enemy. Lucas had become increasingly upset at her for being so self-conscious that he started being honest with her. Brutally telling her how, in his eyes, she was a beautiful young woman and, looking her dead in the eyes and telling her that, in her way, she was a woman of beauty, creativity, and humor he had never met before.

When he said that, they stared at each other for a long moment, their bodies alarmingly close to one another, and both of their forms shined with sweat slowly within the jungle. Lucas was trapped, locked with an innocent blue gaze that stared up at him, and slowly, he felt himself drawing closer, and before he knew it, his body was locked together with hers. So the way things evolved, the daily shared smoke break became something new, and as they explored each other from a new perspective, Lucas found a happier part of himself on this island.

He wanted to make every moment they shared in this tropical paradise worth the admission, and if she had a bad day, it was Lucas's job to make it better. So when Sydney had asked the love-struck man on an evening not unlike today if he wanted to share a hotel in Tasmania, how could he refuse? A skeleton crew monitors the period between the summer and fall seasons for an easy and uncomplicated transition. Two weeks off the isolated rock in the middle of the ocean with the girl of his dreams didn't seem to have any mal effects.

Sydney had wanted special treatment, and as the rest of the staff and island personnel were packed and shipped to the mainland, Lucas made special reservations in advance. After months of coding the security and motion sensors, Lucas noticed a lack of cameras covering the south beach and bungalow. The resort had various retreats and lodging areas under construction across the island, excluding the jungle's interior parts, which, strangely to him, were the majority of cameras and motion sensors. Later, he found that these areas were designated lounge and retreat suites for those richer than just the one percent a getaway from the getaway with different areas of the island providing different themes and attractions. The South Beach was the easiest and quickest route past the cameras for a night of pleasure, followed by a relaxing morning rushing to the Southern dock for a pick-up to the mainland.

In short, Lucas had thought of everything, and as he watched Sydney blissfully cut through the shoreline, he thought of how lucky he was to be here. Meeting her was an experience he would have never obtained hidden away in this tropical tourist trap as he watched the short, well-stocked girl bound towards him. Her body was revealed by a blue one-piece display frame with an orange stripe slicing across her chest. Two well-shaped legs leading up to a rear drove him insane. The suit she chose hid no part of her body, and Lucas had presumed the island's found isolation had brought her devilish side into the light. She wasn't a fat or skinny girl, even though Sydney had the issue of constantly asking Lucas if she looked fat or thin whenever they went to lunch or community work events.

Lucas thought Sydney looked perfect, and a short girl who didn't work out to his knowledge could sustain such an attractive form. However, when Lucas asked her about her family and life in the States, Sydney disclosed a small amount of information. A series of unfortunate events had prevented the young woman from her full pot entail. A long list of years coexisting in a family plagued by an abusive drunken man had taken a massive toll on her social life. Lucas was shocked when she revealed the reality of their first meeting, supposedly a moment of acceptance and regret. Sydney had, in short, retreated from the pressures of public relations for a smoke break, and when she turned to find a lengthy task man stalking her in the middle of the woods, she had accepted the worst possible situation.

She lived a life of fear Lucas couldn't imagine, brought forth by years of torment and regret from a drunken father. Seeing her now unaffected by years of suffering and social anxiety was astonishing. Her body seemed to be a part of the beach, blending perfectly with the ocean beside them, a constant source of beauty and, in her young mind, Lucas, an example of perfection. The man in him took notice of the well-shaved legs, kept sheen and attractive allure; as his eyes roamed up her torso, he found another welcoming set sponsored by the female body, becoming him to her call.

As the young Lucas Cross stared aimlessly at the beautiful young woman, he failed to comprehend the speed at which she was tuning at him. Her form seemed to float effortlessly towards the young man, a woman of untapped beauty and potential. The idea of a day spent with this angel sent him into another string of memories and thoughts that drifted away from reality. Then, in one brief moment of panic, Sydney's body collided with Lucas, wrapping her arms around his torso and lifting her whole body weight off the beach, determined to drag them both into the shallow water.

The cold water instantly brought Lucas out of his dream-like state. The fond memories are now shifting to pure, unkempt joy as Sydney's legs somehow wrapped around his waist and her arms locked around his well-toned chest. Slowly, he felt himself further and further submerged into the shallow water, her light body gently pushing him further toward the white sand below. As his head slowly descended into the crystal-like water, he heard Sydney's sputter fits of laughter, watching him desperately flail to cushion his Imminent fall.

He couldn't help himself; her laugh carried such a child-like naive sense of joy and a chuckle of stupidity that he laughed along with her. But, his body betraying him, salty water soon flooded the space of his mouth, a bitter taste too foul for even the most desperate of men to swallow. Then, as his ears followed his mouth, he heard the unreadable gibberish of his laughter masked by the sea encompassing him.

There was peace in the water even as Sydney's body pressed him effortlessly below the fragile waves. Its delicate waves gently hold any individual in its welcoming grasp, asking them for shelter and protection amidst the abyss. Slowly, Lucas opened his eyes, his entire body completely submerged in the cool liquid. Reluctantly, his eyelids obeyed his commands and instantly greeted with the expected sting of salt water colliding immediately with his unprotected hazel eyes. Nevertheless, Lucas pushed through the minor pain and looked through the turquoise water around him, past the not-so-distant shore and into the precise trivial fraction of the ocean beyond.

With Sydney's body slowly dipping further into the ocean with him beyond, Lucas saw a line of clear sand dotted with dark blue and black rocks. A sea of colors swirled between the underwater islands as fish of all shapes and sizes swam between their hidden world, paying no attention to the primates absently floating a short distance from their home. Lucas felt his bare chest touch the soft layers of pure white sand below, and as if it were snow, he began to spread his legs and arms across the smooth surface. Then, in slow, ungracious movements, he crudely made the worst snow angel in the sand below, barely scratching the thick sand supporting him.

Suddenly, he felt the tingle of Sydney's touch slowly loosening around his chest. Lucas could feel her delicate fingers slowly creeping towards his hair, her sharp, well-trimmed nails sending tingles throughout his freezing body as they crossed his neck. The tingles continued as Sydney's fragile touch seeped into his hair, curling their way around and exploring the wet mop that used to be his hair.

Then, suddenly, she pulled at his hair, almost jerking his head out of the water. The sharp pain, however, faded from Lucas's troubles as a loud, indistinguishable bang roused him immediately from below the surface. Upon breaching the water, Lucas heard the cries of birds a great distance away, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

Syndey was off of him, now scrambling towards the dry beach we had left, marching to a large tout bag full of our clothes and snacks for the night ahead. Beyond his girlfriend, Lucas could see a wave of birds flying north from some point further inland, clearly disturbed by whatever transaction had occurred within the jungle. Lucas's eyes, however, couldn't help but roam in the direction of Sydney's retreating rear. Her position in front of him almost kicked him from a state of severity if it wasn't for the faint crackle of his radio belted to his cargo shorts lying in the sand.

With a sigh, Lucas got up entirely out of the ocean and slowly approached the radio. The gargling had continued, and he could've sworn he heard two distinct voices through the comms.

"Little bas** Bit m* *n *** **s," the first voice carried a thick Latin accent, and Lucas didn't need confirmation to identify her. It was indisputably Sofia and is the only known Latina working on the island, at least from Lucas's perspective, already piqued his interest.

Sofia was to be one of the park's many tour guides and trail experts, helping clients traverse the terrain and informing them of whatever stupid question was on their minds. To his knowledge, Sofia was hired by some park in Costa Rica and was using the money made here to provide funding for conservation.

"Are *** ** Dang***," the words barely formed into a sentence, but Lucas recognized the voice as Andy. Andy, the resort's head of security, was one of Lucas's only friends; their initial meeting was not ideal. Simply put, Andy had caught Lucas one day sneaking off with a pack of cigarettes. However, instead of apprehending him due to his activity, the two shared the rest of the day, smoking blissfully under the hot sun.

"You owe me big time, Amante," Sofia's voice cut clearly through the radio, and Lucas was just two steps away. But, to his surprise, Sydney had a calm, almost relieved expression. The conversation between the two outdoorsy must have settled whatever fears the supposed gunshots had created. Reaching for the radio, Lucas heard the distinctive click of static before he could make peace.

"I owe you nothing. I didn't think you were easy to scare," said Andy, one of the most masculine-driven men he had ever met. He was an all-bred white American passionate about guns, girls, and the outdoors. He would often disclose arrogantly to Lucas about his daily run or how much he lifted before starting the day, but his tone and body language supported every word spit out of his toxic well of a mouth.

" You think i need some little chico like you to protect me you must be one son of a perra chupando las palabras de sus papás si crees que te necesito polla de lápiz!" Sofia spat right back at him. Even though Lucas couldn't understand her words, they were like poison. The exotic language carries a sense of power into the area around them, silencing any hope of interjecting into the conversation.

"Softy, you know I don't speak that language. Please use English and tell me exactly how far you are from the tree lounge," with a moment of pure stupid realization, Lucas put the puzzle pieces together and sighed internally at his coworker's actions. They had the same plan as the couple stranded on the beach, listening to the annoying couple blabbering insults at each other, building up massive tension, and eagerly waiting for it to burst.

Lucas couldn't believe it; he had known this about the couple for some time but still couldn't believe it. But, of course, they weren't trying to hide it; Lucas had found the two intertwined one night, grasping each other within the hot mist and bubbles of the public hot tub just a few yards away from the lodging area. The strange part was that even when explicitly driving towards the same goals, they didn't seem to care or even register the other in question.

The stranger part was that even though they seemed to hate one another in every interaction, they shared that they appeared to be the most likely pair on this island to happen. Andy was a confident six-foot-two man also in his early twenties. He had a well-tanned muscular frame that came with the addition of making any girl he seemed to flirt with a giggle at whatever dumb comment he made. Sofia was an exotic American dream from a Victoria's Secret catalog, her dark bronzed skin meshing perfectly with her well-toned hourglass figure. The girl had a similar effect on the boys when she addressed them in her fluent English, often spilling into aggressive Spanish when she caught them catcalling or attempting snide comments.

They could have anyone they wanted on this island, and through his many conversations with Sydney, it wasn't just his opinion. The two had the most polar ideals and antagonistic relationship he had ever seen in a duo. But together, they created the perfect anomaly of a couple neither displaying the right or wrong attributes but rather living with each other. Whether through rigorous competition or performing the old devil's tango to relieve whatever crazy problem they had accumulated.

Lucas heard a loud static hiss emanate from the radio, followed by Sofia's raspy growl. She rolled her tongue as if intimidating a predator, surveying its options and waiting patiently to strike. Lucas was ashamed to admit it but found her aggressive and somewhat competitive nature attractive.

"I'll be there in twenty, don't be late, juegete," before she could click her radio off. However, Lucas jumped into the conversation, the hiss of static silencing the competitive couple, not expecting an intruder or audience to their private chat.

"What are you two up to?" The radio momentarily remained silent, his words seemingly stunning the two golden models. Then the radio hissed almost comically to life, a loud static erupting from the slight black box hinting at least one of the couple's interests. The static hissed for two minutes before Sydney sighed and rolled her eyes, clearly exhausted and bored from the lack of conversation and cooperation between the two hidden parties.

"Lucas, what on earth are you doing here," the hiss ended, and Andy's confident tone struck through the air around them. His words carried no comedy and conveyed only a matter-of-fact, severe tone.

"Just enjoying the privacy the resort offers," Lucas winked at Sydney, who rolled her eyes while picking up the bag of food and extra clothes. She hid a slight shade of red behind her pride, and Lucas watched her amble towards their destination, the motion of her hips beckoning him to follow.

"Where are you two headed?" Instantly, Andy's words broke Lucas out of whatever perverted daydream he was beginning. A puzzled look was now displayed on his long face, somewhat confused by Andy's question. He knew somehow that he wasn't alone even though, to Lucas's credit, he had covered his tracks rather well, ensuring Syndey they would avoid the peripheral cameras and motion sensors.

"what do you mean two?" Lucas slumped his navy blue t-shirt across his chest as he began to walk amply behind Syndey. Carefully, Lucas began to retrace the footprints she left behind, sticking out as dark pudges in the dry sand. His long legs easily gaped at her small steps, poorly trying to hide their tracks or evidence of the duo with unhinged lines and puddles of dark sand, not that it mattered.

"Lucas, I don't need to be a genius to know who you're coiling around the island with," his voice carried such a smug, matter-of-fact tone that Lucas immediately rebutted his confidence, surprising each end on the radio.

Lucas didn't know how to respond for a moment, and his trail behind Sydney had halted. The young man stared at his girlfriend, walking blissfully ahead of him, and slowly felt his cheeks grow warm from embarrassment. Andy and Lucas were two faces of the same coin, each desperately taking advantage of the secluded and temporarily desolate resort. Lucas found it even more amusing that the head of security took advantage of his post journeying more deeply into the jungle, risking exposure to enjoy some pure, uninterrupted pleasure.

"Lucas, I know you know that I know what you and I are doing," Andy's words were fast and transparent, coming through the radio and expressing the unspoken truth between them. But, for a moment, Lucas was worried Sofia would have responded in a quicker, more aggressive, and more terrifying combination of words and destruction. But before either Andy or Lucas could answer, thunder roared its distant crack of power, only slightly shunned by the dense jungle valley between them.

"I'm guessing you heard that, and I'm making a calculated guess that Sofia is getting the same weather hitting me now," his voice was clear, but it meshed with the light-dripping sound. A slow, inconsistent drip immediately notified Lucas that it had begun to rain. Immediately, his gaze shifted to the sky, and for a split second, he was bewildered at the lack of dark grey clouds looming above him. Just an enormous blue expanse mirroring the sea beside him, the lack of clouds was a strange feeling, knowing the weather waiting for them just a short walk inland.

Then Lucas felt a gust of warm air brush past him, the thick blast of air quickly cutting through the dense bush beside him. He recognized it as rain air, a warm wind that blissfully alerted the world of their forboding superiors. The counter-productive pieces of evidence before him only continued to puzzle him briefly until realization hit him square in the jaw. But, of course, there were no clouds above; the storm hadn't reached this side of the island. The weather down here was that of a tiny rainforest, small bursts of clouds pouring light to heavy rain across fractions of the island.

The storm hadn't reached the island, but the island itself, in some strange way, was preparing for the coming storm. Taking a minute to look away from Sydney, Lucas stared deep into the living world of bark leaves and vines beyond the white beach. The light fog that usually formed amidst the continuously fluctuating climate was much heavier than usual, and the sudden realization kicked him to attention. His pace immediately quickened. The last thing Lucas needed right now was to be out on the beach during a storm; caught in the rain is one thing, but being caught in the open near lightning motivated him to get to shelter.

"Lucas, listen, the storm's moving in fast. It's not hard yet, but when the sun is down, it's going to get bad, heading straight through us, making a B-line for Melbourne," the severity of his condition was suddenly dawning on Lucas. He had expected the storm planned for the coming shower. It was to be the ambiance of their retreat, blissfully enjoying themselves amidst the natural rage of the earth as it slowly passes through. The storm slowly crept toward their location, and Lucas had only one option.

"I can't imagine why you're not responding but know I'm joining Sofia in radio silence. Let me know if anything happens, and when I say that, I mean it must be direst of situations," Lucas didn't bother to reach for the radio to respond. Not because he had no devious last comment or was bored with his radio companion. No, he was too busy kicking his body into overdrive, sprinting across the white sand toward the now-distant form of a Syndey.

Lucas had wasted too much time on the radio with Andy and had underestimated Sydney. When Lucas looked back at her, she was now at the beach's edge. Her form crouched among the sand, seeming to toy and poke at something on the sand. Lucas wasted no time and pushed his body further toward his destination, recalling the plan and praying for whatever god could shed some mercy on his desperate soul.

The exotic getaway from the getaway was just about a yard once we reached the southern beach end. They would be forced to take shelter amidst the jungle if they failed to get it before the storm. That option would immediately ruin the vibe Lucas was going for, and it was hard to play sexy amidst the mud and bugs of a wet dirt floor.

The wind blew hard to Lucas's right; even now, the warm breeze became a cold reminder of his ineptitude. Forcing the man's already terrible-looking sprint across the beach to hasten, kicking up mounds of innocent white sand in his wake. Despite his sloppy form, he was making ground only a few more yards away from Syndey, who was still hunched over, playing with something on the beach's surface. To his surprise, the thing she was playing with appeared to be moving, its dark-colored form doing circles around the motionless Sydney, darting between the left and right sides of her peaceful form.

As Lucas gained more ground, he picked up on more evident details of his girlfriend's situation, and immediately, his demeanor began to relax. She looked fine. Her rapid hand and arm movements exactly replicated the actions of a child trivially attempting to grasp a leaping frog. Now, only a few feet from her, Lucas had a decent view of the creature darting around his girlfriend and could bask in its adorable nature.

She was playing with a lizard roughly the size of a cardboard shoe box. It had a long, rounded face and short bowed legs. From his approaching distance, Lucas could see a stark brown layer of skin patterned with light green spots and a stark white underbelly. The most exciting thing about it to Lucas was how fast it was moving at such an alarmingly consistent speed, darting between Syndey's resting legs in less than a second and playfully attempting to jump onto her lap. Each time, it tried. However, it failed with a sad but cute harmless tumble onto its back. Each time, he spun in the sand, rapidly kicking up small particles of white dust, and to Luca's amusement, tried again. This time, however, in an impressive display of determination, the little lizard leaped onto her lap, joyfully bobbing its delightful little head upon its sudden success.

Lucas couldn't help himself; just about seven feet away from the adorable duo, he let out a small chuckle at the little thing's achievement. The victory was too cute for him to acknowledge in silence. As soon as he let his joy slip, however, the lizard stopped bobbing and turned almost immediately to Lucas, a set of dark orange eyes staring into his soul. Now Lucas was only four feet away, and he could see the little thing in much greater detail and found its reptilian form oddly strange, almost alien-like. Sure, it looked like a lizard and displayed no other qualities to defer Lucas from that conclusion, but the little creature had features Lucas couldn't quite place.

For instance, its round head appeared to be the basis or start of a large snout connected to a smooth, flat head. In addition, the brown and green skin had had bright black little drops plastered randomly across its body, outlining patches in its pebbled skin. Looking closer, Lucas saw that the tiny, stubby, bowed legs had much more muscle than he had initially observed. The strength was much more defined and resembled a sense of control over its movements, a trait he hadn't expected from such a tiny little thing. It had no claws, just four rather large feet with no nails or means of climbing trees; the lizard must be like a gecko rather than stick itself to surfaces rather than climb them.

The creature stared at Lucas before suddenly turning back to Syndey. Its adorable little head is now looking directly into her confused soul. Then, in the forgotten jungle just a few feet away, a loud snap of a twig could be heard echoing across the now quiet sandy beach. The breach in the uncommon silence around him brought Lucas's attention away from the tiny lizard and onto the situation as yet another unsettling realization dawned on him. From some point between Andy's call and his ugly sprint to Syndey, the forest around them had gone entirely silent, absent of the constant cry of birds or the buzz of insects.

The sudden silence was paired with the foreboding gusts of wind absently against their chests. Sydney noticed the silence; Lucas could see her joyful expression change as her attention shifted from the tiny reptile in her lap to the direction of the loud snap. The island wasn't a place of silence, but here and now, the entire island felt like it was watching them, waiting for something unexpected to happen. Lucas starred in the jungle, his eyes darting from tree to tree, searching the forest line for any sign of life or danger.

The lizard was the one that made the first move, its tiny body jumping elegantly off of Sydney's lap onto the white sand. It landed perfectly, its four legs efficiently supporting it just a few inches off the ground as it strode towards the forest, its adorable tail swishing behind it, creating tiny waves in the sand. Before Syndey or Lucas could do or say anything in response, however, the small reptile clocked its little head towards them and chirped. Then, in an instant, the little thing sprang into the foilage, disappearing amongst the vine and ferns of the jungle. Its tiny footsteps did little to help the silence surrounding the couple, who, for a moment, just stared aimlessly at the spot in the sand the lizard had chirped.

"BOO," the radio sprang to life in a fury of static as Sofia's loud accent broke the looming silence around them. Lucas jumped at the sudden noise, and Syndey, who had been about a foot away, scrambled to her feet in a panic, a loud gasp escaping her throat.

"Haha, sorry, Amantes, just trying to scare Andy. I saw him crossing the field in a rush, trying to outrun the rain," Lucas couldn't believe her immaturity. What kind of adult would risk such noise in such a situation? Then it dawned on him that Sofia had no idea what they had just experienced and that, in her mind, she had just scared the crap out of Andy. It was something he would do, so all in all, how mad could he be? Plus, surprisingly, the jungle ambiance had returned. The buzz of cicadas filled the air, and Lucas took a moment to relax, realizing the sun was still slowly dimming across the horizon.

"Unbelievable," Syndey, on the other hand, looked furious, her entire body speckled with sand dug up from Sofia's sudden jump scare. Then, in a rather appealing manner, she slumped back onto the beach in defeat, releasing a long sigh of air from the harmless experience.

"Come on; we're so close. Just round this corner, then it's a short walk away from Heaven," Lucas heaved her small form off the beach, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her across his shoulder. Then, her stomach resting comfortably on his shoulder, Lucas began to spin and shake Sydney to lighten her spirits while removing whatever pesky sand had invaded the beautiful woman he was sharing the beach with.

"Ok, ok, I get it. We're close. Let me down, you big hunk," Sydney giggled as her arms pounded harmlessly against Lucas's back. Her helpless state entirely at his male nature, whatever primal nature he had left, seemed to take over. Without another thought, Lucas mustered the strength to lift Sydney above him. Her smile gave the man enough courage to attempt something so stupid that only a movie could make it work.

In a vain attempt at romance, Lucas Cross lowered the love-struck Sydney slowly towards his lips. As he dropped her, he suddenly felt his grip loosen around her waist. Before reacting appropriately, he felt her forehead crash into his own. A brief flash of pain followed shortly after the expected bonk of their heads. Before either of them knew it, Syndey's weight overtook the remainder of Lucas's body. In a flurry of laughter and groans, she landed on Lucas as his body fell into the soft sand below.

For a moment, the two just stayed motionless, laughing into one another, before their lips met and their tongues intertwined in a way any outside party would judge them for. Lucas's arms wrapped affectionately around her waist, pulling their bodies closer together; he could feel her heart beating rapidly through her breast. The loud thumping encouraged Lucas to salvage whatever romance he had unintentionally created, moving his right hand up the slender curves of her back. Tenderly, Lucas rubbed his way up her soft neck and caressed the back of her head. His fingers delicately dug into her still-wet hair.

For a brief moment, Lucas opened his eyes to gather a quick review of his advancements. But, to his delight, from what he could tell, Syndey was enjoying whatever event they were having on the beach. Her tongue seemed to be taking authority in his mouth. In response, Lucas lowered his left hand to caress Syndey's rear. His hand was just above her right cheek before a cold hand stopped him. To his dismay, Syndey pulled away from the kiss and sat up on the disappointed young man, his intentions spoiled.

"Save it for the bed, lover bo-" Before Syndey could finish her sentence, thunder echoed around them. Both lovers were on their feet instantly, shuffling quickly towards the tree line beside them. For no particular reason, the two began to dust and rearrange their sandy meshed clothes from their beach moment. As if the storm was watching their secret sin, judging them silently from above until it dictated their deserved punishment.

The two looked at each other rather than the sky; the cloudless blue expanse above was now becoming a dark landscape spotted with uneven spots of fluffy white clouds shaded as the remainder of the sun slowly dimmed across the horizon. It was getting dark, and they only had a few minutes of sunlight left. Lucas's heart began to race as he realized he had wasted too much time staring at little lizards and attempting romance.

"the lodge is just around the corner," Lucas smiled at Syndey, hoping his fear would be hidden behind a false confidence. Instead, it worked, to his surprise, and Syndey smiled back at him, brushing sand off her swimsuit before returning to the beach, skipping ahead of him again.

"Just around the river bend," She spoke in a sing-song voice, exaggerating the words river bend. She had taken Lucas's words and immediately responded with a short verse from one of her favorite Disney songs. With a smile, Lucas pondered how only someone as beautiful and utterly confusing as Syndey could make a shitty situation hopeful just by singing a line from Pocahontas.

Lucas quickly paced himself until the two were walking side by side across the remainder of the beach. The white sand began to fade into the dark grey, and black pebbles were strewn across each other, creating a very unfamiliar surface comparable to hot gravel. But it wasn't hot, quite the opposite; however, as their feet navigated the unknown area. They found their feet exploring a smooth pattern of cold, wet rocks melded together from the tides.

Finally leaving the beach, the couple rounded the bend from the island, preventing them from witnessing whatever wonders lay beyond. Rounding a rather unkept bend in the island covered with rocks and putrid sea trees washed ashore, decaying in the once-present sun. The couple finally came upon the lodge they had journeyed so far for.

To their surprise, the lodge wasn't a lodge or condo; a bamboo-style cabana stood amidst the palm trees resting perfectly between the beach and the forest. The wood was sewn together so that you could tell the shelter was more than just a bunch of twigs strewn together to make a home. No, the wood itself was connected to a large red stone establishment. The roof was a series of orange terra cotta tiles that slowly dripped the collective drop of coming rain onto the soil just inches away from the Red stone establishment.

Lucas felt his body surge with anticipation even amidst the arrival of the coming storm. He felt a new sense of security, knowing their journey would finally come to a fruitful end. After a night of pleasure and relaxation in the morning, the two would meet with a fishing boat. Neither knew how to fish, but Lucas had paid extra for a cruise across the Tasman Sea. It was a calming end to their perfect weekend and a beautiful tour with dolphins and basking turtles floating aimlessly throughout the ocean.

As the two approached the fancy bamboo green-style door, Lucas noticed Sydney's breath hitch. He thought nothing of it momentarily and continued towards the beckoning door before him. That is until the absence of her footsteps digging bashfully into the sand ceased to exist beside him.

"Lucas, what is on me," Lucas felt the hairs on the back of his head stick up; Syndey had spoken in a relatively unfamiliar tone. A tone he had not thought her capable of, her words brimming with anxiety, her voice barely over that of a whisper. Each word followed the other, her voice initially stuttering on his name before she quickly spat out her following question.

Lucas didn't have time to turn or protect his seemingly distressed girlfriend because, before she knew it, a shrill scream escaped her lips. Before he knew it, Lucas felt her arms and legs wrap around his back. Unlike the romantic and well-choreographed routine the two had swung into, Syndey had managed to dig her legs into his sides, clinging desperately to him.

"Oh my god, Lucas, it touched me. I felt it touch me!" Her arms constricted around his throat, preventing the young man from breathing, much less speaking. As he attempted to readjust her and increase his chance at the air, she seemingly found her way around him, her arms gaining an unnatural amount of strength, preventing his escape.

"It's a spider, oh Lucas, no, it's a fucking spid-" She stopped, and her grip immediately loosened around Luca's throat, allowing the young man a chance for air. Before Lucas could reprimand her actions, however, a small click announced itself from the sand below them.

The little lizard was back; its tiny, scaly form was curled in a ball, shivering against the white sand. A single orange eye stared into him, darting between the aroused couple and the brewing sky above them. In an instant, he felt his heart melt. The little thing was scared, probably alone and terrified of the coming storm.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, baby," Lucas felt Sydney slide off his back and watched her rush over to the lizard. She slowly stroked the back of the lizard's head, tracing her fingers gently across its pebbled back. The tiny thing instantly uncurled itself and scurried into Syndey's touch, rubbing and clicking into her hand.

The behavior was odd for a reptile; Andy had told fishing stories of northern Australian crocodiles. He had described them as survivors from a bygone era, monsters so cold and relatively emotionless they carried their young in their gaping jaws. Maneaters that hunted and preyed upon us without a second thought or worry about our power. He told hunting stories of monitor lizard scavengers that would pick apart a dead or dying animal and prey upon the buzzards that followed. Fights between the lizards often broke out. Andy was adamant that they felt no fear nor emotion in times of distress; even losing entire limbs was a minor inconvenience to these monstrous creatures.

However, this lizard behaved like a puppy, chirping joyfully between Syndey's strokes. Sydney seems to have befriended the little reptile, curled her finger beneath its chin, and scratched the underskin of its jaw and neck. Then, in typical dog fashion, the baby flipped itself effortlessly on its side, a dark blue forked tongue dangled aimlessly out of its tiny jaws. Lucas expected small dagger-like teeth found common within reptiles but was met with its mouth's gummy pink interior. However, while the little guy may have lacked any aggressive or predatory features, the little one began to drool a pure white substance onto Syndey's exposed hand, and a bitter-sweet odor, almost like rotten fruit, entered the picture.

Syndey visually gagged at the substance, her hand slightly jerking at the lizard's disgusting slobber. Lucas chuckled as his girlfriend desperately tried to shake the essence off her fingers. The white goo seemed adamant about staying in its new home. Lucas watched amusement as Syndey waved and flailed her hand like some blind cheerleader. Lucas didn't know how to react when the tiny lizard began to chirp at Sydney, its head bobbing up and down as she flaked across the beach.

The thing was laughing at her, or it at least appeared to be; Lucas felt the constant chirps or launching from the pigmy lizard had broken Sydney's efforts. The young woman dug her hand from the sand, staring daggers at the estranged duo watching her. Sydney's fingers were still coated in a thick white substance, and her efforts to cleanse herself with sand resulted in a sandy slime coat. Sydney's hand's preoccupied state reminded Lucas of a childish arts and crafts project covered in glue and brown cardboard patches. In a cute final display of anger, Sydney displayed her full pouty potential to Lucas before she turned and marched toward the ocean.

Lucas watched as Sydney did her best to display some form of the professional strut dozens of goddesses tier women had set the standard for. Her condition, however, carried very little grace or dignity resembling a soldier's march, her legs straightening between piles of sand, her hands planted securely to her sides. It was funny watching her attempt at seduction foiled by her own body, her hips and shoulders trying desperately to push past her rigid figure, disturbing the balance of her lovely walk. He felt his smile grow more prominent as he watched her feet get caught on random clumps of sand or her brief, painful reaction to an unexpected rock as her "Strut" continued towards the now churning water. As his eyes lingered on her swaying form, his mind began to pick apart every refined detail of her exposed body until he turned his gaze away from his lover in a cheeky flash of red-hot, self-inflicted embarrassment.

For a moment, Lucas stared into the jungle beyond the Cabana, listening to the whistling between the many vines and leaves, making them dance blissfully in anticipation of the coming storm. Finally, finally, he was ready; they were prepared. The young man didn't understand why he was so nervous; they had done this for him for a hundred cycles. Maybe it was the idea of what came after the future they could create working side by side outside this hidden Eden. No more distractions, no more stops, no more little surprises. The couple had come here for one thing, and no barrage of cute lizards would stop them. Lucas brushed the minor mixture of dirt and sand off his body and straightened his back, flexing his muscles and cracking his bones, prepping for the magic yet to come.

"Well, little guy, you're welcome. You come inside, but I'd instead take my chances in this storm if I were you because it's about to ge-," As Lucas turned to address the lizard, he was shocked to find the little thing had once again vanished. Its form was absent from its position in the sand beside him; the only remnant of its presence was the small wiggly line in the sand curling towards the forest beyond.

Lucas was stunned that the little thing could slip by him without much trace or hint of his presence left over. Before the young man could ponder on the reptile any longer, a large wet droplet of water slammed against his head, dousing the base of his hairline in a small explosion of water. A hail of unrelenting rain followed the initial drop, and the roar of thunder boomed overhead the storm, obnoxiously announcing its unwelcome presence.

"Sydney, it's time to go!" was not the sexiest way to say let's get this going in paradise, but the storm was coming down hard. The hail almost silenced him entirely, not to mention the initial roar of thunder had lasted just over twenty seconds. The ripple of the storm's power was seeping across the island as its full might began to rip and tear at the jungle's trees; the defensive wall of foilage churned and shook, protecting the forests that lay beyond. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the many palms and bushes scattered amidst the beach as the massive leaves whipped about erratically in the wind. Lucas watched with mild satisfaction as the storm claimed its first palm leaf. The large green umbrella was torn from its home and peeled apart from its brothers and sisters. Lucas watched as the leaf was husked into the sky and lost to the storm above, hidden amongst a now grey and black sky.

Lucas watched her scurry towards him, her body moving as intended, unwithered by whatever desire had driven her before. Her body launched into the air briefly before she locked her arms and legs around Luca's waiting body, and the couple hastily approached their shelter. The threat looming above them pushed Luca's muscles through Syndey's weight, and the man did not hesitate to kick the bamboo-style door open.

For a brief moment, the couple surveyed the room in all its glory. However, the room was shrouded in darkness. Every inch and cranny lacked the necessary light needed to enjoy their time. Before Lucas could voice his complaints, the lights illuminated as if on cue. They were not actual wax candles but small fake bulb-headed candles that shined dark orange rays into the room. The two felt a new sense of urgency as they were graced with power shelter and, most importantly, a bed.

The lovers wasted no time dashing past the living room area. Lucas glanced at the beginnings of a black leather couch sprawled across a colorful green and red rug. Then, finally, his feet reached some hard surface, the cold floor sending a chill up his body and encouraging further actions. Lucas was between Sydney's remaining clothes in a flash, tenderly caring for the woman he loved, digging his face into her neck. His hands explored the secret confines of her body, hidden through layers of social laws they had followed for some unknown reason, isolated within the island's southern coast.

Thoughts began to turn into actions as Luca's lips ravenously met hers, and he felt her tongue intertwine with hers. Things were heating more rapidly now; the overwhelming presence and beat of rain against the roof of the Cabana seemed to vanish amid their love. A series of subtle grunts and moans inched closer and closer toward the breaking point—a point beyond any rational thought or clarity, a moment of complete uninterrupted harmony between them. Luca's fingers traced the outline of her stomach, reaching farther south by the second, slowly teasing Syndey, allowing a taste of the blissful pleasure yet to come.

At this moment, Lucas felt a sense of pride and accomplishment; feeling Syndey shiver and squirm anxiously from his touch alone had made the entire trip worth it. The storm was a passing thought, a worry long forgotten scattered below the rather expensive-looking sheets they were about to drench.

A loud boom of thunder shook their tropical getaway, the storm reaching its full potential, the rain battering against the roof above, eager To torment the eager couple. Lucas felt his pants seemingly vanish, taken from the cunning mistress beneath him, and as they gazed at one another, basking in the dim artificial light of fake Candles, he realized the absolute love he felt for her, this woman. This kind, beautiful, quirky woman god, how is this natural right-

She stopped her tongue retreating from Lucas's mouth, her entire body going frigid. Outside, the tropical storm raged on, and for a moment, Lucas cursed himself for his arrogance; of course, she didn't feel comfortable in this weather. Anything unlikely to happen was probably soiling her mood. Lucas opened his mouth to speak, his eyes meeting hers. Still, before he could say anything, Syndey's fingers pressed hard against his lips, silencing him. he didn't dare disobey her eyes were deadly serious, her face lacking any teasing or humorous expression.

"Listen," Lucas watched as a single bead of sweat trailed down her forehead. Her eyes were locked past the main living area and towards the door from which they entered. Lucas did as she asked, curious how she heard anything in particular over the storm cries until he heard it too. Then, almost on cue, Sydney tightened her grip around his arms, locking her against his.

"do you hear it?" She whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the hailstorm. Nonetheless, her voice trembled, her hands shook, and her composure faltered. Lucas could feel his heartbeat mixing with hers, rapidly pounding against the other's rhythm. She had every right to be scared. Lucas felt his fear growing, and his eyes suddenly began searching for the radio scattered beneath his clothes. Lucas didn't know what else to do besides calling Andy. Maybe he just wanted to know what to do.

For some reason, he felt like he was running out of time if a set action parameter needed to be made, almost akin to life and death. Lucas was confused. He didn't know what to do but-

The noise was there again, mixed naturally. Amidst the cyclone, raging ambiance passed the hail and occasional roar of thunder. The couple could make out the distant but all too natural sound of a woman, the shrill but feminine pitch cutting through the downpour. A scream emanating from the jungle beyond a ragged remote call for help was only recognizable from the sheer agony presented in her volume, an unrelated cry for help hidden within the dense foliage.

Lucas found the radio under his boxers; the small black box was damp but still functional. Lucas wasted no time as if he knew the severity and potency of whoever was in trouble. Lucas's fingers trembled, stumbling with the move and buttons, setting the frequency to Andys, hoping the storm wouldn't tarnish their communications. The radio sprang to life with an initial burst of static, settling into a consistent hail of the outside shower. Lucas breathed a sigh of relief. Andy could help if he were where he said they were going. They were the closest they could be, and together, the two of them could find-

"I got you, I Arghhhhhhh! #@d#.........$#," Andys voice echoed over the comms. He was yelling and screaming, unaware of the radio or too occupied to care. He was crying; his voice carried a sense of urgency, and things seemed to become more complicated. Why was Andie's radio on? Had he been trying to contact him? Why was he outside, and who the hell was he yelling at?

Lucas looked up to Syndey. His clothes were almost wholly back onto his body. Whatever happened ruined any romantic setting they had worked so hard to create. Nevertheless, he needed to help ensure his coworkers' and his lover's safety. It was almost a moment of judgment, a test of his loyalty to protect Sydney from whatever danger had lurked on the island shrouded within the confines of the jungle.

"Andy, what's your location?" Lucas tried to keep his voice steady, desperately trying to portray the slightest bit of control for Sydney. The radio produced rain; however, whatever Andy was occupied with had torn him away from the-

Luca's composure was immediately destroyed, and his train of thought was stripped away as a gunshot echoed across the island. The unquestionable bang pierced through the gale and hail of the outdoors emanating from the jungle beyond. Sydney immediately wrapped herself in the white bedsheets, her arms clothing onto a cluster of pillows beside her, hugging them like a child would a stuffed bear.

"Andy, I have a gunshot near me. Can you respond!" Lucas was angry now, his voice carrying no sense of allusion or calm to ease his panicked girlfriend. Desperately, he filed with the radio, trying aimlessly to get a better signal, only to be met with the loud hiss of static until, finally, the channel went dead. One last hiss emanated from the radio, the final chance for communication lost to whatever lurked within the island.

The girl's screams had ceased, and there was no follow-up shot. Instead, sweat mixed with leftover rain poured down Luca's head as he silently stood motionless as if his actions had any effect on whatever nonsense was occurring within the wild. He looked at Sydney, and she looked right back at him, and in her eyes, he saw fear, fear of whatever monster had plagued their friends.

Luca's mind raced a million different excuses being made, all intent on keeping him beside her, comforting her as they waited for the storm to pass or the simple reply from Andy, ensuring a couple of his and Sofia's safety. All lies she would see through all actions, he would be judged for all stupid, cowardly excuses to protect himself.

"I'm going out there," Lcias gathered what little courage he had and spoke clearly and true to her, seemingly shocking his maiden from the bed covers, her primarily naked body displayed to him.

"don't we have no idea what's even happening? So don't be an idiot. Just stay and sit here until the storm passes and," she trailed off, listing off great philosophical points that won't matter when whatever is happening out there reaches the doorstep of our secluded getaway. Then, Lucas rushed over to her in a flash, taking her hand into his own. His eyes never left hers, and he was sure his actions had displayed the severity at hand.

" I'm leaving nothing to chance. I promise not to go farther than the fork, and I'll be back before you know it," Before Sydney could even respond, Lucas was already out the door and rushing into the jungle beyond, following the residence path into the wilderness.

Wet hail pounded against his face and mixed with the cold gale, and It was almost as if the storm was welcoming him back. Behind him, he could hear Sydney's shouts and cries of protest, but he knew she would not follow. There was no logic behind it. Instead, she would rush to change and hope for any sign of his trail. It wasn't wise to roam the jungle without a radio. Syndey knew that better than anyone. She had gotten lost once upon a time, scattered only a few yards beyond the main trail, stoned from an evening's break of work. Lucas had found her, thank god, covered in mud, her hair blown up from the island's tropical humidity.

Lucas smiled momentarily, but the thunder's roar broke him from his memory. It was impossible to see where he was going, but after days of carefully studying the island's layout and nature trails, he had a pretty clear idea of where he was headed. Lucas needed to get to the clearing. He needed to get some vantage point and knowledge of what was happening. Unfortunately, the valley was not above the forest's canopy. Still, the field was a point of the sanctuary, a sheltered area, a break for nature enthusiasts pampering the rich bastards from the outside world they chose to walk through.

Luca's feet tore into the muddy earth below his body, absently kicking up heaps of leaves and runoff. Black jungle surrounded him on all sides, but his confidence had soiled any other sense of reality. As he pushed further into the wilderness, he felt the rain begin to soften the hail and hollowing wind, fading from a cold hindrance to a minor inconvenience. For a moment, Lucas paused, allowing himself to take in the surroundings he had rushed himself into.

As if the forest was waiting for a cue, the natural chorus of frogs and bugs filled the void left by the retreating cyclone. Lucas cared little for them. His ears searched for anything, particularly anything human or resembling any form of panic or fear. All he could hear, however, was the jungle's peaceful ambiance. The croaks and chirps of the frogs seemed to be toying with him, laughing at his trivial attempt at being a hero.

Begrudgingly, Lucas continued looking to his left and right, surveying his surroundings, hoping to find some form of familiarity. Instead, the trees beside him were covered in thick vines and moss, their trunks towering into the sky. Their extensive branches impede the light of the already-shrouded moon. He had been walking for some time and had not seen or felt any sign of humanity scattered amongst the trail he had made.

Lucas paused his body, beginning to realize what had happened, his mind still denying the reality he was in. He was lost, and Lucas rushed back towards what he thought was the beach in a moment of pure panic. The leftover raindrops splattered against his head, but besides the rain, the only noise that presented itself was his own. His body crashed against the dense foliage, a mess of broken branches and kicked-up leaves left in his wake.

That's when he heard it. Lucas froze, his body shaking cold and wet, representing his soiled night. But off to his right, Lucas listened to the sound of gurgling water sound between the raindrops slapping against the jungle leaves. He needed anything to hint at his location, so taking a deep breath of air and calming himself, he set off to his right, his body cutting through the dense underbrush.

The noise was louder now, and the gurgling sound was more adamant, encouraging him to continue. He hoped for the beach, but anything would be better than the jungle. Now more than ever, he wished to be with Syndey; their bodies pushed together amidst the storm, keeping each other warm until morning. Suddenly, Lucas burst from the foilage, and his feet made contact with the soft earth beneath him and was privy to the dark currents of the River.

The River was the best, most efficient trail he could have hoped for. Yes, the beach would have been preferred, but Luca's ration side knew he was nowhere near the beach. The RiverRiver, however, was a solution. After days of studying the island's many trails and natural checkpoints, the River was the most consistent beacon. The churning rapids stemmed across the island, but each led to the south beach. So all he had to do was follow the River. Sure, Sydney would be alone longer than he had anticipated, but she was safe as long as she remained in the Cabana.

"Thank god," he said aloud. Lucas heard a soft clicking sound emanating from the jungle behind him as if in reply. Lucas didn't pay it too much attention, shrugging it off as an insect scattered amidst the mud and leaves.

Luca's mind was conflicted with caring for such noises, asking a million unknown questions at a time and doubting the unfamiliar situation's threat. The plain fact was that he had been an idiot, a fool-acting hero, to protect his girlfriend from unseen dangers. Lucas would have to apologize for his rash and unintelligent actions. Syndey was probably worried sick. The poor thing is left alone in paradise. Whoever or whatever they heard was gone, and Lucas began to wonder if the gunshot they had supposedly heard was just the crack of thunder.

Lucas felt stupid. He was embarrassed, stomping around the jungle like a fool plastered in paint, some hero he turned out to be. All that mattered now was-

A new noise rose above the gurgling of the River beside him and Lucas for listening to the growing whooping noise emanating deeper within the jungle. Then, without warning, a helicopter burst from the tree line, a bright spotlight piercing through the darkness around him. The machine's noise was deafening, silencing the natural world around him. Lucas watched in wonder as the machine hurled itself over the jungle canopy, its powerful cycles kicking up whatever leaves the storm had left over, spraying them among the ground he lay upon.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the helicopter vanished to his right, its form hidden from the thick jungle, impeding Luca's vision. Lucas listened to the rhythmic whooping of the helicopter fades its unseen form, retreating into the night. What the hell was happening first? The screams, then the supposed gunshot, and now this helicopter?

Lucas was sick of it; he had no idea what was happening and didn't care anymore. So begrudgingly, Lucas continued along the River, hopefully only a few yards away from the beach. The River curved, but he was sure enough now that if he continued straight, he would reach his overall goal. Lucas just had to keep near the River; Lucas thought he just needed a reminder insurance for his safety.

Drenched and Miserable, Lucas cut back into the dense jungle, his feet seeping into the muddy surface below his body, thrashing against the thick leaves of the underbrush. Then he heard the soft clicking again, the noise much louder now much more difficult for him to ignore. Lucas paused. That didn't sound like a bug, and it seemed to be close by, somewhere scattered within the jungle, off to his right. Lucas waited and heard it again. This time, the clicking was much louder; it reminded Lucas of a dolphin, but the pitch was all off was much slower, each click ending in a low hiss.

The hiss that followed the clicks sent a chill up Luca's spine, and before he knew it, another noise from his left, the same clicking followed by the uncanny hiss, emanated from the darkness. Then he heard it again from his right, much closer now. Whatever the thing was crashing against, the underbrush raced closer toward him.

Lucas began to run. He made a lot of noise as he ran, but still, he heard the creature behind him. His brain toyed with him, plaguing him with monsters of a bygone era hunting him throughout the forest, demons who wished to whisk him away from paradise and devour him all. Lucas could hear the growing gurgle of the River; he could think of no other option but to jump into the River and risk hypothermia. The current would whisk him away from his unbeknownst hunters and, if lucky, carry him to the beach.

He heard branches break behind him, his pursuers demolishing the world behind him. Hisses and growls prevented him from turning his head in curiosity. No rational man alive would dare face the devil in his territory, and Lucas had no intention of stopping.

Suddenly, Luca's feet trod upon the soft earth of the River's edge. He used it to his advantage, hope now surging through his veins. Lucas pushed his wet body into overdrive, his legs carrying him across the jungle floor, tearing through the underbrush, and just as he reached the RiverRiver and jumped, a large leather mass collided with his leg, pulling him back into the jungle.

Lucas wasted no time, his body reacting immediately, his free leg kicking into the large mass, hindering his escape. Lucas felt sharp teeth begin to dig into his bare skin. A series of snorts and grunts escaped his hunter, and Lucas felt his warm blood stream down onto the dirt beneath him. The flight was no longer an option. It was either fight or die now, and Lucas was determined not to die. With one final kick, Lucas plunged his foot into the source of his pain. A resounding hiss followed in response, his attacker's teeth releasing their hold on his leg. Lucas heard the creature retreat into the jungle beyond, hissing and clicking in ravenous rants and clicks, eclipsing the jungle's once beautiful ambiance.

Lucas wasted no time, and in a flurry of mud and blood, he stumbled to his feet and, in one final desperate action for survival, jumped into the River, waiting solemnly beside him. For a brief moment, all he felt was the damp air, and he feared he had missed the most straightforward jump in the world, but his fears were satiated as his body was instantly succumbed by cold water. Lucas felt the current carry him, and as his body rose to the surface, Lucas glanced back at his former attackers. Surprisingly, he only saw the river edge and the jungle that waited beyond. The clicks and hisses had stopped, and the jungle around him shifted into its usual pattern of chirps and croaks of trivial bugs and frogs. Lucas felt his eyes closing, and before he knew what was happening, the young man succumbed to a needed slumber, his body shutting down from a mixture of activity and frigid temperature.

Lucas awoke to a shrill scream erupting from the forest behind him in a flurry of mud and sand; the young man rose from his passed-out state slumped against the River's edge. Luca's body was covered in a thick layer of soil, drenched by the River. The brown dirt that covered him acted as a crust between his skin and the fresh breeze of the ocean. Lucas suddenly realized that he was beside the sea and, just turning his head to the left, could get a whiff of the fresh salty air and view the dark expanse of churning waves.

A smile crept upon his face, soon erupting into laughter. So he lived. Lucas repeated this thought to himself repeatedly that he had faced the horrors of the jungle and had come out on top. He was a survivor, a man who cheated death he had lived he ha-

A scream erupted through the beach, a distinctly familiar cry of a woman, a woman he had seemingly abandoned. Lucas rose from the sand in a rage fit before falling back down. Wet sand speckled the dirt covering him, and bits of the dust had sprayed into his already drenched hair. Lucas looked down at his legs quizzically, inspecting the source of his inability.

To his horror, his left leg was ravaged and ripped open, remnant blood dripping into the sand beneath him. Lucas reached down to touch the mangled and bloody remains of his leg, flesh dripping from the torn ligaments of his muscle. When his finger caressed the open wound, a new feeling of unrest erupted from the back of his mind. He felt nothing, pain, agony, or even the slightest discomfort. In denial, Lucas picked away at the loose strands of flesh, trying desperately to gauge some form of reaction. Still, nothing followed. Suddenly, Lucas realized that His arms didn't seem practical, failing to rip or adjust his leg to his liking. Then he realized that his entire body felt numb as a weak excuse for the stallion he perceived as heroically escaping the jaws of death.

Lucas realized, to his horror, that he couldn't feel anything, and the more he tried to move his limbs or lift himself off the sandy shore, the more difficult it became. Almost as if something was pushing him against his motor functions, leaving him helpless against the cool sand. The boy opened his mouth to scream for help, but instead, the trivial whisper escaped the confines of his mouth. It was clear now what was happening and what he was reduced-

A low clicking sound suddenly cut through the jungle, silencing the many frogs and bugs that peacefully filled the silence. Lucas's head slowly turned to face the all to a familiar sound, and to his horror, a pair of bright yellow eyes pierced through the night, staring directly at him through the underbrush. He froze what little movement he had left in his body; his form pressed against the sand and spiraled across the white surface as if he were making a snow angel.

His body told him to run, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move, his muscles spasming and flexing in hopeless attempts to function. That's when he heard the second clicking hiss erupting from the River he had just crawled from. Lucas tried to raise his neck and glance toward the new forboding volume source. Still, before he could even reflect away from the yellow eyes illuminated within the dark jungle, a new odd sensation spread across his stomach.

Lucas was suddenly aware of the sweet, putrid smell of flesh; the thick mass suddenly protruding from his waist followed the scent. With what control he had in his arms, Lucas reached for his stomach and felt a thick but slippery mass. The mass felt wet, but he couldn't be too sure, and as he toyed and fumbled with whatever had covered his stomach, a slow realization began to dawn upon him.

With all his strength, Lucas raised his head just enough over his chest to view the mass that had eluded him. What he found sent him a wave of nausea and dizziness followed by a fit of terror as the young man attempted to scream amidst the night, only allowing a small whimper to escape his lips.

Lucas had been holding his intestines, his body unable to recognize his own body or register the pain he should be feeling. Lucas started at his open wound, a mix of blood and pink-colored organs staining the pure sand beneath him. Internally, his mind was dimly aware of a series of snorts and clicks surrounding him, but all he wanted to do was scream. Instead, Lucas's head collapsed onto the sand, his eyes darting between the space above him, the only function his body could do. Then, something seemed to lift his head, clasping both sides and lifting what remained of his body. From above, he watched in horror as his guts spilled onto the sand. A large mass of blood and organs now littered the area. He knew the creature had his head clenched between his jaws. The horror of that realization was followed by the final wish that it would all be ended soon.

[dxrknessembr8ced]

9:39 A.M. Metro City

Back within the ruins of metro city walking past dead bodies and other dangerous from the road of the dead city is an unknown and extremely dangerous creature that wears a weirdly large reddish brown trench coat and a large hat and the creature appeared to be a preteen roughly the age of thirteen while drenching in blood from her previous meal. Behind the creature what presumed to be a dismembered woman who was pregnant and had her unborn baby ripped right out from her womb eating the baby in the along with gouging out the woman's eyes as she died a grisly and agonizing death. She seem to take great pleasure in watching her prey scream and cry in agony while their life fade away. She grew a sadistic smile around it's grotesque face showing vicious sharp teeth strong enough to bite a man's head off in one clean chop.

The creature walked past 20 TV boxes place in display from a convenience store playing cartoons from the original black and white era which made her stop and stand through the glass watching cartoons through these television boxes displayed. She ignored and blocked out everything around her and just enjoy her break with cartoons. Though she questions herself in her twisted mind that she forgets, then probably though if she had forgotten than its not important, that is until a certain little birdy appeared.....

' CAW ! '

' CAW ! '

" YOOO! PEACOCK!! "

Flying across the city is an infected crow but it isn't a normal. This creature was infected with the T-Erebus virus and somehow the virus gave him not only the human level intelligence but also made him talk. This is Avery, the creature's loyal companion and the only friend she ever has in this den of death and bloodshed.

" WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?! I BEEN LOOKING FOR YOUR ASS FOR A LONG TIME! "

Avery now lands on top of the girl's shoulder turning to the television now showing all sorts of cartoons.

" Oh, of course it's cartoons. "

Peacock shrugs letting out low growls as the creature turns her focus for a few minutes on her companion.

" Get off my ass already... "

" I'll stop getting on your ass if you don't stop getting lost you know I'm suppose to keep watch and here you are watching cartoons! "

" You say it like it's a bad thing... "

The bird sighed facepalming with his wing.

" Ugh crud, whatever you ready to get going and crack some skulls? "

She nodded and pointed at the television where a cartoon rabbit smash someone's head with a sledgehammer.

" Hehe, hell yeah let's paint this town Red... "

Together both the B.O.W. peacock and the talking crow Avery stop watching cartoons through the TVs and returns to traversing through the ruins and doing what they do best, painting the whole city red.