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irisintheafterglow · 1 year

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Parley? (opla!zoro x you)

summary: a stranger arrives to disturb your peace and you have no choice but to negotiate with him.

wc: 2.57k

cw/tags: first meeting, swearing, mentions of canon-typical violence including blood and swords, zoro doesn't know how to express his feelings

note: i'm so nervous posting this ngl because i really like zoro as a character but i'm scared that i'm not gonna do him justice since i don't know him as well as gojo or geto or bakugo etc etc etc. hopefully all yall zoro girlies like this because i've been itching to write for him since my explore page became nothing but mackenyu. enjoy!

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <3

You hear the chimes first. The melody is soft, nearly imperceptible to the untrained ear, but you sense it. After all, you were the one who tied the string under the walkway floorboards in such a way that the bells above your window would clink if something pressed down on the wood. Over time, you learned to identify where outside was being pushed based on more strings and bells. It made it easier to find the Lady, on the rare occasion she stepped into open air and you weren’t with her. However, whoever was now setting off your makeshift alarm system had footsteps unlike the usual occupants of the house. The quietness of the notes was unsettling, in a way, because it meant they were creeping around the house. Someone didn’t want to be heard.

It was the flowers next, the roses with uniquely reflective petals that were especially good at bouncing moonlight precisely through your window. The Lady commented one day in the market that she’d taken a liking to that particular flower, and you bought the vendor’s entire stock to plant around the house once you realized how it could be used. Not before you built a crow’s nest-like window, first. The glass structure jut out of the house in just the right way that you received colors from the left, right, and front of the house. Had an intruder approached from the back, your only blindspot, you would hear the more insistent clicks of the typewriter keys attached to the outside deck panels. The nearly noiseless bells and the ominous shadow sneaking across your wall were enough to snap you wide awake.

The soles of your feet meet cool stone as you slide from under the covers, wrapping the sheath of your saber around your waist and slipping out of your bedroom. Despite the darkness of the hallway, your legs move by memory to the Lady’s chambers only to find the door already ajar.

Shit. Were you too late?

Slinking into the room in one graceful stride, words leave your mouth without thinking when you see him standing over your Lady, holding two deadly-looking swords.

“Taking a life halfway gone is immoral no matter the bounty, pirate hunter.” His head snaps in your direction and you have your blade on him before he can blink, resting the point lightly but threateningly against his throat. His eyes narrow on you challengingly and you put ever so slightly more pressure into your hilt, forcing him to surrender and sheath both swords. The third, you note, remains undrawn on his hip. “No better targets to pursue than a retiree? I expected better from the demon of the East Blue.” His gaze remains unchanging while you step forward, inching him backward until his head hits the wall with a soft thud. You were thankful, for once, that the Lady was starting to lose her hearing and was always a deep sleeper.

“She’s wanted,” he says in a low tone.

“She’s withered,” you retort. “Killing her advances justice no more than leaving her alive.” His face is still unreadable, void of any emotions just as the rumors conveyed. Many tales circulated of the infamous pirate hunter, but you chose to believe the Lady to be far too irrelevant to pose any real threat to the Marines. As one of the last known powerhouses of the Gold Roger era, it was more likely her wanted poster would be drowned out amongst younger hotshot pirates than for her to become an actual target. And yet, here was the most feared bounty hunter in the seas, hunting down a myth that many assumed was already six feet under. And for what, fun?

“It doesn’t matter. Honor is a courtesy denied to killers.” He speaks in a way like you wouldn’t understand his ideas, and it sends a white-hot flash of anger racing through your veins.

“Ooh, yes. You’re being so honorable by julienning a defenseless old woman while she sleeps.” To your surprise, he flinches, unwillingly bringing your eyes to corded muscle and flexed biceps. It’s a bit of a struggle to refocus on the task at hand. “Enlighten me on how this makes you feel vindicated.”

“I kill pirates for a living,” he states simply, nodding over to the slumbering mass under the thick comforter. The tip of your sword follows every movement he makes, careful not to give him an opening to strike. Unexpectedly, he seems almost relaxed, like the weapon at his throat was the least of his worries. “That woman is a pirate.”

“That woman was a pirate. She is no longer the ‘Captain Indigo’ you seek.”

“Who is she now, then?”

“Lady Lavender, adored by her constituents and far removed from a life of piracy. If I weren’t on the verge of spilling your organs on the carpet, I’d say visit the farmer’s market on Tuesdays. You’ll see just how different her life is now.” His chin tilts in disagreement.

“The Marines say otherwise.”

“What do you say?” A minute tilt of your wrist angles your saber so that the point now resides under his sharply defined jawline. “Hmm, hunter? Any opinions in that thick skull of yours or are you just another mindless government weapon?”

“You understand nothing,” he mutters like an indignant teenager, looking off to the side woefully. It makes your blood boil.

“Try me,” you snarl at the green-haired stranger. In another life, you’d have thought him pretty handsome, if you weren’t so infuriated by his indifferent sense of justice. He knew nothing about you, or the Lady, or what either of you had to endure to create a sense of safety. Safety, you would add, that you weren’t going to give up easily.

“This woman you serve, what are you to her? A caretaker? A child?”

“A friend,” you answer cautiously. “Something your line of work would know nothing about.”

“The Marines know that your friend murdered the former governor and seized the island in an act of desperation,” he informs you with a note of condescension. “They’ve wanted her gone for ten years, and I am here to collect her head. It’s not personal; it’s business.” The incorrectness of his information is laughable, but what concerns you more is the ease with which he talks of taking lives.

“You don’t feel any sort of remorse for the targets you kill?” The anger in your stomach starts to rub against a different, unwanted influx of sorrow. After witnessing the change in a ruthless pirate empress, you refused to believe a human could be this heartless.

“I don’t dwell on them long enough to care. Most of the time, they do something stupid that makes it a little easier to dispose of them.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong about her,” you recover, pressing the blade against his skin on the brink of drawing blood. He winces, squirming against the wallpaper for some sort of relief. You don’t budge. “The former mayor was a half-brother whom she reconnected with after Gold Roger’s execution. His death was caused by a misdosage of medicine used to treat hemorrhoids he’d suffered with since he was twenty. On his deathbed, he made her promise to take care of this city...” You inhale, focusing on the man in front of you. His expression is soft, nothing like you would have expected from a feared killer-for-hire. He was actually listening to you.

“Go on.”

“And to take care of me. I have the great pirate hunter at the end of my blade, so she must not have done that bad of a job at either request.” He’s silent for a moment and you watch the cogs turn in his brain, hoping he’d find some humanity and realize that killing the Lady isn’t just pointless, it’s fundamentally wrong.

“It doesn’t change the fact that I need money.” Nevermind, then. Backup plan it is.

“I understand that,” you concede, and you remove your weapon from his neck. His hands are on the hilts of his swords instantly, but he doesn’t draw them. He could kill both you and the Lady in a single swing, but he doesn’t. Maybe you did reach a different side of him. “That's why I’m willing to cut you a deal.”

“I don’t make deals with pirat–” he starts, but abruptly cuts himself off when you raise your eyebrows in expectation. Did you not learn anything from what I just told you? His face contorts in confusion, as if his mind was at odds with what his body was telling him to do. After carefully schooling his expression into blankness, he stands to his full height, rolling a broad shoulder. “What’s the deal?”

“You’re aware of the Blue Ringed crew, yes?”

“Famous for their poisons, I’ve heard,” he confirms and you nod. “They cover every inch of their ship in toxins and wear special clothing to prevent contact with their skin. Makes it hard to sneak up on them.”

“Exactly. See, you’re not as uneducated as you look,” you tease and you feel your face heat when he sticks his tongue out at you. It’s so boyish and immature, in stark contrast to the handsome, god-bodied man that faces you. “I happen to have a counteragent, enough for you to get on their ship and collect three times the amount if you killed us tonight.”

“And what would you get in return?”

“The sound of your boots walking off the property and never returning,” you whisper a little desperately, pleading with him to leave your perfect peace intact and forget this altercation ever happened. The quiet in the room as he ponders your offer is suffocating save for the gentle snores of Lady Lavender. Eventually, he takes your deal, inspecting the powder-filled vial when you bring it to him on the front porch.

“How do I use it if it’s powder?”

“Mix it with lotion to help soak it faster into your skin. When your skin is dry, you’ll have roughly an hour to navigate the boat completely immune to the poison. It’s sweat resistant but will wash off with seawater, so take care not to get thrown overboard,” you instruct him, crossing your arms across your chest against the chilly ocean air blowing in from the south. It was breezier than normal and you regret not grabbing a sweater. Unless you wanted to freeze your ass off, you needed to finish this debacle quickly. “Kill the pirates, get your bounty, and leave us the hell alone. Deal?”

“Fine by me.” He carefully places the vial in the pocket of his pants and begins his descent down the front walkway. Before you can turn back into the house, however, his voice reaches your ears so lightly you think you’d hallucinated it. “Stay warm.”

He doesn’t end up keeping his side of the deal. A few days after your initial altercation, he approaches the house again in broad daylight holding a box about the size of your hand. You stare at him in disbelief, reading in the nook of your window and he has the audacity to smirk at you when he spots you looking.

“I thought we had a deal, pirate hunter,” you remind him when you open the front door of the house. It was infuriating how good he looked for having just returned from a pursuit, dressed up in fine fabrics with his hair combed back nicely. The irony was palpable, the situation not unlike the stories the Lady told you about the numerous men who attempted to court her. They appeared at the same front door with flowers, rubies, and promises of devotion, but none of them actually wanted her heart. In contrast, you wanted to stab the heart of the idiot in front of you.

“Stop calling me that,” he frowns and you can’t help the laugh that leaves your mouth. “My name is Roronoa Zoro–”

“Oh, sorry,” you interject and his eyebrows furrow at your lack of manners. “Am I just supposed to act like you’re my friend now? After you tried to kill my boss?”

“I thought we were past that,” he states bluntly.

“That was four days ago.”

“It’s enough time to move on.”

“You’re impossible.” You shake your head in disbelief, slightly puzzled at the giddy feeling in your chest when the faintest smile appears on his face. “What’s that?” You gesture to the rosewood box in his fingers.

“Consider it an apology,” he says, holding out the box for you to take, “for bothering you the other night.”

“How chivalrous.” You eye the box warily, still unsure about the enigmatic bounty hunter before you. “But we don’t need nor want your money.”

“It’s not money. Just open the damn box,” he grunts impatiently and you begrudgingly oblige, sliding back the top panel to reveal a bracelet. It wasn’t like any other bracelet you’d seen before, a gold chain garnished with a single deep green emerald barely the size of your pinky fingernail. It was delicate and elegant, subtle enough not to draw attention but luxurious enough to make you feel spoiled. “Do you like it?”

“I do, actually. The color is pretty,” you reply slowly, still slightly in shock. “Why green?”

“Take a wild guess.” He smirks again and your gaze flicks up to his hair. It was just as vibrant as the gemstone and he watched you carefully as the pieces clicked into place. With the bracelet, you’d be forced to think of him every time you looked at it or anything the color green. What kind of guy buys a momento for almost killing you, you had no idea.

“You didn’t need to bring me this. I thought the deal was–”

“I remember what the deal was, but I felt bad making you stand outside shivering while you explained how the counteragent functioned.” Your eyes widen slightly at his admission. He noticed you reacting to the wind, so how intensely was he watching you that night? If he sees your surprise, he doesn’t comment on it and continues to explain why he brought you the gift in the first place. “The powder worked, by the way. I snagged this from the captain’s chambers on my way out.”

“You stole this because you saw me get cold?” He merely shrugs, clearly unbothered.

“I mean, yeah. You looked miserable.”

“I was miserable.” He smiles slightly again, the corner of his mouth quirking in amusement. It makes your heart stutter against your wishes. “Does this mean we’re even now, pirate hunter?”

“Call me Zoro and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“You’ll consider it?”

“Holding a sword to someone’s throat is a major transgression that can’t be forgiven so easily,” he taunts and you roll your eyes. “Let me start over, meet you properly without the involvement of weapons.”

“You really want to see me again?” He scoffs at your question as if the answer wasn't crystal clear.

“What, bringing you a bracelet wasn’t obvious enough? I’ll have to bring the entire ship next time. Might take a little longer to get back to you.”

“Get off my porch, Roronoa Zoro,” you laugh, reaching out to push his shoulder away and feeling every inch of his skin against your fingers in the brief moment your bodies touch. “Don’t come back unless you have something important to say.”

“I think you’ll soon find out what I prioritize as important.”

#zoro x you #zoro x reader #zoro x y/n #roronoa zoro x you #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #opla x reader #opla x you #opla x y/n #opla!zoro x you #opla!zoro x reader

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probablyasocialecologist · 2 months

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Just as the Arab is always involved in Jewish Israeli discourse, the tree is always uninvolved. What could be ‘involved’ about planting a tree? A tree is a tree is a tree. And trees are not only uninvolved, they are good. ‘Ecologists usually portray nature as a domain of intrinsic value’, writes geography and law scholar Irus Braverman in her book, Planted Flags: Trees, Land, and Law in Israel/Palestine. Trees are assumed to be natural, innocent ecological entities with no say in politics. But in this conflict, which is largely a conflict over land – with two national movements contesting the same territory – digging below the surface shows that trees have been used strategically to seize, hold and control territory. They are used as tools ‘almost as if they were weapons’, writes Shaul Ephraim Cohen in his book, The Politics of Planting. It is in Israel’s interest for trees to appear uninvolved, resulting in a process that Braverman calls ‘naturalisation’, meaning the portrayal of ecological changes as ‘natural’ or otherwise inevitable, and the use of the innocence of nature to cloak an ethno-national agenda. Indeed, Braverman’s book was originally titled Tree Wars before her publisher asked for a more marketable title. The message is clear: trees are part of a ‘covert war’ that mobilises ecology to fix and create geopolitical facts in the region, largely through the actions of the KKL-JNF – Keren Kayemeth LeIsrael, or the Jewish National Fund. The Jerusalem Forest, where I myself planted a pine sapling at the age of six, is a creation of the KKL-JNF, which planted a greenbelt of parks in the Judaean Hills west of the city in the 1950s and 1960s. Later, after Israel captured East Jerusalem – and the entire West Bank – from Jordanian control and ‘reunified’ it in 1967, this forest was expanded eastwards, across the Green Line. Like two-thirds of the 400,000 acres of forests managed by the KKL-JNF, the Jerusalem Forest is not scientifically classified as a ‘natural forest’ like the native stands of Mediterranean oak, terebinth and carob in the wetter parts of northern Israel. It is a distinctly human creation, with large monocultural stands of Aleppo pine trees of the same age. Ecologically, these pines are considered a ‘pioneer species’: growing quickly, requiring little maintenance and colonising what is considered, in the Zionist imaginary, to be ‘barren’ land. Colonisation is precisely the point of afforestation. The KKL-JNF is a Zionist and quasi-governmental agency that was founded in 1901 as the paramount institution for buying and holding land for Jewish settlement in what was then Ottoman Palestine. The organisation bought land from local Palestinian residents and then began foresting or farming the land to demonstrate their presence and provide protection from land alienation. Today the KKL-JNF is still the largest private landholder in the region, owning 13 per cent of Israeli territory. Braverman describes the KKL-JNF as Israel’s ‘land-laundering body’, as the state employs the agency’s non-governmental status to hold vast swathes of land for exclusively Jewish use without fear of being labelled discriminatory. While the KKL-JNF performs many quasi-governmental tasks such as building roads, dams and farms, it is best known today for its campaigns to rehabilitate ‘degraded’ forests and plant new ones. The KKL-JNF claims to have planted 250 million trees over the past 120 years.

[...]

After 1948, when the State of Israel was founded and more than 750,000 Palestinians were forcibly expelled from their land, the KKL-JNF began planting forests over Palestinian villages to prevent their residents from returning. The KKL-JNF felt that trees were, in their words, ‘the best guards of the land … Walls and fences can be cut down. A tree says “we are here”’. After planting, tree law protected new forests from demolition. This legal aspect was critical for afforestation’s success in capturing, occupying and controlling the land. It is part of what Braverman terms the ‘lawfare’ of the state, meaning an imperialist’s use of their own rules to impose a regime, which is then legitimised by its own legal structure. Israeli courts have determined that when a forest is grown on expropriated land, Palestinians who return to that land are trespassing. In 2010, the Supreme Court rejected a petition by Palestinian refugees from the village of al-Lajjun to reclaim land in the Megiddo forest, ruling that afforestation justified Israeli control under the 1953 Land Acquisition Law. As both Cohen and Braverman note then, short of human inhabitation, trees were considered the most effective tool to hold and control land for the Jewish state. What this meant, in practice, was that if there weren’t enough Jews to settle the land, the state used trees instead – as stand-ins for Jewish bodies. The flip side of Israel controlling land through Jewish tree presence is expropriating Palestinian land through absence. Nowhere is this clearer than in the paradoxical legal status of the so-called ‘present absentees’, Palestinians who were internally displaced after the 1948 war. Under Israeli law, they lost their land deeds because they failed to prove ownership with a physical presence, even though many were driven from that land by violence. Israeli laws governing ‘Absentees’ Property’ have expropriated a startling 70 per cent of Israeli territory within the Green Line. Palestinian ‘absence’ was sloganised long before 1948 in the Zionist saying, ‘A land without a people for a people without a land’, which epitomises a deep failure and unwillingness to recognise native Palestinian inhabitation.

19 October 2021

#trees #israel #palestine #zionism #settler colonialism #Jewish National Fund

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cathkaesque · 11 months

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Statement on Israel’s Use of Starvation as a Weapon of War in Gaza by the Union of Agricultural Work Committees, Palestine

For five days, Israel has attacked Gaza with the aim of total destruction, and the situation is at an unprecedented level of urgency. Israel’s actions have amounted to a humanitarian catastrophe of unfathomable proportions. At the time of publication, the Palestinian Ministry of Health reports 1,055 martyrs and approximately 5,184 injured.

Israel has declared a total warfare stance on Gaza, imposing a ruthless blockade that denies over two million Palestinian residents of Gaza access to electricity, water, food, fuel, medical supplies, and any humanitarian aid. Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant explicitly stated this strategy on 9 October 2023, saying: “We are imposing a complete siege on [Gaza]. No electricity, no food, no water, no fuel – everything is closed. We are fighting human animals, and we act accordingly.”

Israel’s deliberate use of starvation as a weapon of war demands the international community immediately respond with unwavering urgency and resolve.

Israel is indiscriminately decimating hospitals, schools, mosques, markets, and entire neighborhoods. Further, Israel threatened Egypt that it would bomb humanitarian aid deliveries to Gaza, prompting Egypt to withdraw its aid convoys. The Rafah Crossing into Egypt, the sole international exit from Gaza, has been bombed by Israel three times in a 24-hour period. This calculated assault severs Gazans’ only means of escape from ceaseless bombings or access to essential humanitarian aid. With Israel cutting off Gaza’s source of electricity, the only source of power was the Gaza Power Plant, which has just run out of fuel. In the case that it receives more fuel, Israel has threatened to attack the plant.

Israel’s assault is deliberately destroying any infrastructure that allows Gazans to support themselves. Vital agricultural and fishing infrastructure, crucial for food production, have been mercilessly attacked. Fisher folk cannot access the sea, into which sewage is spilling. The seaport is damaged, and tools are obliterated. Farming areas, often near the fence, have become vulnerable targets in Israeli airstrikes, and farmers whose land has not been destroyed cannot access it for daily agricultural practices. The Ministry of Agriculture reports that the bombing has done immense damage to agricultural areas and poultry farms, but the conditions make it impossible to precisely assess the situation in the field. There is a catastrophic decrease in food stocks, with shops across Gaza reporting severe shortages. The land and sea will face unimaginable environmental damages following these attacks, further preventing efforts to rebuild livelihoods.

Israel’s strategy aims to ensure that those who survive the bombs are condemned to a future without sustenance.

OCHA reports that the assaults have disrupted the UNRWA food operation, impacting at least 112,759 families. The poultry and livestock sectors are on the brink of collapse due to the severe shortage of fodder, endangering the livelihoods of more than 1,000 herders and affecting over 10,000 producers. This jeopardizes the provision of animal protein and the availability of meat and fresh sources of protein for Gaza’s entire population. Transportation of poultry to markets has virtually halted, and dairy cattle milk cannot be refrigerated nor marketed to factories, resulting in an expected daily spoilage of 35,000 liters of milk. More than 4,000 fisheries are at risk due to the closure of the sea. Gaza’s agriculture, poultry, cattle, fish, and other products are suffering from a lack of refrigeration, irrigation, incubation, and other machinery due to electricity cuts, causing spoilage.

Israel’s use of these tactics is not new by any means. Before Saturday, around 65% of the Gazan population was food insecure. More than 46% of the agricultural land in Gaza was inaccessible, and the fishing industry was severely struggling since fishing off the coast of Gaza has been restricted by Israel to 3 to 6 nautical miles.

Food insecurity is a human-made crisis, and Israel is manufacturing a mass starvation of the Gazan people.

It is the moral and legal obligation of the international community to intervene and end this crisis immediately. Food, as a basic necessity, must be allowed to reach the people of Gaza, and the deliberate targeting of civilian infrastructure must cease without delay.

We call upon the international community to take immediate action to stop Israel’s massacre of the Gazan population, demand the lifting of the siege, and establish humanitarian corridors for entry of aid.

#palestine #la via campesina

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afrowrites · 2 months

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Norman F Rockwell

Black reader (plus size too!) x Homelander

Your a hardworking widow and single mother who works at vought in the graphics department, when a certain all American hero is intrigued by the sight of you, or maybe the scent of you...

Warnings: Stalking, Mentions of Death.

Wordcount: 1,891

Rating: Teen and up

A woman stands alone with her ten-year-old son weeping next to her, her stomach holds the last legacy of her husband. And as they lower him into the ground a rifle can be heard to signify a fallen soldier. And a single tear runs down the woman's face knowing she must stay strong.

“~[Your name]~, did you get the final layout for the Homeboy Kids’ book yet?” She asked as she turned towards her coworker's voice, “Oh yeah, I got them, they look pretty good with all things considered.”

The woman smiled, proud of her co-workers' adherence to her notes.

“Well, that's good, because you have to present them to Ashley today.” The woman said, dropping a bomb and slipping out of her office.

“Wait, I have to do what?!” You half shout.

You frantically search your emails trying to figure out why today you had to present in less than…

“Oh shit! I gotta do this in an hour!”

You were wearing your comfiest business casual clothes but were not ready to entertain your boss today, and the email mentioned that others would be attending. ‘Probably those weirdo's in marketing.’ You thought to yourself.

You stumble down the hallway towards Ashley's office, holding your layout tubes while trying to zip up the back of your skirt. Thank God you had an emergency “I didn't just have a baby” outfit and some heels.

You fluff your afro up, put on some lipgloss, take a deep breath and open the door to walk into Ashley’s office.

You could see Ashley's permanent furrowed brow shift into a fake plastered smile she gave to all her employees when trying to save face.

“Good afternoon, miss {Your Name}. Have a seat, please”

“Sure” you answer, feeling a bit awkward.

Seth and Evan are engaged in a calm conversation, tucked away in the secluded corner of the room. Meanwhile, you're absorbed in organizing your layouts, your back to the entrance, when the sharp sound of a door swinging wide pierces the silence. Out of the periphery of your vision, you notice the room's occupants abruptly rise to their feet in a unified, almost military precision.

"Uh, Homelander, welcome," she greets with a strained smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, her voice tinged with a detectable quiver betraying her anxiety. Indeed, the atmosphere has shifted palpably; a heavy cloak of tension settles over the room, making the air itself seem laden with foreboding.

“Ashley,” he notes her presence. Uninterested.

“ Hey Seth, Evan, good to see you.” Now a hint of sarcastic enthusiasm sets in his voice.

He sets down into his chair, and as he sits he turns his head to you. He sniffs the air realizing something. Even before you'd know, he finds you leaking, and suddenly his interest in you increases tenfold and with a sudden interest in you he introduces himself.

“Why hello there,” his devilish grin and piercing blue eyes startle you, “you know it's a shame I never get to meet all the wonderful people here working at Vought, what's your name Ms…?”

“Rodriguez, although people just call me [your name].” You smile professionally.

“Well Ms.Rodriguez,” he takes your hand in his, brushing your soft knuckles before planting a kiss on them. “I do hope to enjoy your presentation.” As he gave you a soft wink.

You find his introduction performative but also slightly genuine.

The marketing guys gave their little spiel on how to market the homelander’s son, Ryan.

You soon make a suggestion. “I believe that would go well with young adult males, but we aren't thinking of the bigger picture here. We know how Homelander is when it comes to women.”

You see his jaw tighten, so you tread lightly when you continue.

“We’ve already seen the comic books, so how about we take a look at something more child-like for mothers, show the soft story about Homelander becoming a father raising a child all on his own, raising him to be a good American hero.”

The market guys roll their eyes and scoff in protest, but before they can open their mouths you hear clapping.

“Wow that’s… well that's good,” To you he sounds almost genuine but his mind is still working on you. You breathe a sigh of relief at his approval.

You mutter off a “thank you, sir.” And scurry back to your seat.

After muttering a quick, “Thank you, Sir.”, you scurry back to your seat.

“Well I think this has been a great meeting, thank you all for being here. I-”

Homelander interrupts, “Ms.Rodriguez may I have a moment to ask you something?.”

Stunned, you respond, “Oh-uh sure,” you give him a weak smile.

“Great,” he grins a menacing grin. “Let's take a walk.”

It's quiet for the first few minutes, almost bone-chilling . He clears his throat to break the silence.

“So, Rodriguez. What do you do here?” He asks in a way that sounds like he's interested but also way too critical.

“Well sir, I work in graphics and art, but I do most kid's artwork and stuff.” You chuckle nervously.

He nods at your answer, and he continues, “Well I think that is just super!” He still smells your body producing his favorite thing (well maybe second favorite thing).

He continues the walk in silence until you guys reach your office, he scans around the room trying to find ways to see you more often. Until he sees, “Oh, you have a family,” you turn the picture towards him.

“Oh yeah, my babies,” you sigh at missing them. “Rafael and America.”

“Wow, what a name for such a cute baby,” he feigns interest because as stated before he's only interested in what's under your skirt.

“Yeah, their father named them.” You feel a sharp twist in your heart when mentioning your husband's name, Homelander sees this and with his well-learned acting exclaims, “Whatever he did to you I'll get him.” He places a hand on your shoulder as he jokes with you.

You look up at him with teary eyes before wiping them away. “Oh no it’s not that my husbands not with us anymore.”

He feels indifferent to your plight, yet he pulls you in for a comforting hug. He smells like warm spices but underneath he smells metallic almost of blood. It’s unnerving.

He releases you from his grip, only to take a long look down and clear his throat.

“Hmmm I think you might wanna…,” You look down horrified. You're leaking.

Standing at your threshold, the rich oakwood panels seem to reach out, inviting you into the warm embrace of home. Before your hand can grace the knocker, your mother-in-law materializes, her eyes alight with the joy of your arrival. "Hola mami!" Your greeting is tinged with fatigue, yet her presence ushers in comfort. "Hola, {insert Spanish nickname}, how was your day?" Her inquiry is simple, yet it's the undercurrent of genuine concern that touches you. "Well, Mami, to be honest, it was a bit perplexing..." you admit, the words trailing off as you grapple with the day's events.

Your exchange is gently fractured by the delightful pattern of small feet drumming against the floor, a familiar and heartwarming cadence. It's a sound that signals the arrival of one of the most precious joys in your life, a guiding light that brightens even your darkest days. The architect of your daily smiles, your cherished child, the ever-sweet Rafi, bounds toward you. This tiny being, the center of your universe, radiates unadulterated happiness, infusing your mornings with meaning and your heart with boundless love.

"Hey, Mamacita!," He says,

"Hey there, Papito" you greet, the corners of your mouth turning up in a weary but warm smile. "You're not gonna guess who I bumped into today!"

His eyes sparkle with curiosity. "Who was it?"

"The one and only, most amazing superhero of all time!"

Glancing down, you notice he's clutching his beloved Homelander action figure, its edges frayed and colors faded from love and time. It was a gift from his dad. The sight fills you with a bittersweet mix of joy and a pang of sorrow, knowing the layers of memories it holds.

Sighing, you reply, “Well I met the one and only…”, pause for dramatic effect, “HOMELANDER!” You see his gorgeous little eyes light up, you love to see your little guy happy. He jumps around the house as his grandma yells at him.

“Papito! You're gonna wake the…,” she’s already too late. And as your second little bundle of joy starts to cry, your mother-in-law is about to get the spoon on Rafi, “Don’t worry mami, it’s fine I wanted to see my baby anyway.” You smile at her as you trudge towards your baby's room. “Hey Meri, how’s my girl doing?” You coo at her. She has your husband’s beautiful green eyes, gorgeous fluffy curls and chubby cheeks. You hold her close to you, your heartbeat calms her down. You sit for a while ignoring the noise from the street corner thinking of when her father took you to New Mexico,

(~Flashback~)

The evening air is warm and the breeze carries the simple romance of the night through the air. He cradles you in his soft loving arms as the stars pale in comparison to the sparkle of his eyes peering into your own.

“Y’know (y/n), I was just thinking,” “Oh that’s never good.” You snicker to yourself.

“Hey, that hurts.” He pretends to get shot in the chest. “Whatever,” You roll your eyes

“Well, what I was going to say was, what if we get married…” He sheepishly says that last part.

“Um well, to be honest, I want to, after all, little Rafi-,” He interrupts. “Or Meri, I plan on having ten beautiful girls, well eleven because of you.’

You laugh a hearty laugh. “Yeah right, let’s just focus on the first one, but yeah I wanna be married.”

“Okay great because I have this ring in a box and I didn’t know who I was gonna give it to.” He yawns sarcastically.

You wide-eyed stare at him for a little, until it sinks in. You sit up and push his shoulders to the ground. “Oh my God!” You kiss his face all over.

“Hey mami, watch the baby. They ain’t finished yet.” He chuckles “I love you, baby.” he smiles with his gorgeous lips.

“I love you too, papito.” You lean in for a kiss all while smiling into his lips. And while you once again fall in love, your favorite song plays.

~Como la flor, Con tanto amor, Me Diste tu~

“Se Marchitó, Me marcho hoy,” You sing to the bittersweet words of Selena, “ Yo sé perder, Pero a-a-ay, cómo me duele, A-a-ay, cómo me duele.”

The smells of your cooking penetrate the room and seep out of your window into the cold air of a New York night, the warmth and love from your kitchen emanating from your apartment.

Unfortunately for you, a certain pair of eyes enjoyed your little performance, and the ethnic food smelled to him albeit too much spice for his taste, he could still feel a distant mother’s love through those smells.

And when you decided to close the window, he took that as a challenge to get into your life and ruin it.

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the-lonelybarricade · 7 months

Text

Breaking & Entering - (2/2)

Summary: Before the room was swallowed into darkness, she found her eyes drifting towards the entryway, listening to the heartbeat that drifted to her through the wooden door. It followed her all the way to the House of Wind. And in her sleep that night, the beating stopped.

Or; The story of how Elain discovered that Lucien Vanserra sleeps naked.

A Part II and a happy ending by popular request!

Read on AO3 ・ Part I

The nondescript sleeping tonic Lucien purchased in the market hadn't come with any instructions. He didn't consider this unusual.

Seeing that the shopkeeper hadn't provided any cryptic warnings upon its purchase, Lucien assumed, as with other sleeping tonics he'd ingested in the past, he simply needed to consume the vial shortly before he was ready to go to bed and sleep would find him more readily.

When Lucien tipped the vial down his throat later that night, he found its taste unexpectedly pleasant—ginseng and honey with a tart, unmistakable aftertaste of magic that told him the potion would be potent. He remembered locking the doors, undressing from his day clothes, and lingering for a moment in front of his balcony door, unable to keep himself from staring towards the rising mountain range in the distance. The windows and verandas of the House of Wind were indistinguishable from his apartment, but it hardly mattered when he knew precisely which side Elain's room was kept.

Her scent still clung to his nose. He hadn't been able to rid himself of it since he'd visited the townhouse earlier that day and found the smell of jasmine and honey still wafting through the steam of an abandoned cup of tea, as if she'd fled the second he knocked on the door. He hadn't dared ask after her and Feyre, whether out of sympathy for him or loyalty to Elain, had not commented on her sister's whereabouts.

Lucien dragged his gaze towards his bedside table, debating whether he should choose a book from the small collection he kept in Velaris to distract his thoughts until the sleeping tonic took effect. But his eyes only made it so far as the jeweled dagger he'd rested on the table's edge before his attention swiveled back towards the glass door and the distant glowing lights in the mountain. He might as well have shoved that dagger into his chest and twisted, the way he let himself imagine what she was doing with her evening, practically another world away. Did she like to read before she fell asleep, too, or did she need something less idle? And during those moments when her mind wasn't occupied, did she ever let it wander towards the mate who slept in the city beneath?

That was the last thought he remembered before oblivion. There was no soft drift into darkness, nor did he lap gently against the tides of waking. One moment, he recalled standing in his bedroom, wallowing in his misery, and the next, the sun was up, his mouth was stuffed full of cotton, and the room stunk of salt and copper.

And… jasmine.

He sat up. Sunlight flooded in from his balcony, bouncing and glinting off the thousands of glass shards littering his bedroom floor. A broken plant pot lay haphazardly in the wreckage, clumps of soil spilling away from the cracked ceramic. Last he'd seen that pot, it'd been sitting lovingly on his outdoor table.

Someone had broken into his house, and from the bloody footprints trekking through the broken glass, they hadn't been prepared for the carnage they'd wrought. Lucien took a moment to assess his own feet, just to be sure the tonic hadn't sent him on a violent sleepwalk. That was when he noticed the blood on his bed sheets.

His intruder had climbed into his bed. And along with their blood, they'd left their scent behind. One that stirred at instincts he tried very, very hard to keep buried. She'd been here. In his bed. His mate had been his bed. But more importantly—

His mate was hurt.

Beneath his skin, something primal was itching awake, thrashing at long-held restraints. Lucien took a deep breath. He needed to keep a level head and piece together what happened. Why had Elain come here? Why had she hurt herself trying to get in? Had she been running from something, had she come to him for protection that he'd failed to provide?

Just like he'd failed to protect…

Lucien flung open his wardrobe and shoved himself into clothes without paying attention to what he was grabbing. The fact that he didn't run into the streets naked was a testament to his self-control. He bothered with only as many buttons as was required not to be indecent before he winnowed outside the wrought iron gate of Feyre's townhouse.

It wasn't far off dawn. Perhaps it was too early to be wailing his fist against the door of an uptight High Lord. Rhysand's expression certainly said as much when he answered after the third round of knocking.

"Lucien," he said in a flat greeting, not bothering to adjust the black silk robe hanging off his shoulders. At least it was tied at the waist, however precariously. His violet eyes dragged over Lucien in one quick, unimpressed assessment before he quirked a dark brow. "I assume there's a reason you're disturbing my otherwise very pleasant morning?"

The love bites along his neck spoke for exactly what sort of pleasant morning Lucien was interrupting. And Rhysand's insufferable smirk confirmed it.

"Where's Elain?"

"Sleeping," Rhysand said. "Like you should be."

"Lucien?"

Rhys turned at the sound of Feyre's voice, his hard expression softening as he watched her pad up to the doorway, her own robe tied much more securely—thank the Cauldron. She frowned as she came closer and glimpsed Lucien's expression.

"Is that blood on your face?"

Lucien immediately swiped at his cheek, his fingers coming away covered in the dust of dried blood. A growl rose in the back of his throat as he demanded, "Take me up to the House of Wind."

“No.”

“No?” Lucien snarled.

Rhysand's eyes gleamed as though amused by the outburst, eager to see how far Lucien was willing to escalate the situation. The subtle step Rhys took to position himself in front of Feyre didn't escape Lucien's notice, either.

"Not until you calm down."

"Tell us what happened," Feyre said, voice far more coaxing. She pushed her hand against her mate's shoulder, moving him out of the way with a stern sideways glance. Rhysand's expression shifted just enough that Lucien knew they were in each other's minds, having some conversation he wasn't privy to.

The rational part of his brain knew that they wouldn't take him to Elain unless he complied with their questions, but his sensibility was in a losing battle against the primal instincts slipping loose. Through gritted teeth, he managed, "Elain's hurt."

"Azriel reports that she's fine," Rhys replied, crossing his arms. "Safe in bed and fast asleep."

"Let me see her, then."

"So she can wake up to a snarling male? I doubt that will win you any favor."

"Rhys," Feyre warned. She looked to Lucien, and he could hardly bear the pity in her eyes, the way she spoke to him like a spooked animal as she said, softly, "I'll go check on her."

"Take me with."

Feyre sighed. "I don't think that's a good idea, Lucien."

And before he could protest or even try to convince her otherwise, Feyre vanished, leaving Lucien alone with the High Lord of the Night Court. Rage blistered through him, and in that moment Lucien wanted nothing more than to wrench their door off its hinges and slam it into the smug bastard's face. But rather than pick a fight he couldn't win, he turned on his heel.

"Lucien."

He paused at the gate to peer over his shoulder at Rhysand. Some of Rhys's smug demeanor dropped, regarding Lucien with an expression close enough to understanding to make his stomach heave.

"Feyre says Elain is fine. She had some cuts on her feet, but nothing that can't be healed. Take some time to decompress, and you can return when she's awake."

Lucien didn't respond. A thanks didn't feel deserved, but if he was honest, he knew it was for the better that they didn't let him storm into Elain's room, half-feral and mad with panic. He didn't know what had driven her to come to him last night, but whatever her reasons, she'd decided not to stay.

It was enough to know she was safe.

Resigned, as he was with all things pertaining to Elain, Lucien returned to his apartment to clean up the pieces of his life she'd left shattered.

Most burglars flee the scene of their crimes, never to be seen by their victims again. Elain showed up the next afternoon with a basket full of baked goods and an apology she'd been rehearsing since she woke up.

She used the front door this time, and waited on Lucien's doorstep until he answered.

To her relief, it didn't take long to hear shuffling on the other side of the door, and soon it swung open to reveal her mate, alive and awake. His eyes widened at the sight of her, and he briefly glanced down at himself as though regretting his attire. The first four buttons of his shirt were loosened to show a generous amount of toned brown skin, the rest of the fabric tucked loosely into his beige trousers. It was the most casually dressed she'd ever seen him. Before last night, at any rate.

The memory caused her face to redden. With a great deal of effort, she forced herself to look up and meet his eyes. They stared at each other, neither speaking, for far longer than convention would prescribe. Elain, dragging her eyes over him to soothe that now dormant instinct that had begged her to ensure he was okay. Lucien, assessing her from head to toe with poorly disguised concern. She supposed she had so scarcely expressed any interest in engaging with him, it would be his assumption that she was only seeking him out because something had gone wrong.

And in a way, that was precisely what she was doing.

"Elain," he said, finally. He took a moment to clear his throat before continuing. "It's lovely to see you. Are you well?"

"I'm perfectly well." Wracked with guilt, her response was more of a whisper than intended. Now, it was Elain's turn to clear her throat. "I came by to see if you were well, actually."

"Me?" He blinked. "Yes, lady. I assure you I'm in perfect health."

That he was. The evidence of his perfect health burned so fiercely in the back of her mind that she blurted without thinking, "Feyre told me you had a break-in last night. I came by to see if you were okay. And I brought you some pastries. Not from me. From a bakery down the street."

Lucien nodded, accepting the basket when Elain thrust it towards him. "That was very kind of you." He took a moment to study its contents before his eyes gravitated back towards Elain. "And you needn't worry about the break-in. If the thief stole anything, it's escaped my notice."

So he didn't suspect anything. That was good. She should go. Leave, while he was still oblivious to what she'd done. But it was as if her legs were cemented to the stone beneath her, and her mouth opened of its own volition. "Still, it must have been concerning to wake up to."

"Concerning?" He let out a soft laugh. "You could say as much. It's not often you wake up covered in blood that doesn't belong to you."

Elain coached her voice not to strain as she said, "You must have slept through a great deal."

"The consequences of a sleeping tonic." He offered her a wry smile. "A lesson learned, I suppose."

"Do you have trouble sleeping, Lucien?"

He stilled. And Elain thought perhaps… Perhaps that was the first time he'd heard her say his name. Of course, he didn't hear her shouting it last night. Or when she often whispered it, quietly, into her pillow. A confession for her ears only.

Lucien raised the basket in offering. "Would you like to come in? I could put on some tea and regale you with the story of my midnight thief in greater detail."

It would be so incredibly foolish for her to agree.

"That sounds nice."

Not anymore foolish than breaking into his house in the middle of the night. Or refusing to know him in any meaningful way outside of her visions.

A moment later, she was settled across from Lucien at his dining table. An elegant teapot sat between them, steam billowing from its spout. Someone with a better education of Prythian might have been able to glance at the stamps in the porcelain and the delicate artwork to identify its court of origin. From the blue brushstrokes rising and cresting like waves along its side, Elain could only guess that it was from the Summer Court. A relic from his many travels as an emissary, or something more sentimental? She didn't have the courage to ask. And he was oblivious to her musings as he lifted the teapot by the handle to pour her cup before serving himself.

"Your apartment is lovely," she said, in an effort to make conversation.

Lucien hummed his gratitude. "I've forgotten this is your first time coming here."

"Yes." Elain lifted the teacup to her mouth before her expression could give away her lie. It was too hot to drink, but she'd developed something of a habit in hurting herself in Lucien's apartment. She set down the cup only once she'd composed herself and added politely, "It's a shame I hadn't visited sooner."

"Indeed," Lucien said. He rapped his knuckles against the table. "You might have been able to spare my plant pot."

Elain froze, falling every bit into the role of the doe she was so often compared to. "Pardon?"

"My thief used the plant I kept on my balcony to break in last night. I'd been trying to nurse it back to health for months. With your interference, it might have been healthy enough to put in my front garden, and the thief would have needed to find some other means of breaking in."

At a loss for words, all Elain could think to say was, "My condolences for your plant."

Lucien smiled. "Don't worry, there's humor to be had in it. You see, I kept a spare key planted just beneath the soil. If my thief had taken a moment longer to investigate, they might have saved their feet from getting cut by the glass."

"They sound like a very poor thief," Elain said, not looking up from the streaming surface of her tea.

"Exceptionally," Lucien agreed. "I've been wondering all morning—who breaks into someone's home with bare feet?"

"Perhaps they were too poor to afford shoes?"

Lucien leaned back in his seat. "That's the curious thing; the thief didn't take anything valuable. As far as I can tell, they simply broke down my door and climbed into bed with me."

It seemed it was now Lucien's turn to pick things up and hurl them towards her. Elain knew what it felt like to be the glass door shattering to pieces as the full impact of his words slammed against her. She knew that nothing malicious had been done to him, nothing besides an inadvertent glimpse, but Lucien… he must have suspected the worst. A violation so horrifying that she dropped her face into her hands.

"It was me," she squeaked.

"I know."

Elain snapped her head up, surprise momentarily overtaking her shame. "Azriel told you?"

The coy smile toying at his lips suddenly flattened into a line. "Azriel?"

Oh dear. She pressed, "Feyre, then?"

Lucien ran an exasperated hand through his hair. "Elain, I didn't tell Feyre about my break in. The fact that you knew of it was all the confirmation I needed."

Cauldron, she'd make a terrible thief and even worse spy. Elain bit her lip, refusing to give anything else away.

He suffered her silence for a minute longer before he sighed. "I'm not angry, but I am confused. Would you please explain to me what happened last night?"

Elain thought she owed him that much, at the very least. After taking a deep breath to compose herself, she asked, "Do you remember when I told you that I can hear your heart?"

A nod, accompanied by an absent look in his eyes and a frown that suggested it wasn't a pleasing memory. It wasn't for her, either. Those initial months after the Cauldron blurred together, a swirl of darkness as chilling as the water that had seized her mortality. She remembered rotting in her despair, day by day, aimless and hopeless and cold. And she remembered him.

I am Lucien. Seventh son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

She remembered that name, pulling her to the surface for the first time in weeks. Her only breath of air since the moment she'd been pushed under. A glimpse of sunlight.

A trick.

Elain blinked away the memory of that girl, one she still resembled more closely than she'd like to. And she looked at her mate, equally a different male from the one that had once sat before her with his fingers trembling against his teacup. But he was the same in the ways that mattered. He was patient with her, sipping his tea while she sifted through her thoughts. Still so kind, still radiating warmth even as he held himself guarded.

"I've listened to your heartbeat every day since then," Elain said. "I hear it louder than my own sometimes. It's the first thing that greets me in the morning, and it's what coaxes me to sleep at the end of the day."

Lucien lowered his tea and pressed his hand to his chest, feeling for the beat that echoed through her. He didn't say anything, simply waited for her to continue.

"Last night, I heard your heart stop beating and… I panicked." There was no other word for it. Pure, blinding panic. "I asked Azriel to fly me down from the House of Wind so I could come here to check on you. I tried knocking on your door and pulling on the bond and you weren't responding to anything and I just—" She took a rasping breath. "I just needed to know that you were okay."

Lucien opened his mouth, but Elain blurted, "And when I realized that you were fine, I panicked again because I know I made such a fool out of myself and I just fled. I wasn't thinking. I'm so sorry for breaking your door. And for killing your plant. And for—"

"Elain," Lucien soothed. "It's alright. You have nothing to be sorry for. Well, besides my own panic this morning when I woke up covered in your blood. You think I wouldn't recognize the scent of my mate?"

My mate. She'd heard Feyre and Rhys use that phrase countless times before and always felt disconnected from the endearment. It was so… faerie. Blunt and possessive and primal. Lucien had only said it in front of her one time, during the worst moment of her life. She didn't think hearing it again would stir anything inside her.

My mate—mine.

Elain felt her entire body warm. "I didn't know what you would think, if I'm honest."

"I thought something terrible had happened," he said, a strain to his voice that she recognized as a shard of the same cutting fear she'd been under last night. "Feyre said I wasn't in any state to go see you in the House of Wind, but she assured me you were fine. I thought about taking those ten thousand stairs anyway, just to see for myself, but I didn't want to…"

He trailed off, his eyes not leaving her face. Elain felt it then. The pull, the ever-flowing current she'd been swimming against for years, terrified of losing control. She decided to give into it for the very time, just enough to let it guide her hand forward until it was covering his.

"Didn't want to what?"

Lucien's throat bobbed. He held himself so still, as if worried the slightest movement would send her fleeing. "I didn't want to scare you. I wasn't thinking clearly."

She let out a dry laugh. "I know the feeling."

His lips twitched. The makings of the smile that made her feel as though she'd swallowed hot coals. "Yes, as it turns out I had no reason to be concerned. Who would have thought that polite little Elain could be so feral?"

"Feral?" She repeated, snapping her hand away. "I thought you were dead!"

"And there wasn't a single glass door or freshly cleaned sheet that would get in your way." He smirked. "You know, I noticed something strange when I was cleaning up your little mess. Somehow, you managed to get your blood beneath the blankets. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Elain's chair scraped against the floor as she exploded to her feet. "You are—"

His eyes gleamed. "What?"

"Crude!"

"I'm crude?" He raised a scarlet brow, far too smug for Elain's liking. "You were the one sneaking perverse—"

"I was not!" Elain protested. "I was…" Gods, the excuse sounded pathetic even in her own head. "I was ensuring you weren't wounded. It was strictly clinical."

Lucien cocked his head, unbound hair spilling over his shoulders as he grinned at her like a fox cornering its next meal. "Do I get a turn assessing you for wounds, then? It's only fair, given you were the only one bleeding out of the two of us."

"I'm healed."

"If that's the case, prove it to me."

Nesta or Feyre would have snapped at their mates for being so demanding. Elain debated doing the same, but part of her was curious where he was going with this. And since something had knocked loose in her last night, she was getting into the habit of giving in to her impulses—at least those regarding her mate.

Elain walked around the table until she was standing above him. He stared up at her, expectant, and she held out her palm for his examination, all the while trying not to notice the way his legs spread over the chair, and how she knew what his thighs looked like beneath the taut fabric. Muscular. Lean. Powerful.

Lucien cleared his throat.

She blinked, ripping her gaze away from his lap. He didn't comment further on the indiscretion, though she'd never seen him quite so self-satisfied as he reached for her hand and drew it closer for assessment.

He dragged his thumb across her open palm, prickling heat in its wake. Elain restrained a gasp. They hadn't touched since the moment he'd lifted her off the floor in Hybern, and back then she had been stone cold and so numb that his touch barely registered. Now… it was like feeling sunshine warm her skin.

"You have so many calluses," he noted. "I'd almost think you were a warrior."

"They're from gardening," she said, uncertain why it came out so breathless.

"Why not use gloves?"

She searched for an accusation in the question. He'd once gifted her a pair of enchanted gardening gloves so that no thorn need ever cut her skin. Those gloves were still tucked in their original gift box, collecting dust where she'd shoved them under her bed.

"I prefer to feel the dirt beneath my fingernails," she said. That was the honest answer.

Sometimes, she felt too separated from the world, as if she existed behind a thin film, always observing events as they unfolded around her but never present. A glove was just another barrier. She wanted to feel the earth. She wanted proof that she was here.

Lucien made a noise as though in understanding. "Well I can see that your hands are unharmed, but what about your feet?"

"How am I meant to show you my feet?"

He grinned in a way that said he was hoping she'd ask. Lucien pushed aside the teapot and his cup, then patted the table in front of him.

"Take a seat."

For a moment, all she could think about were the erotic novels Nesta liked to read so much. The ladies in those stories often found themselves deposited atop a table with a male between their thighs. Even if Lucien had the most innocent of intentions—and from his wide grin, she wasn't convinced—she would still be sitting above him, her skirts short enough that she would need to be conscious of how she moved lest she expose…

It was horribly uncouth.

When Elain told him as much, he only laughed and assured her, "I won't tell a soul, you have my honor."

It wasn't her reputation that concerned her, though she didn't know how to express that to him without betraying the direction of her thoughts. And she could refuse, but a spark in his eye challenged her to stay, to see what happened.

Swallowing her pride, Elain situated herself on the table before him and scooted back until she could present her feet in his lap. It was then he began unlacing her boots, and it was so intimate to see him undressing her, no matter how innocently, that she needed to turn her face away.

Her eyes wandered across his dining room, from the blue and white knotted rug of unknown origins to the display unit against the wall housing trinkets and fine dining sets. Considering how infrequently he stayed here, the apartment was well-decorated. Was that his doing?

"Tell me something," she said to distract herself.

"Anything."

"How do you like living in the mortal lands?"

"Truthfully, I don't mind it." He'd finished unlacing one of her boots, and his broad hand curved behind her calf to maneuver it off her foot. Once the boot was off, he let his hand linger. "Vassa and Jurian have become good friends."

There was a contentment in his answer that made her feel uneasy. She knew she should be happy that Lucien had made peace with his circumstances. Particularly when she had been the one to push him from Velaris. But if he felt settled in the mortal lands, could she expect more time between his already infrequent visits?

"Would you…" her throat burned. "Would it be a great burden if you were to visit Velaris more regularly?"

"That depends on the nature of my visit."

A diplomatic answer. Elain turned to him in an effort to read his expression, but he gave nothing away, dedicated to his task of unlacing her second boot.

"What if you visited outside of your obligations to Feyre and Rhys? Just to enjoy the city?"

Lucien glanced up, arching a brow. "Alone?"

Elain shrugged, too mechanic to express the nonchalance she wanted to convey.

"Perhaps with company."

Their eyes met. The mechanism in his artificial eye clicked once, twice, refocusing as though he were assessing her sincerity. Elain held her breath, wondering if this was how it felt to lay her head on a chopping block, to feel the gravity of those seconds before the axe swung down.

"That would be wonderful," Lucien said, with a smile that sent the breath whooshing from her chest.

His hand returned to her calf. The last boot came off, and it was then that Elain remembered she was wearing stockings. Lucien looked as if he'd only just put that together as well. He was already shaking his head, prepared to backpedal. But they'd come this far.

"Go on," Elain goaded, lifting her leg in invitation.

Lucien searched her face, lips parted in shock. Shock that melted into rakish delight as he realized she was serious. His broad hands returned to her calves, squeezing playfully just to test the waters. Elain sucked in a breath but didn't pull away. She kept her eyes locked on his and nodded her permission.

Those hands glided up, pausing at the crook of her knee, where he used his grip to part her legs further. Then he rose from the chair, and Elain wasn't certain whose heartbeat went soaring first, but she could hear them both thundering in her ears as Lucien wedged himself closer.

Scarlet hair spilled over his shoulder, tickling her neck, her chest. Since his hands were already on her, pushing up her skirt as they slid over her thighs, she saw no reason why she couldn't reach up and fist her hands against his scalp.

Lucien groaned in response, leaning further into her touch until they were chest to chest. Until she was close enough to feel his breath fanning over her cheeks. His eyes were half-lidded, their focus on her lips, watching her every breath. Waiting for an invitation. She felt his hands rise to the hem of her stockings and still.

"You're not getting distracted," she whispered. "Are you?"

He huffed something close to a laugh. It was exhilarating to watch him war with his own restraint, knowing that this male exceeded her in age and strength and power, and yet he yielded only to her desire. He would touch her exclusively in the ways she gave him permission, no more or less. Even as her lips drifted excruciatingly close to his.

"Who would have thought you'd be a horrible tease," he said, a roughness in his voice that she'd never heard before. Like a stone scraping over pavement. She could feel it drag against her skin, utterly intoxicating. She wanted to hear him say her name in that voice. Wanted it, but feared it would be her undoing.

"I think we're learning that I'm full of surprises."

"Indeed." Lucien hooked his fingers beneath her stockings. "I have never been more delighted to be caught off guard."

His shaky breath chased her own, and it was a relief to think she was not the only one whose composure was slipping, carried down, down, down with her stockings, all rational thought and sensation narrowed to the brush of his fingers, their trail of fire, the impropriety of letting him undress her. Letting him touch her bare skin, when this was all so new, so fragile.

The ability to breathe only returned once her stockings hit her knees and Lucien needed to pull away to finish the act of removing them. A soft protest bubbled to her lips, but she pushed her teeth down to catch it.

"See?" She said, ignoring the foreign rasp in her voice. "They're completely healed."

Lucien ran his thumbs along the soles of her feet, assessing the faded marks. "So they are."

"Are you satisfied?"

His metal eye was clicking again, and the russet of his right eye was nearly swallowed by his pupil. There was a wildness to the look he gave her, one that reminded her no matter how refined his diction, how cordial his manners, he had been born to and tempered by the flames of Autumn.

A fire coursed through his blood, and she could see it burning in his eyes as he said, "I fear I'm unfamiliar with the meaning of that word."

"I should go," she said. Before she was tempted to challenge that notion.

Lucien nodded. He knew just as well as she did that they were teetering off the edge of something they couldn't take back. Maybe it was already too late. It felt like it would be impossible to reign in the ache splitting open inside her, to return to the feigned indifference she'd managed just yesterday.

She scrambled off the table and shoved her feet back into her boots without bothering to put her stockings back on. They could be his trophy for somehow convincing her to do this in the first place.

"Wait," Lucien said as she turned towards the door.

He stood from the chair and pushed a hand into his pocket, producing an iron key that he held out to her. "Take it. So that you don't hurt yourself the next time you come to my daring rescue."

Elain stepped forward and curled her fingers over the metal, warm from his pocket, and surprisingly light for the weight of the gesture. She wanted to give him something in return. An apology and a promise and all of the complicated feelings in between.

So she gathered her courage and rose up on her feet to press a timid kiss to his lips. It lasted all of a second before Elain moved to withdraw, at which point Lucien caught her at the waist and drew her back for a proper kiss. And despite the years of longing and the tension they'd kindled this afternoon, each burning like a forge in her chest, his kiss was soft. Gentle.

Elain sighed into this sweet, final surrender, yielding at last to the force that had always been pulling them together, long before she knew his name or had any awareness of the fae. Golden light coiled in her chest, and her fingers slipped back into his hair, needing him closer. His lips, warm and petal-soft, parted and moved against hers, but there was no urgency. His touch wasn't colored by lust, though she could feel his racing heart and flushing skin.

The fae dealt in magic and bargains. They were casual with their intimacy, unruly in their courting. Here, a kiss could be meaningless. But in the human world, a kiss was a vow. It was the penultimate stage of a courtship, a promise that a gentleman intended to intertwine his life with that person.

Lucien kissed her as if they were human. With his eyes shut and his hands staunchly fixed to her waist. There was reprieve in his expression, like a man who had waited patiently for this moment, who was promising that this was only the start of a much longer journey—one they would travel together.

His eyes opened, and he pulled away when he saw her staring, unaware that she had been carving the sight of him into her memory.

She spoke before he saw fit to offer an apology. "I have one last question."

Lucien cleared his throat before speaking. "You can always ask me anything."

Oh? Elain wondered if he would regret saying that.

"Do you sleep naked in the mortal lands, too, or is it just when you're alone?"

His answering smile was nothing short of fiendish. "Why don't you visit me in the mortal lands and find out?"

#breaking & entering #Elucien #Elucien fanfic #Elucien fic #Elucien fanfiction #Elain x Lucien #Lucien x Elain

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letsgetrowdy43 · 1 year

Text

The perfect proposal—

Request: quinn proposing!! 🌼

It was supposed to be simple, intimate, and maybe even a little quiet. But it turned out even more perfect than he could've imagined.

Quinn had kept his idea of his proposal as secretive as he could, only confiding in his mother about possibly having a Hughes' family heirloom as their engagement ring. Specifically, the ring his grandmother had set aside for him when she first met Y/n, deeming her the next rightful owner of the vintage emerald ring that she had hidden away years prior to the couple's meeting.

He spent a solid week begging his brothers to postpone their summer vacations by just another week. Giving them no explanation but the promise that he would make it up to them.

Quinn's day of romances started early, a grin on his lips as he woke her up with a freshly brewed coffee and sloppy kisses to her cheek, her body tensed as she woke you, her face breaking into a soft smile as Quinn finally placed a kiss to her lips. "You're up early?" He shrugged, "couldn't sleep," he mumbled as she sat up and leaned against his arm, coffee in her hands as she fought off the fatigue.

Her free hand intertwined with his as they sat in silence for a second, watching the curtains blow with the light breeze, allowing the sun to beam into the room and display the view of the lake, the water looked as if it was glass and the sun was rising.

"Since we are up so early," she grinned as she placed a kiss on his jaw, "maybe we could go check out that market we meant to visit last summer," she mumbled as Quinn nodded along. "I'll do whatever you want," he whispered as she hummed in appreciation, "give me a minute to wake myself up." Quinn placed a kiss on her cheek before getting up ad off of the bed to get himself ready and out of the way so she could get herself ready in peace, "sound good dove."

And that was the extent of their morning. An early breakfast run at Quinn's favourite diner, followed by the two of them exploring the small market in town, which led to a proposal for dinner on the dock, made by hers truly.

The universe was clearly working in Quinn's favour, his night of romance basically planning itself out as the day progressed.

Y/n left rushed kisses to Quinn's lips as he tied the bow of her apron, a shy smile plastered on his lips as she whispered about how handsome he was looking with the growing stubble on his face and the slight sun-kissed glow that blessed his cheeks.

"You're trying to get me worked up," he said as his brows furrowed, finishing the knot and letting his hands finally grip her hips, thumbs running over the material of her jean shorts as she grinned widely. "Is it working?" she whispered against his lips before planting another kiss on his smile, he nodded, speechless as he kissed her deeply. She pulled away, a devious grin on her face as Quinn followed her lips, "we need to eat dinner," she watched as his face fell into a pout before she stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek and then swung into action.

Dinner on the dock was it, this was the moment he'd been waiting for, nothing would ever be ask perfect than the atmosphere of intimacy that encapsulated them. The sunset, the lake, dinner, and love were the key ingredients to a perfect proposal, and Quinn could not wait to get that ring on her finger.

They sat on the dock, her back pressed up against his chest as they watched the sunset’s reflection displayed across the water. His arms securely wrapped around the girl as Quinn let out a content sigh, a grin working its way onto her face as he rested his chin against the crown of her head, trying to figure out the precise moment to pop the question.

“I have a really insane question,” she mumbled as her hand found comfort intertwined with his, an intrigued look on his face as she angled her head to press a sloppy kiss to his jaw. Quinn nodded as she pulled away from him for a second to reach in her back pocket, “let’s get married,” she said, turning her body and presenting him with a simple gold band, her face broke out into a flustered nervous smile, as she watched her boyfriends face drop.

He was almost too stunned to speak, his jaw dropped as she grew even more nervous under his stare. “I can’t believe you just did that,” he said exasperatedly, she looked on the verge of tears as she slowly pulled away from him in embarrassment, “you just beat me to a proposal,” he laughed as he fished into his shorts pocket and pulled out the ring box he’d been carrying around all day.

Her brows furrowed as Quinn opened the box to reveal the Hughes family heirloom, a quiet gasp leaving her mouth as he grinned at the reaction. “I ruined your proposal?” She said in a sorry tone, as she looked at Quinn who just grinned back. “I think I ruined your's first dove,” he shrugged as he took her hand into his.

She grinned, the ring she bought for Quinn still in the palm of her hand, "let's get married," he said softly before she took him by surprise and slammed her lips onto his, a gasping in her mouth as her hand lightly tugged on his grown out hair. She pulled away momentarily, her eyes hazy and lustful as she fumbled trying to find his hand to slip the ring on his finger.

He grinned at the frustrated but concentrated look on her face as she shakily slid the band on his ring finger. He took her hand into his own and slipped the family ring on her finger, sealing the deal with a kiss to her knuckle as she blushed at his actions.

Y/n stared down at her hand for a second, knots tying in her stomach before looking up at Quinn who looked almost giddy with love. "I love you," she cupped his cheeks as he leaned forward and kissed her once again. His forehead pressed up against hers, "love you too, Mrs Hughes," she gasped at the name before his arms wrapped around her torso and pulled her into his lap to smother her in love.

The sunset, the lake, and everything around them disappeared into the background because all that mattered was the two of them, and the immense love flowing through their veins.

I hate it... but I have no motivation :/

#Captain huggy celly #quinn hughes #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes fic #vancouver canucks

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charliehoennam · 8 months

Text

angel.

Pairing: Louis Bloom (nightcrawler) x F!reader A/N: i blame jake for this. lou bloom is a fucking psycho, stay away from people like him. this is purely fictional, people. this was named out of inspiration from angel by massive attack, so kudos to them as well.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, smut, NON-CON drug use and NON-CON intercourse, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies, kiddies), crime, language, somnophilia. (consent is EVERYTHING, yall. again, this is fictional)

Word count: 5,900+ ( i think this might be the most i've ever written)

SHARING IS CARING, SO PLEASE REBLOG

It’s early morning as you’re carrying a box into your newly rented apartment.

Louis is stunned when his eyes land on you, forgetting about the water he’d been using to hydrate his plant until it drips onto his foot and snaps him back to reality.

“Ah, shit” he hissed, quickly lifting the glass up.

Turning his attention back to the window, he watches as you enter the living room. It’d been empty for a long time; he was curious as to who would move in there. All the apartments were pretty much the same. What made this apartment so special was that it was directly across from his. With uncurtained windows, he could look right inside from his.

Hypnotized by you, he’s frozen in place. The feeling is all too foreign for him.

Louis isn’t exactly a social butterfly. In fact, he always found easier to avoid people as much as humanly possible. Not out of fear, but out of disdain. At the height of his career with Video Production News taking off, he strongly believes he’s learned to manipulate normal human emotions which he’s almost never felt.

There’s just something about you that brings out some of those unfamiliar feelings in him and floods him with desire. Attraction surely has a hand in it. No one could deny your beauty, and your body makes only more difficult for him to ignore you.

Infatuated by you, he watches you attentively from the corner of his window. He can’t let you see him. He can’t let you catching him staring at your ass curve as you bend down to pick up a box outside. The leggings you wear provoke him further, outlining your panty on the back and mound in the front.

He doesn’t even know your name yet, but you already have his imagination going wild. It’s almost like you’re calling for him.

With his blood flowing straight down to his cock, he zones out daydreaming about what you’d look like on all fours, bent down with your face buried in his sheets. He thinks about how round your ass would look perched in the air for his gaze; how inviting your pussy would look from behind; how soft your skin must feel despite the goosebumps he’d make you feel.

Such a pretty little thing for him to violate.

His hand seems to have a life of its own as it reaches his crotch, palming his twitching cock over his gray slacks. He knows, right there and then, that he has to have you and his devious mind is already churning with a plan.

He decides to wait until the people helping you - who he assumes are your friend - leave. In the meantime, he times his exit to the precise moment everyone’s in your apartment having pizza to make a quick run to Bob’s Market around the corner.

He needs an excuse to approach you without raising any alarms in your mind. He needs you to feel safe around him; make you think he has only the most genuine interests at heart.

Chocolate chip cookies should do just that. Who doesn’t like chocolate chip cookies?

The warm L.A. sun shines down on him, illuminating his deviant plan. He wonders how he got so lucky to be at the right place, at the right time. He knows he has to do whatever he can to make you his.

No one will love you like he will. No one can take care and protect you the way he can. He would kill for you. How many people could do that without fearing the consequences for you? How many would devote themselves to you and do absolutely anything to keep you, even if he has to harm you?

Entering the store, he wanders around for a minute before opening the refrigerator door and grabbing a package of the ready-to-bake cookie dough. You really should be grateful. You got him baking before he even knows your name.

Fidgeting with his keys in his pockets, he eyes the supply store across the street. A lightbulb lights up in his head with an addition to his plan.

With the cookie dough in a plastic bag, he strolls over to the supply store. The ropes on display make him stop in his wandering stride.

“Not yet,” he tells himself.

Convincing himself to control his impulse, he picks up the silicone putty he came for and purchases it with ease.

“Locked myself out of my car the other day. Gotta make sure to a get copy of it made today, but I also got some errands to run. Life in L.A. never sleeps, does it?”

With his chin tilted down and eyebrows narrowed, his chuckle unsettles the cashier although the poor terrified man nervously smiles back. There is no ignoring the chills Louis gives him.

Unsettling people is in his nature and Louis hasn’t quite learned how to tweak that part of him. He supposes he has to practice his smile a little more in the mirror.

As he arrives back to his building, he overhears one of the guys coming out of the building to collect another box. You’re nowhere in sight thankfully, so he lowers his head and pushes the sunglasses perched on his nose up along its bridge.

Once inside, he heads to the bathroom for a quick piss. As he’s washing his hands, his stoic gaze lifts. He stares at the mirror emotionlessly.

He knows right from wrong. His methods may be questionable, but they’re not done without thought and calculation.

Opening the medicine cabinet, the transparent orange bottle of sleeping pills seems to glow at him. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s morally wrong, but when has moral high ground ever stopped him before?

Tucking the bottle into his pocket, he closes the cabinet before staring at his reflection. He’s determined to do whatever he has to. He needs to have you. This is hopeless love at first sight. Many people wish for love like his.

Once the cookies are baked and cooled off, he’s stood in the kitchen assembling them into the nicest plastic container he owns when he overhears you saying goodbye to your friends down below. He rushes to the window.

If anyone of the people assisting you are in a relationship with you, this would be the time to find out, right? A kiss on the lips or – if the man is anything like the boyfriend you should have – he’d offer to stay and help you unpack. Maybe christen the new home.

Louis doesn’t even realize how he’s holding his breath until it finally fogs the glass when he breathes out. You hug the men one by one. There’s no kiss on the lips. His hopes get higher as he smirks to himself.

Your conversation is distant, but he can hear better after he cracks his window open just a little bit.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay and help you unpack?” Matt asks.

He freezes and deception grows in his chest along with a pang of anger.

“Yeah, I’m sure. You guys have done so much already with the packing and carrying all the boxes.”

“We wouldn’t mind staying longer to help you,” Tyler joins in.

“No, really. I’m good,” you chuckle at their insistence. “I got this, guys. Don’t worry.”

“Alright. Just call if you need anything else. And thank you for the pizza and beer,” Matt smiles at you. “And I’m really sorry about all this mess.”

“Will you stop apologizing? I understand entirely. Just make sure you take care of my best friend and her baby and we’re good” you smirk moving to hug Matt after hugging Tyler. Relief washes over Louis. He concludes they’re only friends.

“I’ll see you later then. Take care.”

You nod and wish the same back to Matt. You watch the boys head out towards their car as you stand in the entrance's doorway.

While you begin unpack in the early afternoon, Louis realizes he needs to wait until it’s early evening for his plan to be precisely timed with the darkness of the night.

The cookies are done and now, he has to wait.

The move was smoother than you’d expected.

You had to move out when your roommate Cara told you she’d be needing more room since she found out she and Matt were expecting a child. With him moving in and a baby to prepare for, the apartment would be even more crowded than it was at the time. And you couldn’t agree more.

It was a sudden bomb, sure, but the fact that they knew that and were willing to do whatever they could to help softened the blow a whole lot. Matt even offered to pay for the entire move, but you couldn’t let them do that. Especially with a baby on the way.

Time was all you asked for and they made sure to give you plenty of it. So, instead, he offered to help with the move physically with the assistance of his younger brother Ty.

Once the brothers drove off safely, you walk back to your apartment. Thankfully, there are only two levels to the condo, and your apartment is on the ground level.

You look around your new home as you think about where to start so you decide to set up your sound system to get some music playing. Music always helps to provide a sense of company and pass the time.

You begin with the bedroom since you figure it’ll take most of your time. Besides, it’d be nice to not have to worry about where you’ll sleep when you’re too tired to continue and decide to call it a night.

Afterwards, you move to the kitchen to start organizing everything into its rightful place. You want to make sure you have your flow down. Coffee powder, filters and mugs go above the coffee maker. Plates, bowls and silverware go near the stove. Glasses go next to the fridge. Dish towels go in the drawer by the sink.

With every item neatly and strategically placed, the feeling of independence blossoms. This is your home now. Your haven. The very air you breathe smells of freedom. You can’t help, but smile as you look around and admire the apartment, although you realize it definitely needs more furniture.

Now that you don’t have to consult anyone anymore about placing artwork on the walls or buying an armchair, you can gradually work your way into giving the apartment a more personal touch.

Soon after you set all the pots and pans in a cabinet below the counter, you hear a knock at your door. You frown as you hesitate for a moment, thinking about who it could be.

Maybe it’s Matt and Tyler coming back to pick something they’d forgotten up. It has to be; you told very few people about your move and even fewer knew your new address. You weren’t expecting to have any guests over either.

So, you walk stealthily quiet towards the door to peer through the tiny peephole.

There’s a man standing on the other side of the door. You don’t know him. You’ve never seen him before, but the plastic container in his hands intrigues your curiosity.

“He’s probably just a neighbor”, you reassure yourself.

Louis notices your shadow casting underneath the door from the other side. The simple fact that you’re already acknowledging his existence has his heart thrumming with adrenaline and excitement, which he forces himself to contain.

“She knows me now,” he thinks to himself.

Watching him glance down at the foot of the door, you realize he must already know you’re at the door. He can see you. At this point, it would just be rude to pretend you’re not home, but you’re not sure who he is.

All you can tell is that he seems pretty attractive through the peephole which isn’t really helpful, but it does entice you to open the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, hi. I couldn’t help but notice you just moved in earlier today. My name’s Louis. I’m your neighbor. I live in the next building in apartment 3F.”

He doesn’t sound threatening. His voice is actually softer than his appearance. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but something about him gives you the chills and you can’t figure out what or why.

“I’m not a raging psycho killer if that’s your concern,” he chuckles eerily. “I’ve just lived here for a few years. I always bring cookies to new neighbors,” he lies. “Just a modest way to welcome people, I suppose. The city of Los Angeles is harsh enough. Why must we be the same?” he smiles strangely, making for an awkward moment of silence.

“Would you like me to leave them by the door?” he continues.

It’s like he can almost smell your hesitance through the door.

How does he know?

Not wanting to seem rude on your first day on the block, you unlatch the locks on the door and open it up with a tight-lipped polite smile.

God, you look even prettier up close. It’s hard for him to hide his admiration. You could never tell, but he’s battling the impulse to pin you down and fuck you senseless. You’d look so lovely all tied up for him.

You can’t deny he has some of the most beautiful features you’ve ever seen. His clean-shaven face flaunts a few brown freckles. Faded smile lines curve around his long nose and thin rosy lips, making the latter more inviting they already are. His jaw is prominent from his tall, slim build. Large doe eyes as blue as Neptune are framed by a pair of thick eyebrows that makes his gaze even more intimidating. Dimples depress into his hollowed cheeks as he smiles charmingly at you, revealing his perfectly lined teeth.

“Thanks. That’s very thoughtful of you,” you respond with a soft voice, reaching for the container. “I’d invite you in, but my apartment is a mess right now. I’d rather you see it when it’s less chaotic.”

“Yeah, it’s no problem,” he affirmed with a sinister smile. “Like I said, I just wanted to welcome you to the block. If you need help with anything, I’d be more than pleased to assist you in any way possible.”

He looks very friendly and very well-spoke, but you can’t shake how his vacant his eyes seem to be.

Maybe it’s the slightly greasy medium length brown hair parted to the side and tucked behind his ears. Maybe it’s how he towers over you with hunched shoulders and casually scans the apartment behind you between his words. Maybe it’s the outdated button-down shirt he’d worn that made it seem like an attempt at dressing formal.

You’ve only just met the man, but something about him has your squeezing your thighs together. Someone about him draws you in and turns you on in a way that you simply cannot explain.

“Thank you. I will do that,” you assure him. “Sorry, what’s your apartment again?”

“I live in 3F. It’s located in the neighboring building just across.”

“3F,” you repeat making a mental note of his home number. “Yeah, I’ll stop by if I need anything.”

“Please don’t hesitate. I’m always happy to be of service. I will let you return to your previous engagement, I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted anything.” He knows he hasn’t, but he needs you to believe this wasn’t planned. “I look forward to seeing you around, Y/N. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yeah, same to you, Mr. Bloom.”

You hold your hand out to shake his. He almost swoons at your formality. Manners mean everything to him, so he reaches out and shakes your hand with gently firm grip.

The veins on his pale hands have your pussy growing wet at the thought of them inside your cunt. You’re sure he could reach your special spot with such long slender fingers. You wonder how many of them you could fit inside your pussy simultaneously.

“Please, call me Lou,” he grins baring his perfect teeth.

“Lou, then,” you smirk correcting yourself. “I will see you around. Thanks again.”

“Enjoy the cookies.”

He turns around with a smile and calmly walk down the hallways towards the exit. His hand burns with the shadowing touch of your hand lingering on his skin.

You close the door behind and lean against the wood with a curious frown. You had expected him to live on the same floor or at least in the same building.

You shake off the thought as you lock your door and admire the cookies he’d brought on your walk back to the kitchen. It really is a kind gesture, one you thought only happened in movies. And you just happen to love cookies.

The pieces of his plan have all been set and now he can only wait.

To make his time useful, he decides to sit and think about every single process of his plan. He cannot be unprepared. There cannot be any surprises.

He starts with the locks and walks to his door, standing still and hollow as he stares at the rusty and faded golden locks. Assuming all the apartments are the same, he closes his eyes to remember the details of your encounter. He remembers hearing a chain slide open and the mechanical twisting click. They appear to be the same as the locks on his door.

He opens his eyes and studies them carefully, thinking about how to get the chain open believing it to be his only obstacle. The twist lock would be easy. His thieving days have been behind him for a while now – his company is doing great enough; he doesn’t have to steal anymore – but breaking and entering is still second nature to him. Picking a lock is hardly a challenge.

Sitting at his computer, he researches ways to unhook the chain. He quickly finds a quick and simple method that doesn’t involve leaving any evidence behind, so he grabs his tool kit and searches for the only two object he needs.

Once he’s confident enough after a few successful attempts from inside his home, he proceeds to lock his door once more and climbs out an open window. With his apartment at ground level, it allows him to climb out with ease. He leaves it open just in case his practice test turns out unsuccessful.

He walks around to the building’s entrance with the kit, a small roll of duct tape and a rubber band.

After successfully picking his twist lock open from the outside this time, he opens the door to the extent of the chain. His long arm allows him to reach inside. Once the rubber band is hooked through a link of the chain, he tapes the other end of the rubber band to the door. That way, when the door closes, the chain slides to the furthest end with the movement, unlocking itself and falling to the side to hang freely.

A grin creeps onto his lips, stretching grimly as pride fills him. Old habits die hard; he giggles knowing he can still be the sneaky thief when he needs to be.

Meanwhile, you decide to indulge on a short coffee break, so once your coffee is made, you sit on your couch to enjoy the sweet treat your new neighbor was kind enough to gift you with.

If he hadn’t already been infatuated by you before, he is now in love with you. He can’t stop thinking about your sweet nature and manners. His heart races as his mind lingers on your smile and the thought of your voice. He’s eager to learn every single detail about you.

Despite being a workaholic, he decides tonight is a special exception because you’re just special like that.

Back inside his apartment, Louis calls his second-in-command of Video Production News to inform his team he won’t be joining them on the hunt for coverage tonight.

“A more important and rather urgent setback has presented itself and, in order to prevent further undesired and unpredicted hindrances, I have to eliminate them now.”

Having worked closely to Louis, his team knew better than question him. His strict tone while reminding them to be on their best behavior only enforces that he is not to be disappointed.

It isn’t even 9 p.m. but you’re feeling beyond exhausted at this point. The coffee you had a couple hours ago was in vain. It seems to have given you the opposite effect.

You try to persist on unpacking, but your body feels so heavy already. It must be from all the exercise of moving. Lifting heavy boxes, walking up a couple flights of stairs, kneeling and standing. It’s been a very busy day and you’re just tired.

You make your way to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Due to the weight your tired limbs and their dragging, you opt to not wash your hair. It would take too much energy that you simply don’t have. You can barely keep your eyes open as you rinse the lathered soap off your body.

You don’t even bother putting on underwear. Just a t-shirt will have to suffice because that’s all you muster before you collapse on your bed.

Its’ cozy embrace enraptures you into a deep sleep and, within seconds, you’re out cold.

Louis watches you exit the bathroom from his window. His breath hitches when he sees you drop your towel on the floor of your bedroom.

The medicine is kicking in as he predicted.

He smirks to himself, proud of his achievement. Excitement floods through him when he notices you didn’t bother much with clothes. That’ll make his job so much easier.

His true self comes forth, shedding him of his friendly – or his attempt at it - facade.

He ties his hair into a small bun behind his head.

He planned this already to make sure he wouldn’t need much. Just his camcorder, latex gloves, a key mold. This may be the first time, but it certainly will not be the last. The last object he takes along is a pocket knife that he strongly hopes he won’t have to use.

His stride is calm though his heart pounds in his chest. He prays the got dosage just right enough so you don’t wake up.

His eyes scan around as he crosses the small courtyard to your building. No one is outside; no one has seen him.

As he reaches your door again, he slides the gloves onto his hands. It doesn’t take him long to enter your apartment with quiet footsteps after all the practice he’s had.

He’s never felt closer to anyone in his life than right now.

The apartment has you all over it. These are your belongings. In a way, he feels as if he’s penetrating his way into your intimacy. The thought is enticing enough to make his cock harden a little in his pants.

He wanders around your new home with his camcorder already filming, opening boxes and cabinets and drawers as he roams. He needs to record every detail about you. What do you like to eat? What are your movie preferences? What music do you listen to? Do you read? Reading is important to him. It is a sign of intellect.

You don’t seem to have any pets. If you had a dog, it would’ve been aware of his presence already. There aren’t any bowls of food and water set out. Much like him, you seem be a loner.

The apartment is much like his. Small enough for one. No bedroom. Just a kitchen near the entrance with a window at the other end. A small bathroom and closet for your clothes.

He wonders what you usually smell like as he enters the bathroom. He finds your shampoo and condition and raises each to his nose. Then your deodorant. And your perfumes. He closes his eyes, admiring how heavenly you smell.

He makes sure to film the label of your perfume to buy one later and spray it against his pillow so he can sleep with the scent of you every night.

Can’t you see how much he loves you?

As he silently makes his way towards your living room, he gulps with anticipation. His palms grow clammy as he stares at you, asleep in your bed.

Despite his excitement, his hand reminds steady as he focuses the filming on you. For a couple moments, he stands at the foot of your bed just watching you sleep.

You look so pretty. So peaceful.

He would slaughter whoever attempted to disturb you. He knows it’s rather ironic, but he’s so captivated by you.

He can’t stay away. He wishes he could climb into your bed; that he could wrap his arms around you, inhale your scent, touch and kiss you over every inch of your body to worship you as you deserve to be worshipped.

That’ll take time, but he will make it happen somehow.

Eventually snapping out of his daydream, he moves to the dresser and pulls open a couple drawers.

The first has your jewelry and accessories. He studies them to better understand your taste hopefully for future reference. He’s encouraged to take a ring, so he could wear it around and take a part of you with him everywhere he goes.

He finds a small one that is big enough to fit on his picky. It’s nothing too special. Just a thin silver band that you happen to have a few of in different size. It would be easy for you to assume it got lost in the move, if you notice it at all.

The second contains what he is looking for: your panties. His eyes grow darker as he rummages through them, picking the sexiest ones to lay out on the wooden surface of the dress to film them better.

The thought of you wearing them for him has his cock hardened completely and leaking with pre-cum. He can feel the wet spot soaking his underwear. He would give anything to have you wear them, rubbing the lacy fabric against his face and cock with your pussy.

He takes turns smelling each of them, inhaling the sweet intoxicating scent of your pussy and fabric softener.

He finds a sexy lacy pair in his favorite color as he sets the panties back in their drawer. That one belongs to him now.

The urge to rub his cock to completion gets harder to control as he tucks the panty into his pocket. A dark thought blooms within his mind as he focuses back on your sleeping figure.

You’re so unconscious that you don’t even feel him lifting the covers. He has to bite his bottom lip when he sees you’re in the perfect position for him.

“Such a little fucking whore. Bet she loves getting rammed. Probably loves doing what Nina rarely ever did,” he thinks to himself.

You’re on your side with the top leg bent up and spread against the mattress. With your other leg stretched out underneath, providing Louis with the perfect shot of your bare pussy.

He lifts his camera to pan the frame slowly onto the sight of your pretty little puffy pussy displayed just for him.

He can’t help but palm his cock through his trousers. He needs to cum. It’s starting to hurt. His balls are just so full and his cock, so painfully hard.

He growls lowly at your exposure and freezes instantly, watching if he woke you up. You don’t stir in the slightest, not even when his long slender fingers gently part your plush lips to spread them open for his private little video.

Licking his gloved fingers, he savors the taste of your cunt and hisses contently. He smiles devilishly when you don’t react to his fingertips slowly probing your entrance. Until the moment you finally turn onto your back, unconsciously spreading your legs even wider.

He wonders if you’re awake and enjoying his little teasing, but judging by your steady breathing, you’re sleeping like a rock.

He licks his lips at the pussy opportunity splayed out in front of him.

His menacing gaze narrows on the sight between your displayed pussy as he unbuttons his pants and pulls them down enough to let his cock spring free. He thinks about penetrating you and fucking you with just his tip. Would it wake you up?

He carefully climbs onto your bed and positions himself on his knees between your legs with his camera back in hand. He spits in his gloved hand and gathers his leaking pre-cum to lube his cock up. The slick latex against his skin makes the stroking even easier.

Staring down at your beautiful folds, he wishes he could take his time, but truth be told, he’s so fucking hard already and he needs to get it out of his system.

Your cunt looks so pretty and juicy that he wishes you could use his face as a seat all day.

His cock throbs in his hand as he gently pressed his tips between your folds, pausing only to zoom the camera in on your pussy and his cock now perfectly aligned and connected.

God, it feels so perfect like your pussy was made for his cock. So warm and soft against his. He can’t imagine what you feel like inside. He wants nothing more than to pump you full of his cum until it drips out, just so he could push the leakage back inside with his cock.

The thought alone is enough to get him close. He has to be careful and slow.

He pushes his cock past your pretty lips slowly. With his mouth hanging open in an O, he closes his eyes as he fights back a moan. You feel so deliciously good and tight around him. He doesn’t want to cum to just yet though.

The movement of his hips is slow as he takes his time pushing in and pulling out. He could swear you’re wet, but he assumes it’s just his eager cock.

Carefully setting your legs to drape around his thighs for a better position, his pace picks up a little.

At this point, the friction of his cock and your perfect pussy is audible to him, but it doesn’t seem to even bother you. He doesn’t even care about anything other how deliciously heavenly your cunt feels.

He’s close. So fucking close. He pauses his movement, holding his cock inside your walls to reach up and gently push your shirt up past your chest.

He toys with your exposed tits. He needs to feel you.

Hooking his teeth under the rim of the glove at his wrist, he uses them to remove his hand from the glove. Once it’s tucked into his pockets, he reaches up to continue playing with your breasts.

He licks his lips imagining them wrap around your nipples, suckling and biting your tender flesh to mark you and let everyone know what a whore you are, but most importantly his whore.

He just has to get his mouth on them. They look too irresistible to miss what could be the only opportunity he has.

He sets the camera on the bed beside you to film himself fucking you while simultaneously sucking on your tits, kneading them each in his large hands.

He’s balls deep in your tight cunt now. You must be so damn drugged because your eyes aren’t even moving and your breathing is still steady. Even if you were dead, it wouldn’t stop him for fucking you. He just loves you that much.

After giving your breasts the well-deserved attention, he can’t hold back anymore and believes he doesn’t have to.

If you haven’t woken up by now, then pounding your pussy raw definitely won’t wake you up.

So he grabs the camcorder again and starts fucking you harder and faster like a filthy little slut with his hand groping at your tits, making sure to get your pussy and tits all in one angle.

He wants to watch your tits bounce as he pounds your cunt mercilessly when he jacks off to the video later.

Sliding his hand to your hip to hold you steady, he relishes how the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoes through your apartment.

He wishes you could be awake to scream his name until your neighbors complain with fists to their walls.

It’s all too much.

He soon pulls out just in time to coat your pussy with his pearly white load.

You just look so pretty painted with his cum.

“My Mona Lisa,” he thinks to himself. “That’s what I’ll name this footage.”

Pulling his cock away, he lowers the camera for a close-up of his masterpiece taking his time to get every single angle of the white streaks on your flesh.

Staring intently at your cunt with wide eyes as he films, the feeling that floods him is the same at the one he felt on the night of the car crash in Benedict Canyon. This is another of his greatest accomplishments. He pants with adrenaline.

Curiously, he dips two fingers into his bodily ‘paint’ and toys with it, enjoying how slick your lips feel on his fingers. If he wasn’t so spent right now, he’d go at again and again.

He wonders how he’s going to clean you up now. He made a mess on your pussy. He can’t leave you in this state. It’ll be too obvious when you wake up in the morning.

Setting his camera on your bed to get him in the shot once again, he scoots down your bed and aligns his mouth to your coated pussy.

Snaking his arms under your thighs – letting them dangle over his shoulders – his hands reach your breasts to gently knead them. He wants to squeeze them hard, but he’s worried that might be the final drop that wakes you up.

He doesn't mind that his cum is all over your. It's really an excuse just to get his mouth on your cunt.

He takes his time letting his tongue explore your pussy, swiveling over every mound of your lips and dipping into every valley. Using his fingers to pry your pussy open, he stretches you enough to delve his tongue into your used hole.

He was careful not to cum inside you, but he yearns to taste you.

Deciding you’re clean enough, he carefully removes himself to stand and takes his camera to record each angle of your used naked figure, carefully circling around your room and zooming in your pussy, tits and face.

You look so pretty and innocent in comparison to he violated you.

Taking the advantage of your position, he quickly sets his camera on your nightstand and rushes to the bathroom to find something to clean you up with.

Locating some wet wipes under your sink, he turns the hot water to warm a couple sheets and heads back to clean you up.

He thoughtfully lowers your shirt and covers your body back up. He’s not a complete monster; there is genuine care for you in him.

He kisses your head gently before stepping back to look for any further evidence.

Heading towards the door, he finds your keys handing up on the wall. There aren’t many. Just three. So, he tests each one out to find your apartment key. Once he does, he takes the silicone putty he’d placed in an old and empty Altoids metal container.

He stamps the key into the mold twice, making sure to get both sides of the key perfectly imprinted.

His copy of your key has to be perfect to save time for the next time.

#louis bloom #lou bloom #lou bloom x reader #lou bloom x y/n #lou bloom x you #louis bloom x reader #louis bloom x y/n #louis bloom x you #nightcrawler #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal fanfic #jake gyllenhaal smut

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buggedboi · 6 months

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goblincore things

the trees have eyes and it is not unsettling to you

Greeting magpies - it is only polite after all

feeling awe and wonder by staring into a pond with no fish but slithery skittery creatures

horror at a squished worm on the pavement

no coat, just layers and hooded clothing like the medieval peasants would have wanted

why have expensive, unethically mined crystals when rocks are literally right there and for free as long as you thank mother nature?

passionately sponsoring the weirdest, ugliest endangered insect at the zoo because nobody cares enough about them to save them

picking out knick-knacks from the furthest, most awkward angle on the shelf in a charity shop, rummaging with delight in bric-a-brac boxes, spending spare change at carboots, yard sales but everything you buy is picked up off the floor.

Too many independent artists at the market who sell stickers!! so many stickers! And pin badges! And little crocheted items!! How can you possibly choose???

Garden centres are a haven - going to aquatic centres and just looking at the cool groovy little aquatic plants and shrimps just wiggling around

Smashed pottery picked out of the mud is a like the archaeological find of a lifetime - even if it dates to precisely 2 years ago

Litter picking as an activity - gotta look after the environment so wildflowers can grow!

Appreciating a weedy garden, biodiversity heck yeah

Wooden board games - just something about the little wooden pieces is very thrilling

#goblin energy #goblincore #goblin aesthetic #goblin community #mine

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freesia-writes · 25 days

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Ch 42: Dancing

Master List ~~ Previous Chapter ~~ WC: 2.4k

FANART by @perfectlywingedart and @raevulsix and @the-little-moment 😍

Realizing that the scents and sounds of the Farmer’s Market had become a familiar, welcome experience, Hunter wove his way through the crowds as his eyes flitted from stand to stand. He was looking for something specific, but was beginning to panic that this was the one week a certain vendor might not have attended. Lyra usually visited the Market each week, but he’d asked her to avoid this one, insisting that she trust him and not ask questions when she started to poke at his mischievous secrecy. She’d relented, however, on the condition that he explain himself over dinner that night, and he’d agreed with a smug grin. It was all coming together perfectly.

Ah, there it was. Displaced from the typical stall near a fountain, he found the florist, where exotic plants and blooms of every color wafted their delicate fragrance through the air. It was mercifully empty, giving him ample space to inspect every single flower to try to find the perfect bunch. After a few minutes, the owner approached from behind the table, a knowing smile on her elderly face.

“Trouble choosing, dear?” Her voice was laced with such warmth that he immediately felt his tumult begin to quiet, a mildly bemused expression betraying the accuracy of her assessment.

“Yeah,” he admitted, gesturing to the numerous choices. “Nice spread you’ve got.”

“Tell me about her,” the woman invited, shuffling around to stand by his side, gazing at the wall of blooms before them.

“She’s…” he faltered, mind racing with so many things that he didn’t even know where to begin. A tiny touch on his forearm pulled his attention from the swirling cloud of possible descriptions in his mind, and he looked down at the florist.

“I know that look,” she giggled, a twinkle in her eye. She tapped the side of her nose and gave him an affectionate wink, then turned to her bouquets. “How big are we thinking?”

“Eh…” He was baffled, wanting to convey so much with a simple gift and yet aware of the fact that Lyra was not really a “big” sort of person… something he loved about her. “Not big, but…”

“Beautiful in its simplicity?”

“Exactly.” An unsuccessful attempt to hide his surprise at the woman’s uncanny knack for precision brought another delighted chuckle to her lips, and she turned to the table behind them, crooked fingers wiggling over the tops of the assortment as she searched. They landed on a textured brown pot that held a plant with long leaves that arched gracefully around some thick stems. Hanging from each stalk were some brightly-colored buds shaped like hearts, each one having a delicate design that made them look as though they were painted. They were small yet mesmerizing with their elegant curves, and the way they were tucked in among the foliage gave them an endearing sense of playfulness.

“They might seem cheesy at first,” the woman explained, holding up the pot and turning it slowly. “But they open up more when they bloom and are adorably unique. Trust me… They bring a smile every time.”

Hunter wasn’t sure, but as he scanned the rest of the table, he didn’t see any other options that stood out, and the woman’s guess was probably far more reliable than his own, so he gave her a nod and was on his way. He’d made it a few steps toward the road when an intimidating figure stepped into his way, and his grip tightened around the plant as he recognized the parasite from Lyra’s office.

“Hey, skullface,” Mullet Hanker began, running a hand through his neatly-styled hair. “Couple things for you…”

No reply came from the clone, who was already calculating a series of blows, some of which included the flowerpot and others without.

“Alright,” Hanker continued, unfazed. “First of all, cute.” He nodded at the flowerpot with a condescending smirk. “Second of all, I was a little too drunk at the Festival this year, so tell Vetana she doesn’t have to be all scared anymore. I’m still gonna need those admissions reports though.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes, chin lowering as he regarded the man with venomous intensity. “If you ever bother her again, you’re not gonna like what happens.”

“Hmm.” Hanker’s voice dropped while his back straightened, and there was no trace of remorse in his unmoving stare. “I’m sure it feels good to say that, short stack… But uh… I’m not someone who likes being told what to do, you see?” He shifted positions, pulling up the waistband of his pants a little and casting a seemingly casual glance around the area before leaning in for one last barb. “So… don’t waste your time threatening me.”

He sniffed, turning and strolling away as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Hunter stared after him, pursing his lips thoughtfully before continuing on the path out of town.

* * *

Fun Fact: @raevulsix was the first friend to EVER draw fanart for me (an undercover casino scene from Tech and Vel), and it's been so fun to see her style evolve over the last year and a half! Hunter's face is SO SOFT in this one, I'm deceased! 🥹

“Hi,” Lyra said warmly as she opened her door, a wide grin on her face as she saw Hunter hiding something behind his back. He’d spent the rest of the day preparing for his plans that night, and now that it was dinnertime, he felt jittery with anticipation. “Whatcha got there?”

“You’ll see,” he grinned, producing nothing but a large sackcloth carefully tented around whatever was beneath it.

“What about the ‘no secrets’ rule?” she teased, squinting suspiciously at him as they made their way to the back of the cottage.

“It’s not a secret, it’s a surprise. Completely different.”

“Getting by on a technicality, hmm? Alright…” She slipped her arms around his waist, brushing the backs of her fingers across his cheek before turning her head and enveloping him in a hug. When she released him and stepped back, he noticed her appearance. Even more so than the other night, she’d dressed up as best she could. Her long brown hair fell in soft waves behind a deep teal dress with flutter sleeves. On her upper arm was a delicate design of small chains that wove in an intricate pattern around her bicep, and she was proudly sporting the sea glass necklace he’d made for her. Her features were enhanced with makeup, something he hadn’t yet seen aside from the heavy disguise she’d worn to Keytoll, and she brought a hand to her cheek self-consciously as she noticed his study of her face.

“That’s new,” he commented, a fond smile on his face. “It looks–”

“Like Pa’lowick paint, I know,” she deflected, brushing her eyebrows into place. He laughed.

“No, it’s… fancy.”

“Well you said to be fancy,” she answered with a grin.

“Indeed I did.”

“You look pretty handsome yourself,” she effused, taking in the smooth red shirt he was wearing, a contrast to the usual earth tones and textures he gravitated toward. “Pants are a little tighter than usual.”

“Yeah,” he groaned, looking down with his own flicker of embarrassment. “I thought they were–”

“A nice treat,” she finished, beaming at the snort it earned from him.

“You’re ridiculous,” he purred, deeply content. She gave him a playful salute, then began clearing the last few things from her table.

“So… What’s the plan?”

A half hour later found the two of them meandering through the restaurants in the center of town, Hunter’s fingers entwined with hers as he led the way. They rounded a corner, one of the local eateries coming into view, but it was completely dark inside, front doors closed and locked. A chain hung between two poles at the base of a flight of stairs that led up the side of the building, and he deftly freed it from one of the posts, inviting her up the steps before replacing it once they were past.

“Breaking and entering isn’t usually my style,” she murmured uncertainly.

“I didn’t break anything,” he smirked, taking her hand again as they climbed. The stairs made a sharp turn around the corner of the stucco structure then emerged at the top, which was a flat rooftop garden illuminated by string lights. A small fountain tinkled peacefully in the corner, tucked amid lush vines and bushes, yet the center of the space was noticeably empty.

Lyra shot him an inquisitive look, but he maintained his calm exterior and led her to the center, releasing her hand momentarily to take a few steps away, where he reached between the foliage and pressed a button. Soft music began to play, an old tune he knew she loved, and her eyebrows arched together as she recognized the nostalgic melody. He slowly walked back to her, holding out his hand, and she took it immediately. He pulled her in close, arranging them into a dance position, but she suddenly broke loose.

“Hunter…” she said in trepidation. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“It’s nothing special,” he said quietly, inviting her in again. “Just an excuse for me to hug you for a really long time… while shuffling in a circle so you can enjoy the scenery.”

She chuckled, coming back into his embrace, and tentatively began to follow his gentle sway, unable to resist a smile. Her favorite person, her favorite song, a beautiful place… It was heaven.

The texture! The lights! The sweet tenderness! @perfectlywingedcrusade is a freaking wizard!

“I saw you dancing with Luciana,” she murmured, catching him off guard with such an abrupt change of topic. She lifted her head slightly to regard him honestly. “I’ll never be able to dance like that.” Her admission felt hurtful to him somehow, and he ached for her to see herself as he did.

“I don’t want you to,” he reassured, shifting his arm more snugly around her waist and leaning his forehead against hers. “This is all I want.”

She sighed, assuaged for the time being, and closed her eyes at the intimacy of his closeness. Emotions that he couldn’t begin to name filled his chest, and he stroked the back of her hand with a thumb, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet the deep yearning that was growing every second. They turned slowly, a light breeze nudging Lyra closer against him. When the song faded to quiet, she opened her eyes and found his, an adoring smile on her face.

Hunter released her hand, cupping her cheek and brushing the rough pad of his thumb along its curve. It was soft, like her. Gentle, like her. Inviting, like her. She lifted her chin the tiniest bit, enamored with the tenderness in his eyes. He licked his lips, inhaling quietly. When he spoke, his voice was husky and quiet.

“I love you.”

She was delightfully surprised and yet not surprised at all, her smile widening as her eyes glistened with joy. She opened her mouth to respond, hesitating for a beat, but he couldn’t wait a moment longer.

Hunter closed the distance between their faces in a split second, pressing his lips to hers. A sharp inhale through her nose sent a jolt of tension through him, but as she melted against him, he relaxed into the euphoric moment that he’d wanted for so long. Her lips were unbelievably soft, her body surrendered against his, and waves of utter bliss cascaded from his head to his toes. Slipping his hand a little farther around her neck to cradle the back of her head, he pulled away for a breath before bringing his mouth to hers again. Her heart was pounding, mimicking his own, and yet beneath the onslaught of elation and desire, there was a singular, calm tranquility that rose to the surface. His soul had found its home.

He lingered there, regretfully taking a step back only when his mind had slowed its reeling enough for him to have some sense of clarity and he noticed that she had gradually begun to sink lower and lower as though her knees were giving out. A chortle escaped his lips as he steadied her with the arm around her waist, pulling her close against his chest. She slowly opened her eyes, barely able to restrain her exuberant glee. He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek with worshipful adoration, and after a few seconds, she spoke.

“I told you I’d need to be sitting down for that,” she whispered blissfully, and he laughed freely.

“Sorry,” he murmured, nuzzling against the side of her face before placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. She shivered, basking in his unrestrained affection.

“Second of all…” She tightened her arms around him. “I love you, Hunter. So much.” Her eyes met his with clear admiration, stirring and soothing at the same time. Now it was she who lifted her hand, allowing his arms to rest at her waist, and stroked a few strands of hair away from his face, caressing down the side as he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. There was a sense of surrender that he never wanted to let go of, a supreme happiness he’d never imagined he could have. She cupped his face with both hands, leaning in to kiss him on the lips again, and he felt as though his heart could burst.

He never wanted it to end.

“But…” she mumbled, finally tearing herself away and regarding him with a rummy sort of satisfaction. The single word struck him to the core, chilling the radiant warmth he’d been radiating. “We still need to eat dinner.”

He laughed, flushing with fondness at her ridiculous, adorable self, and still found himself rendered speechless by the supreme happiness he felt.

“Let’s grab a pizza,” Lyra suggested, silly with glee.

“I love you so much,” he chuckled, taking her hand to enjoy one of the many evenings he hoped to share with her.

And the SWEETEST moment captured by @the-little-moment, haha, with such tenderness and beauty and heartwarming awe.

Cheesy but perfect: La Vie En Rose by Louis Armstrong ( lyrics ) (youtube.com)

Previous Chapter ~ Master List ~ Next Chapter

Join the tag list by commenting for the discord server link or filling out my form.

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robertemma27-blog · 6 months

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Precision Planting Market Size & Share, Growth Report 2032

The global precision planting market is projected to reach USD 8.2 billion by 2027 from USD 5.0 billion in 2022; it is expected to grow at a CAGR of 10.3%.

Some of the Key factors propelling the market growth includes the substantial cost-savings associated with precision planting and seeding equipment, surge in the adoption of advanced technologies in precision agriculture to reduce labor cost, and increasing promotion of precision planting techniques by governments worldwide. Moreover, climate change and need to meet rising demand for food, and focus on integration of geo-mapping and sensor data with planting equipment will drive the growth of the industry in the near future.

Key players in the precision planting market include Deere & Company (US), Trimble Inc. (US), CNH Industrial N.V. (UK), Kinze Manufacturing Inc. (US), and Precision Planting (brand of AGCO) (US). Other players include Topcon Positioning Systems (US), Buhler Industries Inc. (CA), Vaderstad Industries Inc. (CA), Stara S/A (Brazil), Kasco Manufacturing Inc. (US), Davimac Group (Australia), Morris Industries Ltd. (CA), SeedMaster Manufacturing Ltd. (CA), The Climate Corporation (US), Ag Leader Technology (US), Bourgault Industries Ltd. (CA), DroneSeed (US), Dendra Systems (UK), Kubota Corporation (Japan), Hexagon Agriculture (Brazil), Dickey-John Corporation (US), Monosem (France), and White Planters (brand of AGCO) (US).

Download PDF Brochure: https://www.marketsandmarkets.com/pdfdownloadNew.asp?id=96394217

Row crops application to account for a larger share of the precision planting market during the forecast period.

The precision planting market is likely to be dominated by row crops in 2023. In row crops, precision planting equipment and systems are widely used to distribute seeds precisely. For large farms, precision planting systems are mainly used to plant row crops. The singulation of seeds affects the yield of row crops such as corn, soybeans, and canola. The majority of these crops are sown on farms sized above 400 hectares, which are primarily found in the US, Canada, Argentina, Brazil, and Australia.

Farms below 400 ha will hold the largest market share during the forecast period

In Europe, Asia Pacific, and Africa, farms smaller than 400 hectares are common. Globally, there are more than 80 million farms between 100 and 400 hectares. These farms are more likely to use compact precision planting systems due to their benefits, such as high productivity due to precise seed inputs, superior seed-to-soil contact, and the ability to plant thousands of seeds per minute. A considerable amount of disposable income is available to these farmers, so they can invest in technologically advanced planting devices and equipment. Farms with a size less than 400 hectares also find high adoption of precision air seeders.

Hydraulic drive segment is likely to account for a larger share in the overall precision planting market from 2022 to 2027

As a result of its advanced features and ability to allow growers to reduce overlap between seeds, hydraulic drives are expected to hold a larger market share. Planters and seeders with an advanced drive system come with either an electric or hydraulic motor. Increasing adoption of high-speed precision planters and precision air seeders, as well as growing awareness of the benefits of precision planting systems, have contributed to the growth of hydraulic drive-based precision planting systems. The growing preference for high-speed precision planting systems with hydraulic drives to reduce manual labor and achieve cost savings has led to the growth of high-speed precision planting systems.

US likely to lead the global precision planting market by 2027

The US has a substantial market share in precision planting and seeding equipment markets. The country has large area for crops under cultivation; every year, more than 90 million ha are planted with row crops such as corn and soybean. High-speed precision planters are mainly used in commodity row crops in the US. The adoption rate of automation and digitalization of agriculture is high in large farms, which further allows farmers in the country to make use of modern and precise equipment for agriculture. To produce various types of row crops, farmers practice conventional tillage and soil preparation, which involve several steps, including preparing the soil bed and eliminating the weeds.

#Precision Planting Market

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probablyasocialecologist · 3 months

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The World Food Summit of 1996 approached food security through the principles of ensuring there is enough safe and nutritious food that can be accessed daily to meet healthy dietary needs and food preferences. By definition, this is a desirable and worthy goal. However, in the years since, food security has developed into a paradigm which does not question the underlying power dynamics and the reproduction of material conditions that make food insecurity a permanent feature of the global order. At its core, the food security paradigm deals only with access to food, without challenging the political and economic structures that determine and control access, as well as distribution. By failing to address the root causes of hunger and famine, the food security paradigm makes it impossible to end hunger globally. Of course, many people worldwide possess food security, but this is restricted to increasingly limited geographic pockets. In terms of the people localised in one area, food vulnerability is influenced and determined by class, race, gender and, of course, citizenship status. Globally, “underdevelopment” and “de-development” lead to widespread food insecurity across areas. Another problem with the food security paradigm is that it is easily co-opted to generate partial answers that pose no threat to the corporate food system, or worse, that even open up new profit opportunities. Accelerated by other crises, the food security paradigm becomes ever more dependent on aid, be it through direct food delivery, cash transfers or small development projects that cannot compete with the food giants and their price-setting powers. In practice, a “science of food security” emerges, one which takes as its focus calories and the output that is compatible with precision agriculture having the aim to increase crop yields and to assist management decisions using high technology sensor and analysis tools. This model tends to be reliant on “Green Revolution” technologies that rely on chemical fertilisers and pesticides and that are tied to colonial projects and corporations, in order to optimise resources in aid response and/or development projects. In this rationale, food insecurity can be addressed by reaching optimum yields of certain crops that should meet the demand for fats, fibres and protein. All of this is carefully managed and data-driven. Precision farming is advocated by the Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa (AGRA) with the objective of optimising, “agricultural value chains […] critical in advancing food and nutrition sufficiency without increasing the size of land under cultivation.” The framing of food that reduces it only to “optimal input” relegates vital elements of food production and the culture of eating, like territory ownership, taste, heritage, care, well-being and connection as secondary. This reductionist approach has, though, proved useful to corporate agriculture, since it reinforces the case for genetically modified crops (GMOs), more efficient fertilisers, and the standardisation of food production for market purposes. Advocates of plant breeding technologies (including GMOs and hybrid seeds) argue that government overregulation is an obstacle to achieving food security. Overregulation, as the argument goes, denies populations the opportunity to grow crops that have increased nutrient use efficiency and are more resilient to climate shocks.

[...]

The paradigm of food security is about optimising productivity. It’s true that productivity matters – after all, feeding the world requires enormous quantities of food. But if productivity is approached solely as a technological problem, it reinforces the tendency to fragment the quantitative and qualitative aspects of food production and consumption. On the quantitative side, production for food security is viewed as a challenge of multiplication. Whereas division, that is, distribution of food, is left to logistical planning. This ignores what Raj Patel identified in his influential 2007 book Stuffed and Starved, as the bottleneck of power that concentrates international food distribution among a small set of corporations. This bottleneck excludes the poor and small-scale food producers from decision-making. It also normalises worrying tendencies, such as an overreliance on industrial animal exploitation as a protein source, which has direct health implications, as well as longer term consequences like the proliferation of new viruses, greenhouse gas emissions and inefficient use of water and soil.

28 May 2024

#food #farming #agriculture #food security

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girlactionfigure · 6 days

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LEICA AND THE JEWS

The Leica is the pioneer 35mm camera. It is a German product - precise, minimalist, and utterly efficient.

Behind its worldwide acceptance as a creative tool was a family-owned, socially oriented firm that, during the Nazi era, acted with uncommon grace, generosity and modesty. E. Leitz Inc., designer and manufacturer of Germany's most famous photographic product, saved its Jews.

And Ernst Leitz II, the steely-eyed Protestant patriarch who headed the closely held firm as the Holocaust loomed across Europe , acted in such a way as to earn the title, "the photography industry's Schindler."

As soon as Adolf Hitler was named chancellor of Germany in 1933, Ernst Leitz II began receiving frantic calls from Jewish associates, asking for his help in getting them and their families out of the country. As Christians, Leitz and his family were immune to Nazi Germany's Nuremberg laws, which restricted the movement of Jews and limited their professional activities.

To help his Jewish workers and colleagues, Leitz quietly established what has become known among historians of the Holocaust as "the Leica Freedom Train," a covert means of allowing Jews to leave Germany in the guise of Leitz employees being assigned overseas.

Employees, retailers, family members, even friends of family members were "assigned" to Leitz sales offices in France, Britain, Hong Kong and the United States, Leitz's activities intensified after the Kristallnacht of November 1938, during which synagogues and Jewish shops were burned across Germany.

Before long, German "employees" were disembarking from the ocean liner Bremen at a New York pier and making their way to the Manhattan office of Leitz Inc., where executives quickly found them jobs in the photographic industry.

Each new arrival had around his or her neck the symbol of freedom - a new Leica camera.

The refugees were paid a stipend until they could find work. Out of this migration came designers, repair technicians, salespeople, marketers and writers for the photographic press.

Keeping the story quiet The "Leica Freedom Train" was at its height in 1938 and early 1939, delivering groups of refugees to New York every few weeks. Then, with the invasion of Poland on Sept. 1, 1939, Germany closed its borders.

By that time, hundreds of endangered Jews had escaped to America, thanks to the Leitzes' efforts. How did Ernst Leitz II and his staff get away with it?

Leitz, Inc. was an internationally recognized brand that reflected

credit on the newly resurgent Reich. The company produced cameras, range-finders and other optical systems for the German military. Also, the Nazi government desperately needed hard currency from abroad, and Leitz's single biggest market for optical goods was the United States.

Even so, members of the Leitz family and firm suffered for their good works. A top executive, Alfred Turk, was jailed for working to help Jews and freed only after the payment of a large bribe.

Leitz's daughter, Elsie Kuhn-Leitz, was imprisoned by the Gestapo after she was caught at the border, helping Jewish women cross into Switzerland . She eventually was freed but endured rough treatment in the course of questioning. She also fell under suspicion when she attempted to improve the living conditions of 700 to 800 Ukrainian slave laborers, all of them women, who had been assigned to work in the plant during the 1940s.

(After the war, Kuhn-Leitz received numerous honors for her humanitarian efforts, among them the Officier d'honneur des Palms Academic from France in 1965 and the Aristide Briand Medal from the European Academy in the 1970s.)

Why has no one told this story until now? According to the late Norman Lipton, a freelance writer and editor, the Leitz family wanted no publicity for its heroic efforts. Only after the last member of the Leitz family was dead did the "Leica Freedom Train" finally come to light.

It is now the subject of a book, "The Greatest Invention of the Leitz Family: The Leica Freedom Train," by Frank Dabba Smith, a California-born Rabbi currently living in England.

Thank you for reading the above, and if you feel inclined as I did to pass it along to others, please do so. It only takes a few minutes.

Memories of the righteous should live on.

Rabbi Yisroel Bernath

#Jews #Shoah #WW2 #Leica #Ernst Leitz II #righteous

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percheduphere · 11 months

Text

Okay. First post trying to use gifs properly. I've switched out improper gifs for these type for my last 3-4 posts. Gonna work on some more corrections tomorrow when I have time. Please let me know if I'm misstepping anywhere. Thanks for your patience! That said...

LET'S TALK ABOUT SYLVIE💕, INTERSECTIONAL FEMINISM (SYLVIE & LOKI)✊🏽, AND QUEER REPRESENTATION (LOKIUS)🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️!

SYLVIE

I'm rooting for Lokius, AND I also love how much Sylvie has forged a life for herself in S2. A lot of her development is implied, so I think it's worth looking at her growth outside the context of Loki himself: She found a job, locals know her by name, she has friends and acquaintances, she has hobbies!

People call her by name in her timeline on 4 occasions:

1. When the McDonald's shift manager (John) checks in on her after work. See the kid with the tie in the image below. I couldn't find any gifs of him visiting Sylvie at her truck. She asked him if his mom was gonna pick him up to make sure he was gonna be okay late at night. 🥹

2. When a customer picks up their McDonald's order and thanks her (cheerfully). Also note how many employee stars she had on her badge! Queen.

3. Lyle at the record store. They seem like really good friends, and I got the "beginnings of an attraction" vibe between the two of them. Unfortunately, the gifs below are the only ones I could find of him and I'm still searching for the source. His interaction with Sylvie before spaghetti-trauma was so sincere. He could tell she was down and offered her Velvet Underground. Come on, that's a solid move.

4. Eric at the bar, who comments 2 shots of bourbon is a good choice. Let me tell you, finding a gif of Eric was like finding a needle in a haystack, but here he is leaning close to Sylvie. Thank you, @zehiiro!

I tried to find more gifs of all the people Sylvie has in her life but couldn't find any, which is a darn shame because there are so many subtle cues she's built a support system on her own and she's thriving.

She's a regular at many places in her timeline, and when people greet her, they do so with a smile. She loves music, a hard drink, and punk fashion.

When she engages with Loki, she may come across as cold, but I honestly think she's being firm with her boundaries and true to her beliefs. The TVA threatened her life for centuries. I don't doubt setting foot in the building is traumatic for her, which may explain why she was more harsh than usually in S2E4. Her psychological defenses were all on overdrive. Yet when Sylvie's in her own timeline, far away from the TVA, she can be her real self. Turns out, her real self is pretty well-liked! (I'll talk about how this is mirrored in Loki soon).

INTERSECTIONAL FEMINISM

Sylvie's an unapologetically "selfish" woman who knows what she wants, wants it on her own, is doing it on her own, and isn't afraid to put her foot down when it comes to her personal boundaries. We should be applauding all of that!

This is exactly the kind of female representation we need, but the show did Sylvie a disservice in S1 by coming at her character as a love interest first (look at all the media promos classifying her as such) instead of more thoughtfully showing how badly she has been affected by the TVA and planting what her desires are throughout. If they had done this with more intention and finesse, her position in S2 wouldn't come off as completely irresponsible.

As a result of this apparent marketing and pre-production development decision, her perception as a character (by both lokius and sylki shippers) is muddled by the question of her relationship status with Loki. This truly isn't fair, most especially to Sophia Di Martino.

Of course, Sylvie isn't perfect. No well-written character should be. I just think she's cooler than she gets credit for precisely because her character arc doesn't require the fulfillment of a romance. She will be fine whether or not she ends up with Loki. It's very feminist!

Loki, in turn, found safety, belonging, and love at the TVA. All the things that are the complete opposite of Sylvie's lived experience. I often see fans complaining about how Loki is ooc in his own series.

The thing is, and Loki admits this himself: it's all part of an illusion.

This illusion started far before the first Thor movie. He comes from a hyper-masculine (dare I say toxic-masculine) warrior society. His true nature doesn't conform with this, so he has to overcompensate with some (genuinely awesome) bad assery.

BUT he doesn't like it.

As a comparison to a far lesser but more relatable degree: imagine putting on a customer service persona 24/7. UGH. It's just not sustainable without becoming increasingly angry and bitter, which is what Sacred Timeline Loki becomes. Mobius gets ahead of this.

In the series, Loki can finally TURN OFF that persona, and TURN IT ON again when it's needed (and fun!).

He also now has the freedom to be silly, expressive, and magical (unapologetically queer!) without anyone making fun of him for it.

The end result is a much calmer, happier, likable person (like Sylvie in her timeline, his defenses are no longer on overdrive!). Who shows him this is possible?

Here's the receipt:

QUEER REPRESENTATION

Sociopoliticaly, Loki and Mobius come from a different angle. A lot of men (cis, fluid, trans, or otherwise) struggle with the social expectation of burying feelings and never ever showing vulnerability, especially to another men. Now, some might argue that shipping men together perpetuates this construct. There's some truth to this, but only through the lens that it is shameful to be gay. In order to get to a point in society where there's no shame in being mistaken as gay (or queer, generally) when being affectionate with another man, there must be continuous positive representation of homosexual relationships in which the characters are not stereotypes. Loki and Mobius are exactly this, especially Mobius.

Whereas Loki, on Asgard, represents the openly queer oppressed (i.e. magic and cunning, qualities historically tied to witches or "immoral women" instead of brute strength), Mobius can represent the closeted repressed.

In S1, Mobius was much more uptight, rule-abiding, and just shy of holier-than-thou. The power structure in which he existed perpetuated this, until Loki reveals to him it was all a lie (an illusion).

In S2, he becomes more flexible, more fun-loving, and more expressive in his affection. In S1, most of his support of Loki manifested as words of affirmation. In S2, his support extended to physical touch and bonding. Mobius, if seen through the lens of a closeted man allegory, finds the courage (and partner) to slowly come out.

#loki #sylvie #mobius #lokius #sylki #loki meta #loki season 2 #loki spoilers #sylkie #my meta #loki series

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the-torchwood-archive · 7 months

Text

Plant Life by Trevor Baxendale.

Something I find interesting about this story is how often I see people misinterpreting Jack's behaviour in it, especially at the end. They want some sort of relief from him. Some sort of intimate moment. But honestly, I like how it ends. There's no space for intimacy because he's angry with himself. Angry that he missed the signs of an alien invasion because he was too preoccupied with wanting to be soft with Ianto.

Almost letting the world end because you want to protect the person you love. To me that's better than a tender moment. It's very Torchwood. It certainly won't be the last time.

Full text is under the cut. This was a quick transcription, so let me know if I've missed anything.

Gwen skipped lightly through the Hub portal as it ground slowly open. It wasn’t something she did very often. There was usually something to worry about – a midnight text to alert her to an attempted alien invasion or some kind of extra-dimensional incursion through the Rift – and any step taken in the underground headquarters of Torchwood could be a step closer to death.

But not today. Today was different. Today was normal. Properly normal. And nothing was going to stop it being normal.

“Good afternoon,” yelled Captain Jack.

Gwen smiled to herself as she jogged up the steps to his office.

He was sitting back with his boots up on the desktop, a wide, gleaming white smile splitting his face in half, “Nice of you to show up for work today, Mrs Williams,” he continued. “That’s if you actually had doing any work in mind. You could just float around the place looking all love-struck and everything if you’d prefer. It says in the rulebook you can to that in lieu of a honeymoon.”

“Cooper,” said Gwen, still grinning, “I’m keeping my name. Rhys has agreed.”

“Oh, he has, has he?”

“Yeah. Said it wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t Gwen Cooper anymore. Besides,” Gwen raised her left hand and waggled her fingers, “this says I’m a Mrs.”

“And what does that say?” Jack pointed a finger at the thing under her left arm.

She looked down as if surprised, “This? It doesn’t say anything. It’s a plant.”

“A plant.”

“Yeah. Spider plant. For the flat. I picked it up from the market this morning on the way in. Do you like it?”

She held out the spindly little plant for Jack to see. He straightened up, a slight look of repulsion on his movie star face, “Not keen on spiders.”

Gwen laughed, following him out of the office and down towards Tosh’s desk space. Toshiko was staring intently at the phalanx of glowing computer screens that constituted her workstation.

“Morning, Gwen,” she said without looking up. Reflections of the monitors flickered in her glasses, “How’s married life?”

“Fantastic,” Gwen told her, gleefully spinning Tosh around in her chair. She skipped after Jack, “I never knew you were scared of spiders.”

“I’m not. I said I wasn’t keen on them. We had a falling out on Janus Prime, spiders and me.”

“Well, this is just a plant, that’s all. No worries,” Gwen plonked the potted plant down on her desk and bounced into her seat.

Jack frowned, “I hope all this post-nuptial bliss wears off soon. I'll have to have a work with Rhys, get him to start leaving his dirty socks on the floor and toe-nail clippings in the bed.”

“Oh, he does that already,” sighed Gwen, “Like I said, no worries.”

“I’m nauseous.”

“I’m in need of coffee,” Gwen rapped on her desktop, “Where’s Ianto? A Monday Morning Special is required.”

“Tea boy’s in the Hot House,” said Owen as he emerged from the depths of the autopsy room.

“Don’t call him that,” Gwen chided, “What’s he doing in there?”

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

“My turn to water the plants,” explained Ianto. He was carefully pouring a plastic cup full of water into the soil of a pot plant, his face a picture of care and concentration. Ianto Jones approached every one of his duties with the same level of precision and commitment, whether it was making a cup of coffee or aiming a stungun at a weevil.

The Hot House was the team’s quiet area, a small place of tranquillity in the often frenetic environment of the Hub. It was warm and secluded, located in an angular glass pod overlooking the rest of the base.

Gwen turned away from her view of Jack and caught a glimpse of Ianto’s pinstripe through the foliage, “I thought this was Owen’s thing?”

“Well, I imagine he’s got other things on his mind right now,” Ianto responded, “What with being dead and everything.” He straightened up, observing his handiwork with a high achiever’s critical eye, “Besides, if it’s in the Hub, it’s my thing.”

Gwen walked along the rack of plants, letting her fingers play through the leaves, “These are all alien then, are they?”

Ianto shrugged, “Some of them are, certainly. Spores or seeds that have drifted in through the Rift. We plant them and see if they grow. Most die. There are some plants in the universe which don’t photosynthesise – and they find carbon dioxide poisonous. Others need specifically controlled environments,” he tapped the glass of a large blue bottle, “and ultraviolet light. Some only thrive in absolute darkness.” He knocked on the lid of a large black box. It was completely sealed and impossible to see into, “There’s something growing in here, allegedly.”

“How can you be sure?”

“We can’t. I call it Schrodinger’s plant.”

Gwen stooped to look at a small purple flower embedded in rich peaty soil on the next bench, “What’s this one called? It’s beautiful.”

“Nose Biter,” Ianto said flatly, “It’s carnivorous.”

Gwen jerked back as the jagged petals twitched.

“Not all plants are alien in origin,” Ianto continued as if conducting a tour, “Some come through the Rift from the future and the past. This one is from the Silurian era.” He indicated a large, bushy fern.

Gwen pulled an appropriately impressed face, although she had no idea what he was talking about. She looked at the specimen that Ianto had been watering so carefully when she came in, “And what about that one?”

“Ah, that’s my favourite.”

It was rather plain. Just a thin green stalk and a single, rather nondescript leaf. “Riight,” said Gwen.

“It’s really come on in the last few days,” Ianto explained, “It was practically dead last week. Owen as all for throwing it out, but I believe in giving everyone a chance.”

“Everyone?”

“Thing. Every thing.”

Gwen straightened up, bored. “It’s very nice.”

“All it needed was a drop of water. And a bit of patience.”

“Lovely,” Gwen turned her full beam smile on Ianto. “Any danger of a coffee this morning?”

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

Owen didn’t sleep anymore and spent most of his time pottering around the Hub. Captain Jack spent all of his time at the Hub; in fact, his sleeping quarters were located beneath his office, accessed via a salvaged submarine hatch set in the floor. Owen used to think it was just eccentric, but now he understood what it was like to have no life at all outside Torchwood. Or no life at all, full stop.

Nethertheless, no matter how early Owen checked, Jack was always up and washed and dressed before him and ready to greet the day with that big grin, “Morning!” Jack called from his office as Owen stalked up from the calls. He’d been inspecting the Weevil containment locks, just for something to do. He waved at Jack, who signalled back with a cheery flick of The Times. Somewhere above them a pterodactyl flapped lazily around the roof vault.

“Jack! Owen!” Ianto’s voice rang out from somewhere above them. Startled, Owen looked to see Ianto at the top of the spiral staircase leading to the Hot House. He was in his shirtsleeves, but still with a waistcoat and tie – what passed for early morning casual with Ianto.

“Hey, Ianto,” Jack yelled, “What gives?”

“New bud! New bud!” he cried, and then darted back into the Hot House.

Owen and Jack found him peering intensely at his plant – it had already become Ianto’s plant – and pointing, “Look! Just there. It’s a new bug. Isn’t that fantastic?”

They examined the plant. Sure enough, juts by the leaf, there was a tiny, shiny green bulge.

“I wonder where it came from,” Jack mused, “How far across the universe and how many centuries it’s travelled to get here and survive.”

“It’s doing well,” Owen concluded, “I’d almost given up on it.”

“You had given up on it,” Ianto said.

“Maybe I could run some tests,” Owen suggested, “Cross-check the cell patterns with the stuff in the archive. May tell us something.”

“There’s no need to waste your time on that,” Ianto said, “It’s here and it’s alive. That’s all that matters, surely?”

“It’s something to do,” Owen insisted.

Jack said, “Why don’t you check the archives anyway, see if you can find something that fits the description. Ianto can help. It’s going to be a quiet day after all. Tosh is off out and I’m tidying up some stuff with UNIT.”

But Ianto wasn’t listening. He was very gently pouring water into the pot around the base of the plant, watching the soil soaking it up.

Owen shrugged and headed for the exit, “At the double,” he sighed.

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

“Do you think it likes coffee?” Gwen asked.

Ianto shook his head, “I doubt it. Too many toxins. At the moment all it needs is water.”

“At the moment?”

“And love and understanding, of course.” Ianto added with a smile.

Gwen laughed gently, “You must have green fingers.”

“Hi there,” said Jack, strolling into the Hot House, “Thought I’d find you here. Everyone wants to know how Ianto’s plant is doing.”

“There’s another leaf coming through,” Ianto said proudly.

“Never a dull moment in Torchwood,” Jack said.

“It’s sort of cute, don’t you think?” smiled Gwen.

“That depends,” Jack replied, “on how much it takes Ianto away from his normal duties. Such as coffee.”

“Good point,” Gwen nodded.

“I’ll get you coffee in a moment,” Ianto assured them. There was a hint of abruptness in his tone that made Gwen and Jack pull a face at each other.

“I’ll get on with my work,” Gwen whispered, heading for the door.

“Yeah,” said Jack, “Me too.”

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

“Have you thought of a name for it yet?” Toshiko asked, powering her workstation down for the night.

Ianto school his head, “No pet names.”

“It seems silly not calling it anything,” Tosh insisted gently, “We ought to give it a name.”

“Owen’s been checking through the botanical archives to see if he can find a match,” Ianto said, yawning, “We’ll know what it is if he finds one.”

“You look tired.”

Ianto stretched, leaning back on the old settee, “I could do with some sleep, that’s true.”

“You’re spending all your time here,” Tosh said, “Nothing unusual there, I know. But you looked bushed. Jack won’t thank you for being too tired to work. It may be quiet now, but you know how it is around here. Anything could happen at any time. We need to be ready.”

Ianto dragged a hand down his face, “I know, I know. I’ll go home soon. I’ll just check on the plant first.” He heaved himself up and headed for the Hot House.

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

“Well, I don’t really see any harm in it,” Gwen said the next day. They were in the boardroom, Jack playing thoughtfully with a pencil. Gwen sitting on the next, Tosh next to her. Owen was leaning against the double doors.

“You think it’s a hobby?” Jack asked, unimpressed.

“Well, I don’t know much about hobbies.”

“Hobbies are for men,” Owen commented.

“Ianto doesn’t have any hobbies,” Jack said.

“He’s very fond of that old stopwatch,” Gwen said, her eyes full of innocence.

“That’s not a hobby,” Jack insisted.

“It’s only a plant,” Toshiko ventured, “What harm can there be?”

“He’s obsessed with the thing,” Jack said, his voice hardening.

“The plant isn’t poisonous, carnivorous, mobile, or intelligent,” Toshiko continued, “For all intents and purposes, just a plant. I repeat: what harm can there be?”

Jack swivelled around to face Owen, “Have you come up with anything on the database?”

“Nothing. The Torchwood botanical records go back over 100 years. There’s nothing on the computer, the microfiche, the ledgers or diaries that fits the description. We don’t even know what it is. We don’t even know,” he added meaningfully, “if it’s alien.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gwen, “I thought all the plants in the Hot House were extraterrestrial in origin, or at least from another timezone.”

“So we think,” Owen replied, “What proof do we have in this particular case? I should point out that there’s nothing that fits the description of the plant in any Earth records either, but I’ve only been looking for three days and it’s a big job.”

“We could take a cell sample,” Toshiko said, “Put it under the microscope.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t done that already,” Jack cut in.

Toshiko looked momentarily fazed, unused to being reprimanded, even mildly. Jack had spoken softly, but he wasn’t smiling, “I – I just didn’t think it was necessary,” she said, “We’ve been busy with other things. I don’t see what the problem is – Ianto’s looking after his plant, that’s all.”

“She’s got a point, Jack.” Gwen agreed.

Jack sighted and threw his pencil down on the table top, signalling that the meeting was over, “Okay, back to work, people. I’m getting paranoid in my old age. Scat.”

They filed out, but he called Gwen back just before she left, “How did Rhys like the spider plant?” he asked.

She laughed, “Never even noticed it.”

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

The plant was looking very healthy. It was a good couple of centimetres taller, and possibly straighter, with two full leaves and the start of a new one. It wasn’t all that big, or even very special looking, but it now dominated the Hot House.

This was partially due to the fact that nearly all the other plants had gone.

Ianto had moved them out of the Hot House one by one. They were stacked on the steps of the spiral staircase and Toshiko had to climb very carefully through the foliage to reach the door to the pod. Inside, more plants had been moved to the floor on the far side, away from Ianto’s own little flower, and many of the racks had been completely cleared.

“Ianto…what’s happened up here?”

“Nothing,” Ianto grunted, straightening after placing the heavy glass bell jar containing who-knew-what by the door, “I’m just making a bit of space.”

“For what?”

“For the plant. It’s getting crowded. It can’t grow properly without light and space.”

Toshiko stepped into the Hot House, which now seemed very bare. Her voice echoed slightly against the glass walls as she spoke, “Does Owen know you’ve done this?”

“Owen?” Ianto repeated, “What’s his got to do with him?”

“Well, he sort of…kept this place going, didn’t he?”

“Owen’s got other things on his mind right now. As I think I have already pointed out.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Jack says you’re obsessed with this plant thing,” Toshiko said carefully.

Ianto smiled, “He’s jealous.”

“Possible. You are giving it a lot of attention though. And it’s just a plant, after all.”

“He worries too much, and so do you. That’s your problem, Tosh. Too much worrying. Sometimes you’ve just got to do what’s right and ignore everything else.”

Toshiko was a little taken aback. She had never heard Ianto speak like this. He didn’t sound hostile, but there was something wrong. She took a deep breath and said, “I thought it was time we took a sample for investigation.”

He looked at her, and saw she was holding a microscope slide.

“You can’t,” he said.

“I only need a tiny piece,” Toshiko said, “I want to have a look at its cellular make-up.”

“You can’t,” Ianto repeated.

He said it simply, and with a smile, but Toshiko didn’t doubt him for a second, “All right,” she relented, “But I’ll have to tell Jack. He asked specifically. At the very least the plant needs to be catalogued, and we can’t do that without a cell sample.”

She left the Hot House, still holding the empty slide, while Ianto carefully added a few more drops of water to the plant’s soil.

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

“Hey,” Jack said from the doorway, “Need a break?”

“No thanks. I’m good here.”

“Kinda weird, though,” Jack said, leaning back against the glass that overlooked the rest of the Hub, He took a sip from his mug of coffee, “I mean, you sitting there like that. Doing nothing.”

“I’m not doing nothing,” Ianto stated. He didn’t look at Jack. His attention was fixed on the plant. It was all that was left in the Hot House now, with the exception of the swivel chair Ianto was sitting on, right in front of it.

“Right,” Jack agreed slowly, “I guess I missed that.”

“Yes,” agreed Ianto, “I guess you did.”

“The others are getting pretty worried about you.”

“There’s no need for anyone to worry. We’re fine.”

“We?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine, really.” Ianto looked up at Jack, “Really.”

“Okay,” Jack said. He sipped his coffee again and grimaced, “Thing is, we’re all drinking lousy coffee here now. This stuff is disgusting. Tastes like Sontaran dysentery. And believe me, that’s something you don’t want to taste twice.”

“There’s more to life than coffee.”

“What, really?”

“That’s all you think I’m good for, isn’t it, Jack? Making coffee.”

Jack grinned, “Well, I can think of a couple other things you’re good for.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Jack moved further into the room, keeping his hands in his pockets, casual, “Ianto, this has gone far enough. You need a break. You haven’t slept in two days. You haven’t shaved either. And you know what I think of beard rash.”

“Bring me a razor and I’ll shave.”

“Sure. How about a change of clothes too? Because frankly, Ianto, you ain’t as fragrant as you used to be.”

“I’m not leaving. More important things to do in here.”

“Just for ten minutes, then. A comfort break?”

“Don’t need one. Haven’t drunk anything in the last twenty-four hours.”

Something crunched under Jack’s boot and he noticed some tiny pieces of broken glass glinting on the floor behind Ianto’s chair. He stepped carefully over them and leaned on the back of the chair. It creaked slightly but Ianto didn’t move. Jack took a deep breath, “Don’t you think this is all a bit…unusual?” Receiving no reply, Jack squatted down at the side of the chair, speaking softly, “Ianto…I need a cell sample from the plant. We have to check it out, see what makes it tick. I mean, we know it doesn’t actually tick. We just want to find out what it is, what it’s doing.”

“It’s growing. It’s a plant. What else would it do?”

“Well, we don’t know. That’s why we’d like to check it out,” Jack held up a slim rectangle of glass, “I’ve got a slide right here. Let me take a sample and I can get out of here, leave you and the plant alone together. How does that sound?”

No answer.

“Toshiko’s got the equipment ready to do. All she needs is a sample. How about it?”

Still no answer.

Jack moved towards the plant, extending his hand with the microscope slide. Ianto grabbed Jack’s wrist, fast as a rattlesnake. His knuckles were white, but his eyes were red – bloodshot, but wide and alert.

“Don’t touch it,” he hissed, “You can’t touch it!”

Jack tried to pull away, but Ianto held him in a surprisingly strong grip. They struggled against each other for a few seconds until Jack wrenched his arm free, “Goddamnit, Ianto, I’m not fighting you over a plant!”

“Then don’t fight me!” Ianto cried hotly, “Just leave me alone and everything will be fine. Can’t you see that?”

Jack stood up, breathing heavily, “What’s up with your arm?”

“What?” Ianto looked down at his arm, where the shirt cuff had been pulled away to reveal a series of sticking plasters on the white flesh, “Nothing. I had an accident, that’s all. I was moving one of the specimens and the jar broke. Cut my arm. It’s nothing.”

Jack glanced down at the fragments of glass on the floor, “You need to be more careful.”

“I’ll brush it up later.”

“I wasn’t talking about the glass.”

Jack tossed the slide down onto the floor and walked out.

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

There was no natural light in the Hub. The Torchwood base was located deep below ground, and there were no windows. It was sometimes impossible to tell the difference between day and night, and this made it very easy to lose track of time. To counteract this, and maintain some vague kind of biological clock, Jack found it useful to dim the lights in the evening, and then turn them right back up in the morning. Ianto had once likened it to life on a submarine. Jack had winked and told him that he’d once spent many weeks onboard a German U-Boat in World War Two, “Technically I was a prisoner of war, but we were submerged for a long time and, well, sailors are sailors the world over.”

That had been in the early days, when Ianto blushed easily, “They’re called submariners,” he’d muttered, “Not sailors.”

Jack smiled at the memory. There was always a hint of the pedant about Ianto. Underneath that soft exterior, there was steel. Very very people got to know that. Those that did usually regretted it.

“He’ll be okay,” Gwen said quietly, joining him by the circular window in his office which overlooked the Hub. It was gone midnight and the vase chamber was in semi-darkness. On the far side they could see the glow of the lights in the Hot House, and Ianto, still sitting there watching his plant, “We’ll find a way.”

“Sure. We could just storm in and drag him out if we wanted to,” Jack sighed, “That’s what Owen wants.”

“Since when did you take any notice of what Owen wants?”

“There has to be a better way, Gwen. I don’t want to hurt him”

“He’ll fall asleep eventually. He has to. That’s what the police do in siege situations. Wait long enough and they’ll just…nod off.”

“Ianto won’t. He’s tougher than he looks. And that plant’s got a grip on him. I don’t know how, but I’m going to bread that grip, Gwen. That I promise.”

“He’s moving,” Gwen said suddenly.

Ianto was little more than a silhouette, but he had got up from his chair.

They both ran out of the office, Jack leaping down the steps to the lower level while Gwen clattered along behind him. Eventually she grabbed his arm and pulled him to a halt, “Wait!” she hissed, “Don’t rush! He’ll hear us!”

Owen emerged from the cells, looked at Jack and Gwen, glanced up at the Hot House. He realised immediately something was up and shot a questioning look at Gwen.

She raised a finger to her lips, signalling caution.

Jack was already moving up the spiral staircase, as quick and silent as a jungle cat. Gwen followed, trying to match him. Automatically, she reached behind her hip for her pistol, only then remembering that it was on her desk. She glanced behind her, past Owen, and saw Tosh heading towards them as well, pausing only to collect her PDA.

In the Hot House, Ianto was bent over his plant. His shirtsleeve was rolled up past his elbow, and his forearm was extended. The plasters had been removed. There were deep cuts in the flesh, and the blood stood out stark and red against the white skin, running down his wrist. His fist was clenched so the blood came freely, trickling into the soil of the plant pot.

Jack stood in the doorway, transfixed by the sight. He felt as if he was intruding on an intensely private communion. Ianto was oblivious, his full concentration on the plant. As Jack watched, a thing proboscis emerged from the plant stem, extending like the tongue of a hummingbird towards Ianto’s arm. It burrowed into the wound, pulsing slightly as it lapped up the blood.

“Bastard!” Jack had seen more than enough, hurling himself across the room, wrenching Ianto away from the plant. Blood jetted into the air as he spun away, collapsing into the waiting arms of Owen and Gwen. They lowered him gently to the floor.

The plant actually hissed.

Jack swept it off the shelf with enough force to send it crashing into the far wall. The pot burst against the glass in a shower of dirt. The plant hit the floor, white roots writhing in the air, groping like a hundred fingers for the scattered soil. Two quick strides took Jack to where it lay. He raised his boot and crushed the plant flat, screwing his feel down until it left a smear of green and red across the floor.

Instantly, Ianto fell slack. His head lolled as Gwen tried to sit him up. Owen was already putting a field dressing on his arm, “Okay, Ianto, you’re all right. We’ve got you. You’re going to be fine.”

Toshiko scanned the remains of the plant with her PDA, “No life signs,” she reported, “Whatever it was, it’s head. And not before time, I have to say.”

Jack’s lip curled in disgust, “What the hell was it?”

“A plant,” Owen said, “Some time of telepathic species, perhaps, using mind control of the local fauna for protection. It used Ianto to look after it, protect it, feed it. He was nothing more than a slave.”

“He’s all right now, though,” Gwen assured him, “The moment you killed it, I felt him relax, like a puppet with its strings cut. He’s free of the influence.”

Jack turned to leave, “Get this place cleaned up. Get Ianto cleaned up. This room feels dirty now.”

Gwen rested a hand on his arm, “Don’t be hard on yourself. No one knew what to do for the best.”

“Except the plant?”

“It’s gone. We’re still here. Ianto’s still here.”

“What if we hadn’t been alert? What if it had reproduced, spread seeds, got out of the Hub? Imagine a whole planet with those things growing in every park and hedgerow. The human race could have been reduced to mindless slaves doing nothing but feeding blood sucking plants,” He shrugged, then looked back up at his people, This is our life, guys. This is Torchwood. We can’t relax. We can’t hesitate. We have to be ready.”

#torchwood #jack harkness #ianto jones #owen harper #toshiko sato #gwen cooper #plant life #short story

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fraugwinska · 3 months

Text

Chapter 1 - Overture

Overture (noun) 1. music: a piece of music that is an introduction to a longer piece, especially an opera 2. rhetoric: a communication made to someone in order to offer something 3. approach: an approach made to someone in order to discuss or establish something

Tags & Warnings: Demon summoning, Murder, Mentions of Abuse, Mentions of Cannibalism, Blood & gore

She had studied the accumulated books and scripts for months. There was no room for a single mistake, so the last two weeks alone were for reviewing and practicing the procedure.

Her work had called multiple times, she knew she was running out of her bosses patience, but she knew it wouldn't matter anyways, after tonight. Stanley was a pain in the ass, but there were enough desperate dancers around looking for an extra shift, and she knew she wouldn't need the rest of her bank account balance, as meager as it was. Not after what she was about to do. She finished packing her bag, a burgundy leather messenger bag she found at a flea market when she was fourteen. The one her mother bought for her.

Two-and-a-half pounds of fresh, high quality venison? Yes. Red chalk? Yes. Coarse pink salt? Yes. A dial radio? Yes. Correct summoning circle? Yes.

She took a deep breath, held it in until the oncoming shaking ceased.

Don't think about it too much. You are prepared. You can do this.

Her apartment seemed so big without all her stuff. She left only the barest furniture, the rest was donated, except for a few personal, important things. A photo of her mom. Her graduation pin from the academy. The hunting knife of her dad. A map of the south forest. The book that planted the idea in her mind. She threw on her forest green, oversized parka, and without looking back, closed the door of Apartment 13 for the last time.

The cabin was wet, dark and cold. After placing down her bag, she started promptly on getting a fire going in the fireplace. She needed light, best before sundown. The shed was full of old wood, but the lack of upkeeping had caused the roof to leak and it got so wet it barely worked. Frustrated, she decided to get the old, rusty axe and sacrifice two of the chairs in the house, which helped to get the fire going. Then it went back to preparing and reviewing everything she needed to do. Since she disposed of her phone, she relied on her wristwatch – half an hour until midnight.

She had already measured out and drawn the summoning sign in red chalk, checking the old book after every stroke if it was accurate and precise. Now she took the pink salt, drawing a circle large enough for her to comfortably stand in. She brought more than double her estmiate. It would be fatal if there was a break in the circle, so she packed extra to make sure she didn't run out.

Quarter to midnight.

She rushed out of the cabin to retrieve the meat she brought – she had stored it in a plastic bag outside, since it was almost winter and the temperatures were cold enough to preserve it nicely. Inside, she unwrapped it, steadying her increasingly shaky hands. She had to stop several times, breathing and focusing. She placed the meat neatly on the only clean serving plate she found in the cabin kitchen and sat it down in front of the summoning circle. Her hands were lightly coated with blood.

Five minutes to midnight.

She unpacked the radio and hesitated. This was the trickiest part of the process... Her book – a diary from the 1960's, became almost unreadable after detailing the previous procedures, as if the author wrote the instructions while having a stroke. From what she was sure to have deciphered correctly, it had to be placed in the middle of the summoning sign, but after that it was guesswork. Would he appear instantly? How much time would she have to get in the salt circle?

She decided to not risk anything ad placed her bag with her remaining belongings in the salt circle. Almost solemnly, she walked to the mystical looking sign. Another look at her watch -

Half a minute to midnight.

You are prepared. You can do this.

She put the radio down and jumped.

He was at Rosies, sipping tea with her when he felt a familiar pull.

„Oh my...“, he cooed, a sudden feeling of forgotten excitement rushing over him. The tall, slender belle sitting on the loveseat next to him lifted an eyebrow in curiosity.

„Are you quite alright, friend?“, she mused.

„I'm afraid I have to cancel our get-together early, my dear, and leave immediately. A human is summoning me.“ Rosie laughed, her blackened eyes wide in amazement. „It must have been decades since you were last called from the living world. That is quite auspicious.“

His grin, although wide and gleamimg, streched even more as static surrounded him and he faded.

„Auspicious indeed.“

She stood rigid. Muscles tight. Breath forcibly controlled and flat. Eyes darting around the salt circle. Her jump into the protective circle hadn't disturbed even a single grain, so she was safe.

For now.

Though, nothing had happened. She heared nothing but the low crackling of the fireplace. Ten seconds later, still nothing. Her mind raced. She hasn't forgotten anything, has she? No. No, she did everything the diary told the reader to do. Was it the wrong kind of radio? Was it the wrong time? Did she draw the sigil incorrectly? Or maybe she was supposed to say something? And why was the crackling of the fire getting so loud?

No.

That was not the fire.

With increasing dread, her gaze turned to the radio, which was now glowing red and emitting a frenetic hum. The needle danced, from left to right, until it it stopped at what she read as 66.6 fm.

Then came the darkness. Like somebody blew out a candle, the fire in the fireplace went out, not even emitting smoke. The only light came from the window, tinting the small cabin room in a ghostly shade of moonlight, and from the illuminated dial of the radio, which now played a strangely distorted, dainty tune. A tune she was eerily recognizing... 'You're never fully dressed without a smile' from the musical Annie. She didn't dare to moke, or speak. Fera or reason, she didn't know which, whispered in her ear to stay still.

Aaaaaah, my dear! What a glorious night!”

Shivers ran violently down her spine as the voice appeared, distorted by the radio.

“Glorious, I say. Well, well, well, it has been a while since someone dared to call on me.”

The red chalk started to beam, strange green symbols and onyx shadows grew like weed out of the summoning sigil. She froze in horror as the shadows formed a tall, lean figure. Colors of every possible shade of ruby red materialized into tufts of reddish and black hair adorned by grotesquely shaped antlers, painting a red, sophisticated but tattered pin-striped coat on the slowly forming body. From what seemed to be burgundy smoke, a cane formed, on it's top sat a strangely shaped, almost alive looking microphone, which was swiftly catched by long, clawlike fingers. And then he finally stood - in all his frightening glory - in his sigil, heay-lidded and eerily wide grinning with razor sharp, yellowish teeth. The Radio Demon. Alastor.

Her saliva turned to glue, swallowing got almost impossible as she stared at him. Sure, she had prepared for months for this moment, and she thought she was at least barely mentally equipped for his appearance, but right now, she felt awfully foolish to even have thought that she'd ever be ready for this sight. Praying to herself that the salt circle would actually do something – anything really to protect her until she finished, she took a shaky breath and forced her face to remain unmoved.

„Th...thank you for... answering my call.... sir.“ She didn't recognize her own voice. She sounded hoarse and strange, as otherworldly as the demon in front of her, who tilted his head in curiosity and chuckled darkly. Crimson irises focused on hers.

„Ah, such good manners! A rarity nowadays, as I've heard. The name's Alastor, little doll, but I'm sure...“, the tall figure chatted non-chalantly, eyes now pinning the diary beneath your feet in an odd sense of recognition, „you already know that and maybe a little more. So, let's continue the pleasantries, I am just too curious – who the... audacious soul is that's calling on me?“

Her skin felt too tight. She mentally steadied herself, reminding her to stick to what she rehearsed, over and over and over like a mantra for the past months.

Be polite, be demure, be direct, be specific.

„My name is (Y/n), sir.“, she said, her voice a little more assured now.

„A beautiful name, my dear, delectable even. (Y/n)...“ The radio demon repeated her name as if it was dripping from his lips, dark like syrup, thick and almost sounding hungry. She pushed that terrifying thought away. With a smirk, he gestured to her setup, slowly blinking as his red glowing pupils searched her own eyes.

„And I see you've done quite the research, preparing for this little welcoming? I am flattered.“

„I hope my offering is to your liking.“, she recited and barely bowed her head at the meat in front of his feet. His eyes followed her gaze, and widened in satisfaction.

„Well, look at that! Color me surprised!“, he exclaimed, the static in his voice buzzing even louder as an imaginary audience OOOh'd and Aaaah'd, „You really did your due homework, little kitten. I indeed do appreciate a good taste of venison, and this seems to be an exquisite selection of, what ist it? Tenderloin?!“

With a snap of his fingers, the meat disappeared into thin air, leaving only streaks of crimson blood on the polished plate. He glanced at her mischievously. „Well then, since you've paid my fare, we can get to business.“ He snapped again and a plush, velvety red wing chair appeared in which he swiftly settled, hands folded neatly on his lap and staring expectantly at her.

Be polite, be demure, be direct, be specific.

„Yes sir.“, she croaked, quickly clearing her sore, dry throat. „I need help. Help beyond anyone can give me. So I called on you, sir... Because... you are the only one I can think of to help me.“

The demon's grin widened a bit. His eyes twinkled in the moonlight with an impish glee.

„And what, my dear, naive doll, makes you think I would help you instead of just ripping your delicate little throat to shreds right here and now?“

His words felt like needles, prickling her skin almost raw in fear. Exactly what he wants, she thought.

Be polite, be demure, be direct, be specific.

„I hope I can offer you something of worth in return for your help, sir.“

The radio demon seemed to think about it, then waved his hand casually. „Very well, state your case, then. If I find it worth my while, maybe we can come to a... mutual agreement.“ Clearly amused, he watched her as she once again steadied her breathing.

„Thank you, sir.“ With trembling hands, she slowly, carefully, reached down to her bag as she continued. „ I need your help to... disappear. To make it like I never existed. To make everyone I've ever met forget I was born.“ She took out the tattered photography of her mom, laughing happily into the camera, and placed it in front of her for the demon to see. His ears perked at your statement, a brow quizzically shot up.

„This is my mother, sir. She had me when she was very young. My father left before I was born, I've never met him. She is... the most selfless woman that I know.“ The more she talked, the steadier her voice became. „She gave up everything for me – her dreams, her money, her happiness.“

She sighed, exhaustion and nervousness feeding on her energy. Keep it short. You can do this.

„She married when I was 9, a wealthy man, but... he abuses her. She keeps being with him, because she has nothing to fall back on – no career, no friends, no money. He practically owns her, even if she would leave him... He would hunt her down and drag her back. So...“

A shudder ran down her spine, she readied herself for the final request.

„I want him dead. I want...“

The radio demon leaned forward in his chair, his yellowed teeth glistening with his saliva.

„Go on, my dear?“

The static became almost unbearable, her ears hurt and her head became fuzzy.

„I want him tortured, humiliated and killed. And I want everything of me to be erased from this life with him. I want my mom to.... be free, from him, from me. I want her to finally be happy, and safe, as long as she can.“

The cabin fell in instant silence. It felt like outer space, she could not even hear her own heart beating. Was that... normal? She hung her head, nervously waiting for his answer while sorting her thoughts through the deafening silence. Would it be condescention? Anger? Frustration? This was the end of her rehearsed speech. From this point on, the monster in the cabin would decide how she could proceed, if at all.

His sudden, echoing laugh broke through the unnatural soundlessness, so unexpected it startled her, almost making her trip over her bag as she took a step back to stabilize herself.

„Careful now, we wouldn't want your pretty salt circle to open too soon, darling. I must say, that is a most unusual request. I'd even go as far to say I'm endeared by your little speech.“

The demon pushed himself off his armchair, carefully twisting his cane in his fingers as he stalked her, creeping closer with every sentence.

„It's an elaborate request you have, sweet (Y/n), much more than other souls came to me to bargain for. Yet you still have to offer me something in exchange, and I'm most interested in what you think I would trade this small favor you're asking me in for.“

He stopped inches away from her pale face, his polished, pointed shoes almost touching the pink grains of her protective circle. His eyes widened when she met his stare, suddenly a sense of what he could only describe as unwavering and unbreakable resolution in her features.

„I don't have anything except this: I can and will give you my life and body to consume. And my soul and loyalty to do as you please after you kill me.“

This human was something different. She was so... unusual. His shadows buzzed in sheer excitement, a cacophony of thoughts. He ignored them all. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, but she seemed almost vintage, like an old wine in a modern bottle. She was pretty, in a non-conformative, niche way, with a most intruiging voice despite the apparent dread in it – an almost melodious sound, with hints of smoke, sugar and spice. She was also exceptionally polite, well spoken and complaisant – he of all people appreciated these oh so rare traits.

Most of all, he could literally taste her fear on his tongue but yet she stood there, so composed, so unmoved, almost as if she was made out of white marble. By now he usually would have mortal men shiver in terror, foolish mobsters crying in fear. He had pulled every thread he usually did to frighten the feeble minds of humans, to grind them under his increasing pressure and make them make the mistake of taking a rash deal. His constant growing static alone would've shattered the little sanity common goons would have had by now, but the only thing he had seen her doing was the slight tremble of her fingers and the jump of surprise at the sound of his voice after his forced silent void. Her face was unmoving, and that intrigued him.

Ah, and then her request. Most unusual. In the decades he traded favors for souls, with the living or the dead, it has always been for selfish causes – fortune, fame, power, revenge. Of course he obliged, knowing he would get the better end of the deal anyway. The people who called on him were cocky, little wannabes, people who were under the ridiculous misconception that they were destined for something special, that they were equal or above the demon they so senselessly called upon. They thought they could trick him, that they were smarter than and could evade him. He found it laughable, really.

But she...

He knew that she knew. That she came here, called on him, not in foolishness, but knowing full well that he would demand everything she offered him. And the cream on the sugar, she did it all too willingly! Ha, she even promised loyalty, not forced, but given. He really had to refrain himself from gleefully snickering.

As unexpected as it was, and as much he hated to be called by the living, he was more than glad he followed the strange but familiar pull to the overworld. How she would really accustom to hell, and to him? How fast would her brave, earnest facade break? Or would she surprise him again, and become a usable asset to his collection of souls?

Oh, he was over the moon, yes. This one would be so much fun.

Her stepfather moaned in agony in front of her feet. The heavy metal pole felt cold and smooth in her hands. He offered to punish him, but she refused. She had to do it, he had to know it was her. Had to feel the weakness, the shame, the helplessness he made her mother feel. She was surprised of how numb and empty she felt with every hit he took, void of things normal people would feel – compassion, pity... She only felt the cold disgust she always felt in his presence.

His blood dripped from the end of her pole onto the forest ground. She had aimed for his legs first, then his arms.

“You fucking bitch, you worthless piece of shit, just like your whore mother you are...”

He couldn't finish his tirade as he clawed the throat of her stepfather, carefully and precice – not lethal, but severe enough to cut his ability to speak. He tuttet at the writhing man, stepping back to her side, his eyes full of mocking condenscation.

“Tsk tsk tsk. Now now, good man, didn't your mother teach you it's rude to interrupt a lady? Please, darling, continue.”

He bowed generously to her, and again her hands lifted the pole once more. His shadows hummed in satisfaction around them both.

“This is for all the times you forced yourself on her.”

The pole hit it's target with full force. He screamed bloody murder as she pushed it even harder into his - or what once were - his privates. Her face remained blank, her stare fixated on his face. She knew with how heavy he bled, she had to end it once and for all, and quickly. The demon behind her chuckled, a dark smirk on his lips.

“I think we should come to an end, my dear. Our friend here has some places to go.”

She nodded slowly, for the first time since he brought her farce of a parental figure she tore her gaze away from the writhing figure.

“Yes sir. And... thank you.”

She gave him something she hadn't done in a long time. She even thought she wouldn't be able to.

She smiled.

The radio demons grin twitched, as if in surprise, but he just tilted his head, and she turned around again, her face falling back into an indifferent expression. She stepped up to his head and he gargled as if he wanted to say something as he looked up to her, the lights in his eyes rapidly fading.

“Remember this moment when you see me in hell, Frank.”

The sound of his skull cracking under the force of the metal rod was sickening and obscene. His body stopped shaking, and then, he was gone.

The demon laughed as if he just heard a funny joke. He placed his free hand on her shoulder, the other swinging his Cane in sheer delight.

“Ah, dear (Y/n), i really do admire a gal with a knack for theatrics! Makes every ordinary moment so much more entertaining, don't you think? And now...”

His shadows roared in delight, static and dark, inky flames surrounding them both. He almost tenderly placed his fingers under her chin and turned her expressionless face to his, dimly lit by his own, ruby glow as the ground slowly swallowed them.

“...it's time for dinner.”

Next Chapter >>

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #ao3 fanfic #method to madness #metoma #radiogem

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