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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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HAL, HEAR ME OUT !!! ghost coming home to wis wife on Easter, he thought he wouldnt manage to come back home in time, but Price dismisses him earlier, so he decides to surprise her by making a egg hunt for her, something she always said she liked to do when she was little, I KNOW THIS IS A SPECIFIC REQUEST, FEEL FREE TO DENY DEARIE, i just really love easter loool (and simon too)

love ur works, hal ❤

A Good Man

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to Simon's past & trauma, delving into his psyche, angst, but a lot of fluff, Simon's POV

A/N: I knew I had to get this out before Easter actually came around so here it is early, Anon! This was an adorable request. Enjoy and have a happy holiday! <3

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Skin shredded; showing every tear and rip with a thinly veiled sense of pride along with a detailed description of every bullet wound and burn. Rope tears along the forearms and red stab marks over the visible spine of his back. Tattoos that depict skeletons and war. He couldn’t tell you every life he had ended, but he could name names until his tongue went black and fell off; though he spared you the details.

Simon Riley was a devil incarnate. Dead-eyed and robust of body. Muscles wound with promised death and the trigger finger to prove it. His life was measured in an hourglass, the sand cascading down like the blood from his knife after a kill; it would stop flowing, one day – abrupt and final. Simon Riley was a demon, a monster. Simon Riley was a Ghost.

A ghost with an impeccable memory and a deep love for the woman currently on the living room couch.

The man blinks, slate eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest with a slow melting of his shoulders. He had a doubt that you had planned to fall asleep with the Tv on – or the floor lamp, for that matter.

Its golden light slipped over your form, and he traced the flow of it as the voice of the news anchor went in one ear and out the other. Gradually, a hand slipped to the balaclava over his head as your lips let loose a grumble, nose nuzzling the feather pillow.

Simon often found himself watching you sleep when he was home; how your face would lose all tension in those brief intermissions between oblivion and awakeness. When his own nights were restless, it helped to know that at least someone was at ease, especially if it was you. The fabric slips from his tired visage, the mess of blonde locks atop his head sticking this way and that; layered with the gleam of grease. As the black face-paint stains his sockets and spreads with a swipe of a stiff palm, the ever-constant cloud over his head peels back but for a brief moment of peace.

His bag was still in the foyer, holding three months of dirty clothes and gear hostage in its zipped space; stained, and bloodied. The man himself wasn’t much better.

It had been a long few months.

Hooking the balaclava onto the belt of his cargo pants, Simon bends down on an achy knee, a grunt in his throat sounding off like a boar. Scarred fingers go to brush your cheek, though no words exit his mouth, no whispers of adoration. Just a glimmer in his eyes, a release of that furrowed line in the center of his forehead that seemed permanent these days.

Staring, the faint twitch of his lips is the only tell at all that he was content at all, feeling your skin as a feather would slide over water. He takes down a breath.

There were few instances that Simon fully remembers from his childhood – most displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole – though there is one he refuses to lock away. His mother. He can’t help it, and before he can stop himself the words are spilling directly from his heart to his mouth.

Hell, he really must be tired.

“She’d of loved you, Sweetheart.” It’s like he’s startled by his own voice, head pulling back and walls going back up, but that delicate glimpse was enough.

A gravel voice and manchester accent bleed together to form some piece of the puzzle that was his pure adoration for you; small cardboard cuts and divots that had been given over to create a picture. Simon Riley was a ghost, yes, the Ghost, but he was never that when he was home.

He was just Simon to you.

Blue eyes study the small smile that blesses your face when the man runs his fingers into your hair and attentively separates knots; your body unconsciously molding to his touch. With a kiss on your forehead, Simon chooses to not wake you. It’s late, the man reasons, and he knows how hard it is for you to sleep when he’s gone. Almost as hard as it is for him when he can’t feel your weight on the opposite side of the thin mattress he’s cursed with in the barracks.

Against his better judgment, he’d learned to love your contact; your presence next to him and the way you fit into his arms.

As gently as he’s able, the black ink of his tattooed arm slips under your shoulders, pushing between the cushion and your limp body to lie still. The other hooks around your knees, and with a pause to make sure you weren't going to wake up, Simon lifts you as easily as a piece of paper. Your weight lays comfortingly against his chest, shallow breath hitting his neck and he thinks for a moment just how it was possible to love something more than you can love anyone else that came before.

“Simon…” Your voice brings goosebumps to his forearms, his fingers tightening over the shirt he now recognizes as his own clothing you. A smirk runs over his face.

Lips caress his pulse, a nose taking in his scent of canvas and sweat; a tinge of barely restrained corruption, a soul more damaged than a window shattered into a million pieces.

How can you stand it? How could your body instinctively lay into him and give redemption willingly?

Simon grips you ever closer, using his own body heat to lull you back to oblivion. He didn’t have an answer – probably never would – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t forever grateful.

But he was a stiff man; a stoic one.

He slips through the bedroom door, navigating in the dark as if his eyes had built-in night vision, and hums out, “it’s me. Go on – back to sleep now, Love.”

Air communes with a soft grunt, and Simon watches from the side of his vision as your lids flicker open and closed. As desperate as the fight is, it’s over fairly quickly when he lowers you to the sheets, cupping your head and setting in on the pillow.

Soft fingers wrap his lower arm, and with trapped breath, Simon watches your lips connect to the pale skin of his wrist before your form once more goes slack; ever the stubborn one to greet him even half-gone. Weak mumbles stuck forming ‘welcome home’ and ‘love you’ on a lead tongue garble to nothingness like a gargoyle’s stone speech.

“Hmm.” The Lieutenant smirks as the area tingles, preening like a bird. There are many things to say to you, but he settles with a mumbled, “Don’t hog the sheets. Gotta go take care of the mess first, copy?”

You don’t answer, of course. With a delicate pet on your head, Simon exits the room silently to take a shower and organize his gear; closing the door behind him only halfway so he can still keep an eye on you as he passes. Ever the neat partner, he wouldn’t go to sleep until all were in their proper places – clothes in the washer, knives and various licensed weapons in the nightstand, and paperwork in the office.

There was a sanctity in this. A way to get rid of the lingering adrenaline of being on Base or in the field – deterioration of the mind but in such a way it would be described as a boil to a simmer.

All of it is uneventful.

He enters the kitchen with only a white towel around his waist sometime later, flicking on the lights and running his fingers through his damp hair before bee-lining to the fridge. If there needed to be a list made of the things he loved the most, it would be fairly short – only three.

One, you, two, the adrenaline rush of a good deployment, and, finally, your food.

Simon would listen to Johnny’s rambling for days if it ended with an excellent heaping plate of whatever you cooked for supper.

Opening the fridge, the man’s eyes widen, shimmering with azure glass.

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine,” he breathes to himself, hand reaching inside the box with fervor, “you’ve been busy, then, eh…? Bloody feast in ‘ere.”

The Lieutenant drags out a heaping plate of steak and potatoes – a side of greens covered in plastic and a sticky note on top.

‘Save for Simon.’

The food didn’t look older than a day or two…did you save him some of your meals every once and a while just in case he would show up?

He grunts, re-reading your chicken scratch with a swelling of his chest and a foreign heat on his cheeks. Simon moves to the oven, preheating it and placing a cooling rack on a metal pan over parchment paper. Damned if the man would mess up your masterpiece; he’d reheat it properly.

With minimal noise, he waits for the meat to be done and settles on placing the potatoes in the microwave with the greens for time's sake. Standing in the kitchen, his eyes gradually fall closed, their weight heavy. But his ears perk at the faint pitter-patter of bare feet.

The sneaking arms around his waist don’t startle him, and with a sigh on his lips, Simon feels you melt into the curve of his open skin. A head connecting with his spine.

“Thought I brought you back to bed?” He whispers, flesh melding to you like hot iron, a scarred hand resting over the one that’s on his abdomen.

Your nose nestles into the burns over his back, and even if you couldn’t see it – the sudden sweep of vulnerability is nearly heard. You lay a kiss and think no more of it, but Simon shivers with beautiful agony; eyes gazing off.

“...Erm,” you groan, fingers tracing the build of his ribs, “needed to hold you.” Your breath stills – half-asleep. “You’re…here?”

Simon chuckles, hearing it echo off the walls.

“I’m ‘ere, Love. Few more bloody cuts,” he breathes, “but I’m here.”

“Good. Missed you.” A second of kisses and distant blue eyes. Muffled yawns into his flesh. “Didn’t think you’d be back in time for Easter.”

Simon twists, aware of the delicate fold of his towel, and lifts your fatigued form onto the counter, settling you down so you don’t fall sideways. He blinks down at you, cupping your cheek when your neck gets too heavy to hold up. Your lids rapidly move, your nose scrunched at the overhead light and the man knows you’re only awake because he’s home.

He utters out to you, faces close, “The Old Man let me off early,” and lays a peck to your forehead, holding his lips there for a long second. Mutters into your skin, “prickly bastard’s been antsy – hasn’t had a good drink in weeks. Was about ready to strangle someone.”

She’s warm.

His body slots itself between your legs, one arm around your back and the other placed on the counter. Simon’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and with a groan of satisfaction, he feels your fingers go through his locks; itching at his scalp dreamily.

“...Dunno whether to thank him or send ‘em to a therapist.” You whisper, kissing his neck, unable to keep your hands off each other for a mere second.

“Better to place money on the both.” His grumbled words are barely heard. “I’ve got two weeks ‘fore they need me back.”

A soft hum is all he gets before the timer goes off and he takes down a breath, forcing himself to peel back from you and grab his supper.

By the time the both of you are in bed, he’d nearly forgotten about your comment, and as he stroked your hair and felt you bring him closer under the covers, he remembers. He’d asked Price to give him two weeks on account of the holiday you’d loved so much – Easter – and had used the Captain's deteriorating attitude as a pry. It had been easy enough, the two had known each other for a long time. They knew their breaking points.

Sometimes living around a handful of other men formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood, and while that was true for 141, it was also a pain in the ass. People long for home at the end of it – a soft touch and sweet kisses. There’s only so long you can go with yelling orders into the same faces and playing Poker in a shitty safehouse.

Simon never thought he’d be worthy of it, a home, but here he is regardless and here he would stay. And he knew Easter was your favorite time of the year, and he also knew that Easter was…tomorrow. His dead eyes widened.

The plan formed quickly, his strategic mind helping as it always does, and as he snuck out of bed and laid his lips to yours in a tiny kiss, a shirt was tossed on along with boxers. You never heard the door to the garage door opening, just snuggled back up to the pillow and an old t-shirt he’d placed in his spot instead; inhaling his calming scent.

—

When the sun had risen an hour ago and Simon had finished with heavy fingers. Groaning, the back of a hand meets a forehead, trying to swipe away sleepiness as one would a fly. But he says nothing, feet hitting the floor as he enters the kitchen, an object held in his palm that was quickly stashed in the breadbox.

This was childish, he knew, not at all like the deadly Lieutenant of TF-141. Like Ghost. The boys would tease him relentlessly if they found out.

“Simon…?” Your voice draws him back, and with a look over his shoulders, he finds you wrapped in the comforter like a mouse. “What are you doing out here?”

The lie comes easily.

“Fixin’ breakfast.” Your eyes flicker to the open breadbox, eyebrows furrowing. A smirk grows and you walk over with a laugh living in your expression.

“I don’t even trust you to toast bread, Love, go sit down. You’ve been stuck on rations for too long.” Simon only steps back, gazing over your head and seeing your hand pause. “I’ll make us some…”

He watches as he loves to do, memorizing the parting of your lips and the recognition lighting like a shy fire. The man smiles then, and it is a delicate thing; an expression not tainted with sarcasm or deception.

Your hand delves into the box and pulls out a plastic egg softly as if it would snap in two.

It’s cheap, made of thin plastic and fading in colors of the shade of pastel pink. Chipping. There’s nothing inside of it, just a bare piece of holiday joy that never meant too much to anyone beyond children. But with how you’re staring up at him, Simon thinks all the searching in the bins from the garage was worth it.

“What’s this?” Your voice wraps him close, and your hand holds the object close. Simon shrugs, digging deep into your vision.

“I’ve the faintest idea, Sunshine.” The giggle flies to his cold heart and he pulls you to his chest to still the raging of it. “My guess,” he raises a stiff brow, “intruder broke in, yeah?”

“Did this intruder have ears and a pink nose?” You ask, noses brushing. “A hop in his step, maybe?”

“Hell if I know,” Simon grunts, eyes flickering away before he can break before you. “Best get my gun just in case – you’ll ‘ave to find the rest ‘o the bastard things, though.”

You kiss him then, and he captures the back of your head, holding you to him as if you’d disappear if he let go. He doesn't know what you did to possess him so, to make his thoughts be only of you even when he’s halfway around the world. Were you an angel? A shred of light made physical? Perhaps an embodiment of all the good in the universe?

Simon had no answer, as he usually did when it came to you, and you sighed into him, whispering redemption to his soul.

You said you loved him, and he said it back with every ounce of him that was untouched by death. And then you pulled from him with a laugh that could throw away darkness and disappeared with promises of finding the remaining eggs. Like a loyal hound of hell, Simon followed, pulling on the comforter to slow you down so you don’t trip. He would always follow.

The vision of a good life starts with a view of the present. Who you choose to care about; how you make meaning of nothing but a shared morning and a memory of youth. Simon does not remember much of his childhood. Most of the memories are displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole. Cast away.

Coated in fear and lies.

Some days he asks how he can still call himself Simon Riley – it’s the name of a dead man, after all…and then he looks at your beaming face, and his question is answered as fast as it was thought up.

You deserve Simon Riley, not Ghost. Not a devil incarnate or Dead-eyed. A demon, or a monster. If there was even a shred of purity left in him, that was what he knew beyond doubt.

Simon Riley was selfish, he admitted, and he was loathed to leave you…so here he would stay. Hiding easter eggs and giving veiled hints when you were close to one near the planted flowers in the backyard. There was a simplicity that the man bathed in – the blatant enjoyment of a plain life.

With a chuckle in the back of his throat, Simon pushes off the back porch and makes a comment about how you were closer to the dead bird you had buried in the garden bed than an egg. A flick of your middle finger leaves him smirking, and he splays a hand over your back, angling your body farther north. The kiss left on his stubbled cheek makes him warmer than he wants to admit; cold eyes soften.

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it…but he was trying to be damn near close. Until then, the ring he had bought would stay in his office.

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readingcoco · 6 months

Text

Painted Red 🖤

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader (f)

Words: 5487

Ao3 Link

Summary: Arthur revisits Rhodes Parlour House, hoping to get information about the Braithwaite gold from working girl Ettie. He leaves with more questions than answers and a gift he wasn't expecting.

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, sex work, period typical attitudes, strangers to lovers, medium honour Arthur Morgan, angst, emotional smut.

Chapter Two - The Whore

[Chapter 1]

Arthur.

The air in Lemoyne is cloying. Sticky and thick like Molasses. He hates it here, hates waking up wet with sweat, bitten to an inch of his life by the mosquitos that swarm the lake behind his tent. He’s never been this far south and would gladly leave soon as convenient, except for Dutch’s insistence that gold lies somewhere between the warring Gray and Braithwaite families. He’s less convinced but far from him to try to question Dutch once his mind is set on something.

A high-pitched buzz by his left ear is met with the thwack of his open palm. Gotcha.

Something else is gnawing away at him, too, besides the mosquitos. A stirring in him, he thought, all but laid to rest after Mary, after— the kind that makes itself known only when he’s here, lying alone in his tent, staring up at the ceiling.

Want.

Fuck. He wants her so bad. Ettie, that working girl, up in Rhodes. With her daring eyes and smart mouth — her hands on him, days ago, in the parlour house. Bold as anything. God, if the very thought of her didn’t make a beeline straight down to his cock. He don't like it, don’t like it at all — what she does to him, how she makes him feel. Unarmed. Weak even. But also lighter.

He is appalled to admit he’s considered taking himself in hand more than once now to the thought of her breasts, her smile, the way she looked at him, full of doe-eyed devilment. He’s like some hapless kid. Should be ashamed.

He’s not been with a whore since his 20s. There was that one Dutch paid for when he turned 17, a string of them after Mary ended things the first time around. Abigail? Once. The last time he lay with a woman was when he and Mary briefly came back together before she married. What was that 94… 95? Would he even remember what to do? Would he be able to last? As a whore she ought not to care, especially if he’s paying for the privilege. But he wants to please her. Wants to fill her smart mouth with sounds of pleasure. Watch those daring, teasing eyes roll back in her head as she comes undone for him.

He’s stroking himself now. Her imagined sighs. His name on her lips—

Arthurrr—

“—ARTHUR!”

Dutch shouts him from outside his tent. Inescapable like the soupy Lemoyne air. Goddamnit, he hates it here.

“Best I can stoop to is twenty.”

Arthur nods, weighing the expensive-looking silver bracelet loosely in his palm before handing it over. Hosea was better at knowing the worth of fine things, but the fence was on his way back to camp, and it didn’t make sense to make two trips. Still, twenty dollars wasn’t bad for an afternoon playing errand boy to two star-crossed lovers. Not quite the gold Dutch was hoping for, but something at least.

“Deputy.” The man flashes him a knowing wink, touching the brim of his hat. He winces before stiffly nodding back—damn badge.

He won’t feel too bad about it; the Braithwaite girl, Penelope, had seemed more than content with just the letter, and neither family looked short on finary, as ill-gotten as it was. No, no harm done.

The sun is at its hottest, leaving him half-blind as it beams punishingly up from the road ahead. Sweat pours from his brow, and he can barely see where he’s going when he finds himself steering Branwen right up the hill towards Rhodes rather than carrying on straight in the direction of camp.

Only the stench of the butcher’s meat left out too long in the midday heat is enough to break him from his trance and acknowledge where he is. As though Branwen had been steering herself, with him merely passenger.

Too late to turn around now, he concedes. Might as well carry on heading where he’s heading.

He takes a long glug from his waterskin before dismounting. Hitching Branwen to the shadiest post of the parlour and making sure she has her fill from the water trough provided—a few extra sugar cubes for good measure.

“Won’t be long, girl.”

The heat was just as hard on the horses.

He assures himself he’s here for reconnaissance— nothing more. If anyone’s likely to have information on the Grays and Braithwaites, it’s her. Probably had enough of them to pick something up the gang could find useful, what with her knack for seeing the stuff folk didn’t want seen.

The twenty dollars burns a hole in his pocket.

Ettie had seemed willing the last time, hadn’t she? Not put off or disgusted by him that he could make out. Maybe the badge had its uses, after all.

Hell, maybe if he slept with her, got it out of his system, he could get on with the job at hand and stop all this silly early morning pining.

The parlour house is sleepy as he enters, too late for the lunchtime trade, too early for the field workers to have downed tools and made their way into town. His eyes skirt sheepishly across the bar.

He’d found himself coming here quite a bit since the gang moved south, not just to avoid Pearson’s cooking but because it was one of the few places that offered solace from the outside sun, the thick leafy green curtains keeping out the worst of the rays. I was nicer than most places he tended to frequent, the white-clothed tables suggesting a level of expected cleanliness from its clientele. And though he’d made sure to kick the mud from his boots before entering, he now chose to stand on the hardwood rather than risk marking the floral rugs that lined the rest of the room.

He can’t see her. Not even sure she's started working yet. And though a couple of girls at the bar make him double-take, none of them are Ettie.

He’s just about ready to skulk out, feeling old and feckless, when he hears her. Laughter carrying brightly from behind him, awakening the entire place from its slumber. He’d forgotten how alive she was. The rough sketch he’d drawn of her the night he’d got back to camp had barely captured her likeness, let alone her charm.

She is sat in one of the wooden booths, perched on the lap of a stout-looking man, happy and light, head thrown back, though he’s certain the man at her seat did little to merit such pleasant sounds.

He stalls for a moment, watching her work and is reminded of Hosea’s ability to tell a person exactly what they want to hear in order to rob them blind — except he isn’t sure who would be robbing who in the current circumstance.

The stout man’s hand paws lecherously at Ettie’s waist, bouncing her on his knee as he ogles up at her. Surely, no amount could be worth the touch of a man like that. Is that how he had looked, too? Leering and pathetic? Sucked in by talk of sketching and paints. She had read him like a book, and he’d allowed it — a fool to think her interest was in anything other than the dollars in his pocket.

Well, if money is all it will take to get her pretty face out of his waking thoughts, so be it.

“Miss White?”

Ettie shifts to face him mid-conversation and grins impishly as though expecting his arrival.

“Hello, stranger.”

But as he opens his mouth to respond, the words of solicitation stick in his throat, and he realises how unpracticed he is at this whole buisness. The man beneath her glares back, warning him off what’s his. Arthur swallows dryly, raising an arm to rest awkwardly on the booth’s divider, the other hooking into the buckle of his belt.

“I believe— Last time I was here you—”

Ettie raises an eyebrow, choosing to watch him flounder rather than step to his salvation.

So she’s toying with him. He sees how it is. Hadn’t acted quick enough the first time around and had her plucked from his side by the drunkard Leigh Gray. Now if he wants her, she’s expecting him to do the same to the dolt under her. He grits his jaw. The glint of his badge catches his eye, and he tries a different tack.

“I’ve heard word there’ve been dangerous men spotted in the area.”

Ettie scans the empty bar and looks back at him plainly.

“Everything seems fine from where I’m sittin’, Deputy.” She puts a playful hand on the stout man’s knee. “Wouldn’t you say so Ernest?” The man nods, wrapping his arm ever tighter around Ettie’s waist.

“Would you just—I’d like it if—” He can feel his cheeks starting to burn as he avoids meeting her eye and instead looks over his shoulder towards the central staircase. He speaks low, “Last time I was in, you asked to show me your work— but we was interrupted.”

A twinkle of recognition from Ettie. “Oh? You still interested?”

“Yes.” He sniffs. It’s out there now. Can’t take it back.

She silently weighs up some mental calculation before placing a palm on Ernest’s chest. “I’m sorry, Darlin’. Would you mind terribly if you bought me a drink some other time? The Deputy and I have a prior arrangement.”

He almost sympathises as he watches the man’s face shift from confusion to disappointment, but before it has a chance to twist into anger, Ettie kisses Ernest squarely on the mouth. “Wait right here. I’ve got someone who’ll know how to make it up to you.” She leaves with a wink and no room for protest, springing up and scurrying across to the bar.

Arthur regards Ernest with an awkward salute, unsure what to say given the circumstances. At least when he robbed men at gunpoint, there was no pretence of polite conversation.

It’s Ernest who is first to break their silence, “She’s a wily one, Deputy. Not as perky as some of the younger girls, but makes up for it with experience.” He slaps Arthur’s arm in a fashion far too familiar. It makes his skin crawl. “Clean, too.”

“They’ll be cleanin' you off this floor if you speak about the Lady like that again. We understood?” He’d done his best not to raise his voice, Dutch’s instructions of keeping a low profile never far from his mind, but the man is still white as a sheet as Ettie arrives back at the booth. With her is a lofty-looking girl with ashy blonde hair, who regards Arthur with an amused up and down as she passes. She doesn’t bother to say hello, instead making a beeline straight to Ernest’s side.

“A birdy told me you were in need of company since yours is being so rudely snatched away,” she says pointedly.

Although Ettie rolls her eyes, it’s obvious she’s in on the bit.

“Ernest, Ida’s going to take good care of you while I take the Deputy upstairs. Don’t have too much fun without me now.”

The walk up to Ettie’s room is long enough for the dread to start to kick in. He can feel his heart pumping in his throat and remembers why he stopped all this nonsense years ago, but then the warmth of her touch meets the small of his back, and she smiles at him gently from under her lashes.

“I’ve been wantin' to get you away from prying eyes,” she says quietly, for his ears alone. “Here’s my room, first on the left.”

As the door closes behind them, he can finally allow his shoulders to relax as he is greeted by the smell of lavender and something sweet he can’t quite place—chamomile, maybe? Her room is small, with sunny yellow walls and surfaces laden with bric-à-brac, the type which collects only once a space has been lived in for some time. Things that would be prone to getting lost or damaged travelling from pillar to post as he did, things he wanted to pick over and admire.

A painting hung to his right catches his eye: a handsome-looking dark bay drinking from what looks like Flat Iron Lake. He moves towards it to inspect it up close.

“You wanna leave your gun by the door, Deputy?” Ettie says softly.

He looks down. Of course. And undoes his gun belt, wrapping it around itself before setting it on the side, along with his hat. He stands before her, disarmed, not quite sure what to make of the curious way she watches him or where to rest his twitching fingers without the cool metal of his buckle to anchor to. He folds his arms.

“That’s Burdock, my baby. I take him out ridin’ whenever I can.” Ettie says, gesturing to the painting that caught his attention.

“You painted this?”

She grins, sticking up her nose with pride. “I did!” Her lack of reticence surprising.

“S’good.”

He’d never been much of a smooth talker when it came to women. Even when first courting Mary it had taken months to build up to asking her for a kiss. But this wasn’t courting, and he’d do best to remember that.

“As flattered as I am, I know you didn’t come up here just to look at my art.”

“Can a man not appreciate a paintin’?”

“They can,” she says, slinking up to him and running a trail of fire across his chest. Pressing herself flush against him. Her hair smells like rose water — not mud, or sweat, or blood. And it disturbs him to think that the last time he felt the heat from another’s body so close, his hands were wrapped around their neck. The tip of her nose aligns with his collarbone, and he could rest his chin on her crown if he felt bold. “But it would be an awful expensive trip just to look at a picture.”

She steps back slowly to look at him, her absence leaving him cold. For a moment he fears she’s sensed the danger he’s sure he radiates — realising a beat too late, the expected next step of their dance.

“How much do I owe you?” he says, flusteredly reaching into his satchel.

“Five dollars. Anything ‘French’ is an additional two — Though considering I’m due payment from our little sweepstakes, I’d be happy to waive the fee for that on this occasion.”

He’d almost forgotten about the bet placed on his head and wondered how often the women discussed what went on behind closed doors, how he would fair in comparison. He cringes at the thought and tries to push it to the back of his mind.

“I ain’t expectin’ special treatment, don’t worry.”

He hands over five dollars, and with the money on the dresser, Ettie retakes her position. The plainness of the transaction and the affection it now entitled him to feeling implausible.

“Relax a little,” her voice comes out like a breath, encouraging him to breathe deeply in time with her. “It’s okay. We’re gonna have fun.” She guides him over to the bed before stepping back to remove her shirtwaist and skirt, each button revealing new skin he now had permission to touch.

As he stands there watching, something about the ungraceful practicality of her undressing fascinates him, how in contrast it felt to the choreographed movements of the rest of her performance. He wonders if this is her more natural state, all furrowed brows and uncoordinated limbs, and if so, what it took for her to keep up appearances.

When down to her corset and underthings, Ettie faces the mirror to unpin the hair fixed neatly atop her head. He is silent as it falls like water, spilling over the ridge of her shoulders and pooling loosely at the base of her spine.

“Your turn now.” She says, and he hardly has time to react before her nimble fingers are working open the buttons of his shirt.

From this angle, he can see how the sun has caught the high points of her face, leaving behind a sprinkle of freckles lightly masked by powder. The slope of her neck is decorated by loose curls and a small silver locket that bobs up and down above her— He dares not gaze lower. Only as she begins to work at his fly does his sluggish brain arrive at the moment in hand.

“You ain’t taking this off?” His voice comes out hoarser than he expects, and for the first time, Ettie looks a little startled, stepping back to look at him hesitantly. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

“I wasn’t planning on. My draws are split, and this unties. Look—” She pulls the ribbon at her shoulder. And he hates that it’s Ernest’s words that colour his view as the loosened cotton strap of her chemise falls away to expose a pretty breast, pushed up by the boning of her corset. Was the man blind? “It’s a little cumbersome to get on and off.” He aches to see her fully, to touch the skin still hidden from view, but he won’t push.

Her hand dips back into his open fly, sliding between a gap in his union suit. He lets out a wince to feel the pads of her fingers making contact with the base of his dick. “That feel good?” she goads. His whole body gone rigid. Barely able to summon words. Nodding sharply in response, as she begins to ease him out.

The pace in which she palms him feels foreign compared to his hand's efficient strokes, but she is responsive to each breath, learning him with every shudder and tense of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, he allows himself to get lost in the sensation of her experienced hands. Rare he is permitted such selfish pleasure. Rare anyone did anything for him without expectation of its return tenfold. And yet— The lopsidedness of the arrangement suddenly feels too much to bear. He needs to touch her, needs to make her feel as good as she’s making him.

As her speed quickens, he moves a cautious hand to her breast, cradling her delicately before lightly skimming his thumb across her nipple. Testing. Her rhythm falters slightly, and he is rewarded with a small whimper that escapes half-bitten through her lips. That’s it. He circles the pebbled skin, harder this time, and delights to feel her swell under his touch. Confidence growing, he dips his head lower to taste her. She moans again, but this time unrestrained, head lolling back as he sucks.

“Arthurrr—”

Her strokes hasten, and he needs to hear her keen for him again. Needs to touch her. He reaches down between them, between her legs, trying to find the source of her heat amongst rumpled cotton, but then she is pulling away. Stepping back. Straightening up.

“Hey, this is about you. Don’t worry about me, okay.” She says.

“But—”

“Shhhh, trust me,” Ettie whispers calmly and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. He worries that he has done something wrong, hurt her in some way he didn’t intend, too forceful, too coarse. But like she can read his mind—

“Stay put, I ain’t goin' nowhere.”

She’s good at that, he thinks, toeing the line between gentle and firm. Never going as far to bruise a man’s ego but not coming across as a pushover either. Had she always been that way, or had she learnt how to soothe a man, just as he’d learnt how to intimidate them? Through necessity. What was her natural temperament? What was his?

Ettie walks over to the dresser and grabs a small glass jar, scooping out a little of the contents before returning to the bed.

“You wanna get a little more comfortable?” She says, eyeing his half-open union suit and the jeans around his ankles with amusement. What a sight he must look. But if she was going to remain in her underthings, shouldn’t he? It didn’t seem proper to be exposed when she was not. He kicks off his jeans but leaves his Union suit open, but on.

“What’s that?” He nods to the creamy concoction cupped in her hand.

“Just a little somethin’ for my comfort.” That playful look again. “You are quite… sizable. I wanna make sure I’m ready for you.”

His cheeks darken, her lack of arousal confirming his worst fears.

“Maybe if you let me touch you, you might enjoy it more.”

Her sigh is affectionate. “Who said I wasn’t enjoying myself? Anyone ever told you you worry too much?”

They face each other at the precipice of the bed. His toes curling whilst she slicks up his length with the salve in what feels like one continuous gliding motion, till he is rock hard and panting before her. She shifts herself to bend over the bed, guiding him behind her with a hand on his hip. She arches her back to rest with her forearms on the mattress.

“You ready to show me what you can do, Deputy?”

“Arthur. Please.” He manages to huff out, unable to look away from the way she is presented so brazenly for him.

Ettie gives him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Arthur, I want you to show me what you’ve been dreamin’ on since we first met.” And he wants to show her, too.

Swallowing thickly, he carves a hand between the slit of her draws, spreading them open to finally expose the supple flesh of her backside. The sight alone has his dick twitching in anticipation, helpless to prevent the full handful of her ass he takes in his grasp.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He croaks.

“Might have heard it mentioned.”

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, steadying his breath, before aligning himself with her entrance. He is mindful not to push into her too quickly, and though the salve helps some, he hears her breath hitch in her chest as she takes him, inch by inch.

“Too much?” He asks, trying to mask his trepidation, but he is answered by an enthusiastic grind of her hips, which sheaths him fully inside. He stops breathing for a moment, caught by the clutch of her cunt. Senses all but lost to the sensation of her heat. His lids grow heavy, but the sight of his cock buried to the hilt has him straining to keep them open. Hypnotised by the way she encases him.

He gently rocks himself backwards and then forward, shallow at first and then deeper, slowly increasing his pace with each slap of their hips.

“Ettie-”

“That feel good, Arthur?” So good. So good. And he wishes he could look into those teasing eyes as she spears herself back onto him. At first, matching his tempo and then provoking him to speed up, take her faster, harder.

He won’t last much longer at this rate. And tries to bat away the sinking feeling that that might be something she wants. For this to be over quickly. She’s making all the right noises, but then again, he walked into this room with a badge on his chest, so honesty was hardly something he felt entitled to.

He wants her closer, craving the reassurance only her face could bring. He arches down over her, carefully hooking an arm around her chest, drawing her up into him, until she kneels upright on the bed with him holding her weight from behind, bodies remaining locked.

“This ok?” He huffs.

“Mhmmm” She nods back hazily.

From this position, he can see her better, the rise and fall of her chest, the growing flush that has spread from her cheeks down her neck, the way her eyes shutter when he reaches for her breast, his other seeking out her heat from below. She hums a little then, a sound so pure it answers all suspicions about the authenticity of those proceeding it. God how he wants to watch her come around him, if only he can last long enough to get her there.

His fingers slip between her folds, spreading her open as he continues to fuck up into her, the slick of her cunt undeniably her own making now. Ettie’s back arches wildly as he begins to rub a tight ring around her clit, and she lets out a noise halfway between a shriek and a moan like she is surprised by the pleasure. But when he tries to continue, she is grasping his wrist, pulling it away from her core and bringing it up to her mouth to suck hard on his fingers. The debauched way she looks at him then almost sends him over the edge.

“Come for me, Arthur.”

God, his name sounds like honey on her lips.

“Just like that—”

Surely she’s not inferring what he thinks she is? But he is near losing himself in the thought alone.

“So close—” She coos, “Just let go, fill me—”

Fuck. Fuck—

He drags his erupting cock out of her just in time as he spills violently onto her ass and then the floor, staggering backwards, trying to catch his breath.

“Jesus! Jesus. I nearly— I’m sorry.” He babbles, feeling boorish and out of control.

“Hey there. I know. I said you could.” She says, turning around to run her fingers through his ruffled hair. He looks back at her, confused, still out of breath.

“Ain’t you worried about—” he stops, trying to find the correct phrasing but becoming aware of the fond, almost patronising look on Ettie’s face.

“I ain’t worried, no.” She smiles gently, “Wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t take precautions.”

He nods sheepishly, though still not entirely at ease, before sitting back down at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply, struggling to enjoy the last twitches of his high.

When his breath returns to normal, he grabs his jeans from the foot of the bed, trying not to cringe at the mess he’s made of her and her floor.

“Don’t feel like you have to rush on account of me,” Ettie says, making her way to a small porcelain jug and basin in the corner of the room. She dampens a washcloth and wipes away all trace of his spend still marking her skin.

“Want me to clean you up?” She approaches him cautiously.

“I’m alright.” He says.

She raises a silent eyebrow.

“I mean, I can manage for myself.”

She nods and hands him over the rag. He’s not sure how to feel as he tidies himself up, but he's aware of her eyes on him, watching, trying to figure him out. Knowing he’s been read before she even opens her mouth.

“When did you last lay with a woman, Deputy?”

He pauses. That bluntness that throws his head through a loop. Dangerous. And he doesn’t know how to answer—what she’s wanting to hear— that it was likely five years since he’d been touched like that? That he’d touched someone else? Was she looking for an explanation for his rustiness or an apology?

“Was it obvious?” he asks, unable to fully meet her gaze.

“Well, you ain’t got a ring and—” She hesitates momentarily. “I shouldn’t say it,” The apples of her cheeks start to ripen uncontrollably until she breaks into laughter. “You fuck like you’ve somethin’ to prove.”

He might be inclined to take such a comment to heart if it wasn’t for the pleasure he took in seeing her so genuinely amused, and before he knows it, he’s chuckling too.

“I just didn’t want it to be awful for you.”

Ettie nudges him with her heel. “You paid me to make you feel good. So as long as you had fun, I did too.”

She lights a cigarette and offers him one from her case: silver, engraved with the initials A.B. in an ornate filigree. He accepts and allows her to light the smoke from the tip of her own. He still doesn’t quite know how to make conversation but is relieved to have something to occupy his hands.

“Still wanna see my paints?” She asks after a few moments quiet.

“That’s why I’m up here, ain’t it?” He says wryly. She scoffs before darting across the room, opening draws, rooting through cupboards, pulling things out left and right—a tornado, leaving a trail of smoke in her wake.

When she returns, her arms are laden with supplies, and she settles down next to him cross-legged on the bed, spreading out her wares between them. She opens a battered-looking sketchbook and smooths out the page.

“See,” she says, stroking the paper and encouraging him to do the same. “Just like the paper in your journal—Oh, wait a second.”

She stands abruptly before dashing off again, this time to the water jug. Her back turned, Arthur flicks through the pages and is rapt by a flurry of faces looking back at him. A few he recognises as girls from the parlour, but there are others too: an elderly woman in a bright feathered hat, a rakish-looking man in spectacles, a little girl with pigtails holding a ragdoll, each of them living and breathing on the page like she had rendered their very souls.

“You snoopin’?” Ettie tuts in mock disapproval, though she doesn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. “And after all the grief you gave me for looking at your art.”

Art.

Arthur had never thought about his sketches in that way before. Sure, he sometimes felt pride if he managed to capture something or someone’s likeness in a way that felt true, but he’d never had any training to consider what he did art. Not like the pretty pictures spread out in front of him now. These felt so full of life he swore he wouldn’t be surprised to see one of them moving.

“These are good,” he says as she settles beside him, her thigh resting lightly against his.

She rolls her eyes, then nudges his arm. “Get your journal out— Don’t worry, I don’t wanna look at any of the drawings— Well, I do, but I’m not going to force you. Just want to show you something.”

He relents and gets his journal from his satchel, handing it over suspiciously, realising only after it’s in her hands how reckless he’s being, and for what? He hadn’t asked her about the blood feud between Grays and Braithwaits, nothing about the gold. The only information gleaned was that his dick still worked, and even that had only served him.

Keeping to her word, Ettie opens the book to an untouched page and submerges her paintbrush into the jug, tapping off the excess water and swirling the tip into a square of dried paint. Her hand hovers over the blank page before gliding the brush across the paper in a flourish of crimson, blooming as it settled, like petals opening at dawn.

“Here, you try.”

She dips the brush back into the jug to clean it off before holding it out towards Arthur. Following her direction, he scrubs the brush into a dark green pan and brings his hand to the paper. His line comes out fainter than hers and less fluid, the brush strokes looking scratchy as he reaches the edge of the page.

“Not enough paint. Got to get it saturated.” She smiles. “But look,” she flicks over the page, “it hasn’t gone through.” She starts to explain about wetting the paper before applying the paint, working in layers, letting stuff dry, getting more and more animated, that he starts to laugh.

“You have to start adding colour to your work. I could—” She stops. “You planin’ on seein’ me again?” The question is abrupt, as though she realises she is getting ahead of herself and needs to square off the basics first.

He hadn’t considered that this would be more than a one-time occurrence but he’d be lying if he didn’t acknowledge the sense of relief that had spread throughout his body and mind in the past half hour. More settled than he’d been in months, maybe even years. Perhaps next time he could get some information out of her. Perhaps next time he could prove himself a less selfish lover.

“I’d like to if you’ll have me.”

“Marvellous! Here—” She thrusts a small wooden box into his hands.

“What’s—?”

***

“A watercolour set for travelling. Not amazing quality but perfect for a beginner or someone on the move.” She gives him a wry smile “You can borrow it and show me how you get on next time you see me.”

She’s a whirlwind, and even as he’s riding Branwen back into camp he still feels bowled over. Not sure how he’s agreed to as much as he has, or if he’s being played, or if he cares to stop it.

Tag list: @redwritr, @twola, @ultraporcelainpig, @cassietrn & @milesology

If you would like to be added/removed from the tag list, just let me know! x

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x fem!reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x oc #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #painted red

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meowmeowmeowmeow4x · 7 months

Text

Supersons +1 propmt fill Part3 Tr3s

The sprinklers activated in an instant and covered the centre in a deluge of water. Whatever scientists remained scrambled to recover what remained of their creations before the water could irrevocably damage them. In a hidden corner, one Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent made knowing glances to each other, a mutual agreement reached in seconds after decades of friendship. With the help of a crowbar, the men quickly pry open one of the exit doors, making way for panicked civilians to exit the premises, 'Brucie' giving comfort to those distressed by the recent events. It wasn't long before they had to make themselves scarce. They had their sons to rescue, there was no time!

As Bruce and Clark snuck out into the empty hallway, having been quickly evacuated by a Gothamite's natural self-preservation instinct and discipline from years of attacks. They nodded, and went their seperate ways. Clark to go change into his Superman outfit, and Bruce to calm the inevitable deluge of reporters before changing into his own costume.

Cameras flashed over the front entrance to the event, blinding the last few stragglers to leave, and Bruce, standing tall against the crashing sea.

"Mr Wayne! What can you tell us about the new villain that Joker has teamed up with?"

"Mr Wayne, how does Wayne Industries intent to secure future events from attacks on this scale?"

"Where is Damian Wayne? Sir how can Wayne Industries secure the future of Gotham if you cannot protect your own children?"

"Mr Wayne is it true that you allowed Jack Fenton to attend the event despite knowing he was a quack?"

And on and on and on. Bruce never intended to give these people what they wanted. He had children to save, and investigations to conduct. Before he could excuse himself, however, a roaring boom echoed down the street like summer thunder. Reporters screamed as they trampled over each other to escape the path of a silver behemoth charging down the road. Thick metal plates lined its exterior. A large satellite dish adorned its top, and jutting out from the sides were massive guns. The van sported too many OSHA violations to be anything less than a tank on four wheels than any civilian vehicle. Batman will have to crack down on whatever corrupt whitecollar criminals allowed this monstrosity on the roads.

The van charged right up to where Bruce was standing on the pavement, before coming to a terrifyingly rapid halt, so sudden that the entire vehicle jerked forward from its momentum. It would have been cartoonish if it hadn't stopped cleanly right in front of him. The front door slammed open, and a pair of black-gloved hands grabbed Bruce by the shoulder. In public surrounded by cameras, Bruce was helpless but to comply.

"BRUCIE WAYNE! I'VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU!"

Bruce scanned the interior of the van in an instant, clocking in the undignified Clark Kent clinging to his seat like a child to their parents leg, tie messed up and suit creased. His classes were crooked on his face. "He just scooped me up like I was paper mache, Bruce!" The man's voice was shaking.

"Strap in Brucie, because the Fenton Family Ghost Assault Vehicle cares for no trivial matters like traffic laws, or even physics laws!"

What kind of branding was this? "The Fenton Family wha-" Jack slammed the gas. The GAV rocketed into max gear in an instant. The force threw the poor man off his feet. Bruce went hurtling into the backside of the GAV and crashed with a bang. The G-forces kept him glued to the wall like a black-suited starfish, at least until Clark extended an arm to peel him off.

"I'm starting to think you might be right about him being a supervillain." Clark whispered.

Bruce grimly nodded.

"Alright so now that we're all together, here's the plan folks!" Jack said, tone all too cheerful for the chaos he was creating on the road. Innocent cars swerved out of the way of the advancing war machine. Pedestrians clung to lampposts and fences as gale force winds blasted them from its wake. "Let's start with the bad news: Our kids have been spirited away by suffering spooks! The good news: The Fenton Radar works!" Jack tapped on a screen on the van's console, showing two beeping dots on a radar map.

"BUILDING!" Clark yelled. They were rocketing right into a townhouse.

Jack yanked the wheel to the left. The GAV turned 90 degrees in about half a second, turning both passengers into ragdolls thrown across the side. On the outside, a subtle Superman-shaped dent was visible. "Thanks for that, Clarkie! Now I'm sure you guys aren't as experienced as me and my lovely wife Maddie are in hunting ghosts, but don't worry! I can give you a crash course."

"Please don't say crash course." Clark quivered.

"Could you maybe slow down?!" Bruce yelled over the roaring engines.

"No can do, Brucie! Any slower and the GHOSTS will leave the Fenton Radar's range, and then we'll never get our kids back!"

"I think I'm going to be sick." So Kryptonians can get nausea from high-speed vehicles, interesting. He'll have to update his file.

"The Joker and his associates entered your portal and set it to blow, how can we even get the kids back if they're on the other side!"

Jack turned around with a smile. "That's what the Fenton PortaPortal version 2 is for! Never leave home without a spare, my grandpa Fenton always said!"

"Dr Fenton, that bridge was destroyed in a gang fight!" Bruce shouted. Construction workers were already scattering, but a thick concrete barrier stood in their way.

"No need to worry, Fenton engineering can handle a little hole here or there!"

"The entire bridge was destroyed, we're going to fall off!"

"I love your sense of humour Brucie, but even if we did it wouldn't matter!"

"I really think it does, Dr Fenton!" Clark gripped the bottom of the nearby seat hard enuogh to dent.

"Nonsense, watch this!" Jack pushed the gas even further, as if that was even possible. The GAV reduced the concrete barrior to smithereens. "Go go Fenton Famliy Ghost Assault Vehicle: Aerial Mode!" The mad scientist's shouted in glee. He pulled another lever, activating a pair of wings from the sides.

Clark would deny screaming like a girl to the end of his days.

~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, in the Zone...

Danny shifted nervously in his position, atop the swarm of Lydia's bats, and flanked by the freaking Joker of all people on one side and Freaking Freakshow on the other. What did he do to deserve this?

If It was just the Joker and Freakshow, he would just happily transform and kick the snot out of these clowns, but sadly he's not alone.

Also tied up with rope both human and ghostly were one Damian Wayne and Jon Kent, the former of which looked none too pleased about the current situation. While Damian spat vitriol upon the Joker and his "D-list half-rate assisstant," with man himself largely ignoring his words to fawn over the chaos of the Realms, Danny contemplated his options. Good news: Freakshow hadn't blown his secret yet, which was cold comfort for the moment, seeing as if he had, he'd just be able to punch these suckers and be done with it, but nooo. Maybe he could overshadow the other boys and hypnotise them into forgetting? Was that a thing that can be done? Would've been convenient, and because of that, Danny suspected it's wishful thinking. If it worked, great, if it didn't work, well Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne have ties to the Justice League, who have ties to the government, who hire the GiW, so there's a non-zero percent chance such a stunt would end up with him on a dissection table.

Which means he's left playing the waiting game, spectating the Joker jumping up and down like a fangirl over all the green, and purple, and fighting, and death. First day in Gotham, guys.

"Psst." Jon whispered to him.

Danny said nothing, but leaned a little on Jon's side.

"Don't worry, we're gonna be ok, I'm sure the J-J-Justice League will be here. Just sit t-t-tight, ok?"

Wow, that was really touching that he was trying to comfort Danny, but the ghostly part of him didn't even need to feel Jon's shaking, or hear his stutter to know the kid was absolutely terrified. Now that he thought about it, it really should be him doing the comforting.

"Eh I wouldn't hedge my bets on it." Causing the other boy to squeak in fear. Curse you, snark instinct. Why can't you be heroic and reassuring instead.

"Neither would I, boy." Freakshow said, almost like he was rubbing in just how much danger his secret was in.

"You will unhand us, or you will know the meaning of pain in every sense of the world. This I tell you. I will feed you to my chickens. I will cut up your flesh and grind it into paste and then fertilise my vegetable garden with it. You will regret crossing me."

Jon let out the faintest whisper, something Danny would've never heard if he wasn't a ghost, and a master of quiet sounds. "Really selling the normal kid act here, Damian."

"On the contrary, lovely chlidren, I believe it is you who will soon become ghosts. NEYEHEHEYEHEH" Oh god here comes the gratuitous laughter. "I can't believe such a t~~tttttTANTALISING opportunity has been out there for me this whole time! AHAHAHAHAAH. And for you, my little children, to have come to this wonderful little science expo alongside your dear old daddies only to become part of the exhibit?" The Joker cracked into laughter, slapping his knees and collapsing in fitful giggles.

Each of the free boys gulped, each of them considering how to save the apparent civilian(s) among them without exposing themselves...

@impyssadobsessions

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st-el-la-luna · 9 months

Text

Thinking about being a civilian in Las Almas when shit goes down

You'd been invited to stay with a friend and, being in desperate need of a vacation, you'd agreed. It was fun, staying with them, meeting their family, learning about their hometown and childhood.

The fun ended pretty quick when these cunts dressed in black started killing everyone.

You and your friend had been out enjoying the night, eating, drinking, dancing. You were on your way back to their house when you heard it.

A gunshot.

Your friend tells you this isn't entirely abnormal. Tells you to ignore it and keep walking.

So you do.

But the gunshots are becoming more frequent. Louder too. They're getting closer.

A woman you vaguely recognize, one of your friends neighbours, rushes out of an alleyway, terrified and bloodied.

You can only understand so much about what's said before her head suddenly... Not there. Bits of skull and brain and blood spattered all over you as you watch her body drop.

You turn to your friend. "This is normal? Dude...."

You're friend tells you to shut the fuck up and that you need to run. As the sound of heavy footsteps and voices (American accents you register) get closer, accompanied by the sound of a gun being reloaded, you agree.

The two of you make a run for your friends house, passing all sorts of horrible sights. You're a block away when a gunshot rips through the night and your friend suddenly just... Stops.

You look back in disbelief. Their eyes wide with shock, lips parted, slack jawed... The new hole in the middle of their forehead. They try to say something to you, but all that escapes them is a choked groan. They throw you their keys, then collapse.

They're not dead yet. You can tell by their sounds and the rise and fall of their chest. A part of you wants to help them, grab them and drag them off to safety.

The other part of you recognizes the man dressed in all black (he looks suspiciously military but that doesn't make sense, killing civilians is a war crime... isn't it?), who's walking closer as he reloads his gun.

So you run.

Run and run until your legs are burning. Taking back roads and side streets, jumping fences, the adrenaline making it easy to ignore the way the barbed wire tears at your skin.

When you make it to your friends street, you find the door to their house is already open. Kicked down.

You find the dead inside.

A part of you wants to stop here, curl up and break down. The other knows that these people, these men in black, could come back at any moment. And so you do what you can to prepare yourself.

You empty your backpack of your belongings, filling it instead with anything you find around the house that might be useful.

A first aid kit buckled to the side. Rubbing alcohol and tequilla and whatever else flammable you can find poured into glass bottles, the lips stuffed with socks. Kitchen knives. Fire crackers and fire works. A couple flares. You manage to break open the safe and get a gun. An eight round revolver that you have no clue how to shoot but figure, hey, its better than nothing. At the very least, you could use it for intimidation.

You're heading to the garage where you're pretty sure you remember seeing a bow and full quiver of arrows (you were obsessed with the hunger games when you were younger, actually got pretty good with the weapon) when you freeze.

The man in black also freezes.

He's bloody and out of breath. Face smeared with dirt and oil. His mohawk disheveled. His blue eyes land on you laser focused. He's got a gun. A big one.

And he's looting the corpses. Your friends roommates, their bodies still warm as blood pools beneath them, some of their eyes still open, casting judgmental stares, lay there limp. And this fucker is acting like this is a D&D campaign.

You've got the revolver trained on him with shaking hands.

He points his gun (some sort of automatic things) at you. His hands are steady, practiced. His eyes sharp.

He opens his mouth to speak and takes a half step towards you.

You pull the trigger.

Nothing happens.

"Aye," the man speaks in a thick Scottish brogue. He sounds like he's laughing. How dare he laugh? If you could figure out how the stupid gun works you'd shoot him. "You've got to cock a gun like that 'fore you shoot it."

You freeze, your arm drawn back ready to throw the revolver at the man. His accent gives you pause. The other men in black, they were Americans. And this guy... His clothes are a bit different too. Though he's clearly also army.

You lower your arm hesitantly. "You're... You're not one of them."

"The Shadows?" he asks. "Tch, no. You'd best thank your lucky stars for that, they'd have killed you in a second flat."

"What the hell is going on here?" You demand, slipping the gun back into the makeshift holster you had made out of a couple belts. You step around the man to the garage and he follows.

"You're not from here, are ya love?" he asks as he watches you scan the shelves.

"I'm here on vacation," you say bitterly as you stand on your toes, struggling to reach the quiver of arrows. He pulls it down and hands it to you. The arrows are dusty and old, though still sharp. He hands the bow to you as well, albeit unstrung, and you let out a quiet hum in thanks. He watches as you string the bow, a brow raised. He looks like he's going to say something, but you cut him off. "You didn't answer my question... What's happening? Who are those people?"

He hesitates a moment, you notice his ear piece. Someone else is speaking to him. "Aye, i know, I know, but I cannae very well leave her here now can I?"

At the mention of being left, you panic. There's a pair of handcuffs on his belt. You grab them and before he has a chance to react, you've cuffed your hands together.

And swallowed the key.

Yeah... Not your brightest moment.

The man looks at you dumbfounded. Then speaks to the man in his ear. "Uh... Lt? Got a bit of a problem..."

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daechwitatamic · 7 months

Text

Of Ruin: Chapter 14 | KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕 Also thank you to @casuallyimagining for looking over these fight scenes for me!

Section Warnings: language, angst, uhhh fighting and explicit violence, blood and injury, tense situations with dangerous vampires, uhhhhh multiple murders wc: 6.3k

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“I left,” you admit, sagging into one of the worn chairs and letting your head fall into your hands. It’s late now, nearing dinner time, and you know Dr. Kim would normally be leaving. “I can go home. I meant to go home. But I left there and started walking and… ended up here.”

He regards you for a long minute. Then, as if he’s made a decision, he sits across from you. You’ve been just like this many times - he behind his desk, you across from it, working out a curse or a class-schedule - but it feels different this time.

You’re so ashamed you can barely stomach it.

You’ve never run away from anything in your life, not like this.

You explain it all, you leave nothing out. The dangers you faced, the mistakes and missteps. The way you learned what you really are, and began learning how to do something with it. How you’d slowly worked the curse to a tipping point. How you’d slowly fallen in love with Prince Taehyung, how you’d thought he felt the same.

But Taehyung throwing around words like Queen… it feels like too much. It feels like something you shouldn’t have, don’t deserve, haven’t earned. It feels like a trick or a trap, and you ran scared like a little bunny.

You tell him all of it.

When you’re done, you watch his ancient face for signs of what he’s going to say, if he’s going to chastise you for letting a job get so out of control.

You take in his expression and your heart sinks.

“You’re going to tell me I have to go back, aren’t you?” you lament, shoulders slumping.

“No, my dear,” Dr. Kim says kindly. “I’m going to tell you to go home.”

“Home?” you echo. “What, you mean, like… go home and sleep on it?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Go home. To your family.”

—

Dr. Kim had never really understood the way things were with you and your family. You forgave him for it long ago - he clearly had a very different situation. You’ve learned that even more in the past few months spent with his grandson. But even though you know how pointless his advice is… you follow it anyway.

It’s a long train ride to your hometown, and you spend it pressed to the window, watching the backsides of buildings flash by until they give way to the greens and browns of the countryside.

You think about what you might say. You think about what your parents might say back.

You try to remember the last time you’d even spoken, before your assignment to Infracticus, and you can’t recall.

You spent last night alone in your apartment. It had felt all wrong, somehow - like it belonged to someone else. It occurred to you, as you’d walked through your living room, a hand trailing absently over the knickknacks and clutter, that you hadn’t missed any of these things while you’d been gone.

You’d slept fitfully, with the lights on, bolting upright every time you heard footsteps in the hall.

You walk from the train station; the season has turned in the time you’ve been gone, and the air is biting and cold, stinging your face and the inside of your nose. You slip your hands inside your sleeves, wishing you’d grabbed a heavier coat on your way out the door.

You stop a few houses down, leaning against an old, wooden fence. You watch your childhood home silently, rubbing absently at your chill-bitten nose.

You imagine going up and knocking on the door - because it’s been nearly a decade since the days you were comfortable just breezing in and out of their home. You imagine sitting down at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of tea between your frozen fingers, heating up by degrees. Imagine telling your parents, yes, I’ve been on assignment, actually. In Infracticus.

You imagine your father joking, I’m surprised you didn’t find a way to stay.

That’s exactly what you’d done, without even meaning to.

Is this visit supposed to be goodbye? Is it an attempt to ask for their blessing? How can you expect that - of any parent? How can you walk into their house, uninvited, and ask them to tell you goodbye?

Even if it isn’t forever - even if you can promise visits, regular communication - how can you expect anything like the permission you seek? It isn’t fair of you to even ask.

You stand in the cold and think to yourself that maybe you’re best off just leaving things how they are. Maybe keeping them from the truth is better for them.

Because this is what you’ve figured out, the knowledge you’re grappling with: regardless of Taehyung’s feelings for you… you’re going to ask him to turn you.

Even if he doesn’t love you, even if he doesn’t want you to rule with him, you’re going to walk away from your mortality.

The curse calls for the end of a life, and so your mortal life will end.

What happens after - with Taehyung - remains to be seen, it’s true. But you’d been wrestling with this question for days: would you be willing to give up your mortal life to save his immortal one?

Dr. Kim had heard the indecision threaded through your story, and had sent you here, knowing you needed clarity.

And it worked - everything is very clear as you stand alone on the street you grew up on, knowing there’s no place for you here.

You’d never built anything here. You hardly had anything to say goodbye to. No friends were blowing up your phone wondering where you’d been. Your parents didn’t even know you had gone in the first place. Even the university, your job, had simply slipped another professor into your place.

But Infracticus… Taehyung… those things fit.

You’d felt it in the way your magic slipped into the cracks of his, how they fused together easily, perfect counterparts.

You’d felt it in the way you could exist together quietly with the waves of the sea crashing just ahead of you.

You’d felt it in the way his hand wrapped around yours, the way he tried to stay a step ahead of you, moving obstacles out of your way.

You’d felt it in his heavy, hooded gaze, in his mouth against your skin, in his useless heartbeat against yours.

You fit next to him. Maybe - with time, with him - you could build something. In fact, you could build a lot of things. If his vision of the future really came to be, you could do a lot, could play a real part in creating something good, something lasting.

All you’d ever done here was daydream about a world you had no place in.

You’ll have a place there now - either leading at Taehyung’s side, or existing under his rule. Neither seems like a bad option.

It doesn’t feel real. But neither did any of it, at first. If things go how you plan, you’ll have plenty of time to adjust.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and check the train schedule, turning on your heel and heading back the way you came.

Unlike when you left Taehyung, you don’t look back. There’s no reason to.

—

You get back to the city in the early afternoon, and you go directly to the university. Dr. Kim looks up calmly when you enter his office, and simply says, “That was faster than I expected.”

You snort, the tension breaking, and he shuffles some papers as you take your usual chair.

“Well?” he asks, not looking up.

“I think you already know,” you say flatly, but he doesn’t hear you, because the sound of your voice is drowned by heavy footsteps and frantic knocking on the already-open door.

Dr. Kim’s eyes twinkle when he spots whoever is behind you, and you whirl in your chair, jaw dropping.

It’s, of course, Prince Taehyung, but he’s flanked by Satuel and Namjoon. All three of them are in jeans, and the sight of the prince dressed like one of the students here would make you laugh out loud if you weren’t so shocked by their presence.

He steps through the doorway, frowning deeply, eyes on you, and says, darkly, “I didn’t fake anything.”

As if this sentence has been itching to burst from him since you laid the accusation at his feet two nights ago, as if he couldn’t take his next breath until he refuted the very idea.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, standing.

“Come in, come in,” Dr. Kim says urgently, “and close that door before someone sees you.”

Maybe someone closes the door. Maybe they leave it open. Maybe a tornado rips through the room and carries everyone else away. You don’t know, because all you can see is Taehyung’s dark eyes, shining with emotion as he chokes out, “How could you just leave?”

“I had some things I needed to figure out,” you murmur.

He steps closer to you, filling the space, and reaches for your hands. “I never faked a thing,” he repeats, like this is the line he rehearsed. “I tried to explain, but you left so fast. My father may have told me he wanted me to pursue you, but all of it was real. I didn’t care about your magic or what you could bring to the family - I just wanted you.”

And, well, you’ve known that all along. But it’s nice to hear him say it.

Your eyes find the floor, head full of all the other things you two need to talk about. “Okay,” you say quietly.

“Okay?” he parrots, an edge to it. “Okay what? Okay, you’ll come back?”

You look up, but not at Taehyung. You look at Namjoon, and then over your shoulder at Dr. Kim. “I have to go back,” you say. “I figured out what we have to do to break the curse for real.”

—

You hate the feeling of everyone’s eyes on you in the crowded room, but now that everyone is settled in and ready to listen, you have no choice but to speak.

“Namjoon is the death magic expert,” you say, shooting him a little sideways glance. “So, chime in if something seems off. But I was looking at what we have… and reading similar cases… and I think we tried to get around the life for a life counter too quickly.”

“No,” Taehyung says immediately. “We’re not ending a life -”

You hold up a hand, silencing him. “It’s not your decision to make,” you say evenly.

His face contorts. “What are you talking about? Of course it is.”

You shake your head. “It’s mine. We’ll end my life - my mortal life.”

You have to clarify it twice to be heard over the outroar. Taehyung damn near stomps his foot with his cry of protest, and Dr. Kim has risen to his feet. Even Satuel looks struck, her eyes uncharacteristically wide.

“You mean,” Namjoon says slowly, the first one to piece together what you’re saying, “you’ll turn?”

You watch his face carefully for any hints at what he’s thinking, how he feels about this news. “It would work, right?” you ask, even though you’re about ninety-two percent sure on your own. “It’ll count as a life ending? Technically?”

He shoots a nervous look at Prince Taehyung, and then at his grandfather, like he’s not sure which one of them will be more infuriated by his answer. “I… I think it should, yes.”

To your right, Taehyung says your name, voice strangled. “That’s the plan?” he asks, as if begging for someone to tell him he’s got it wrong. “I have to turn you during the counter-curse to satisfy the end of life thread?”

You hold his gaze, your stomach knotting, your throat tightening until you can barely breathe. “Will you?” you ask, the words paper-thin.

He shakes his head, but it doesn’t seem like he’s saying no. “And then what?” he demands. “Have you thought about what this would mean?”

“Extensively,” you say flatly.

He looks around the room for help, his expression stricken. None comes.

“You can’t,” he says, imploring. “There are so many things that could go wrong - what if there’s some kind of attack, and I die? What if my father refuses to pass over the crown, and throws us in jail for trying? What if it does go as I’ve planned, but I go to trial and I’m found guilty for what happened the first night of the curse?”

You hear exactly what he’s really asking - What if you give up your entire life here and it turns out to be for nothing?

You frown. “Taehyung, you can’t live your life based on the worst-case scenario. Maybe none of those things will happen. But even if they do… don’t think that my turning has a… a price that you have to fulfill. I’m not turning just so I can be with you.”

His face goes blank. Before you can process what you’ve done wrong, Namjoon beans you in the forehead with an eraser off his grandfather’s desk.

“Say that better,” he instructs.

“Ow!” you protest, but the distraction helps you catch up to the moment. You meet Taehyung’s eyes even as you bend down to pick the eraser up off the floor. “What I mean is,” you say emphatically, “it doesn’t have to be any kind of commitment. I’ll turn because I want to, and because it will save you, and then… we’ll have time - all the time in the world - to see what comes next. Right?”

Taehyung’s jaw clenches and unclenches as he thinks. He looks around again. “Someone else weigh in here,” he begs, finally. “I can’t agree to this, can I? It’s too much.”

“Maybe we should let you talk alone?” Namjoon suggests, and you look at him, full of gratitude. But, of course, he’s been there all alone, has seen what was happening between you and Taehyung long before you were willing to admit it yourself.

“I’ll take you to the staff room for coffee,” Dr. Kim tells his grandson. “You can catch me up on the situation. But Prince Taehyung’s guard really ought to stay close to him.”

Satuel nods smartly. “I can stand in the hall,” she says, and you fight back a smile, knowing she’s choosing to give you a little privacy.

When they’re gone, Taehyung sags, letting himself sink into the misery of the situation.

“This is not a sacrifice I can allow you to make,” he tells you, eyes round, mouth pulling down unhappily at each corner.

You lean back against Dr. Kim’s desk, considering your words. “It’s not so much of a sacrifice,” you try to explain. “You’d be giving me something, not taking anything away.”

He watches you carefully as he says, “But you couldn’t come back. I mean - for a long time, as you adjust. And then, after, only at certain times, with permission… you’d give up this whole world?”

“Those permitted visits over an immortal life will probably add up to be more time here than I would have had normally,” you point out. “Just not all at once. And maybe, when I come visit… you could come with me?”

He doesn’t speak, just holds your gaze and nods tightly.

You shrug, toying at your bottom lip. “Then that’s already better than what I have now.”

He crosses to you, then, taking you in his arms, and you let him. You allow yourself just one second to be scared and unsure, and then you lean back to look up at him. “I want to do this,” you promise. “No matter what happens after. Even if you decide I’m boring and you fall in love with someone else and -”

He scowls. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, smiling a little. “Even if the worst happens - whatever version of the worst you want - I still choose this.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he admits. “I don’t know if I can hurt you like that.”

“I’ll be okay,” you promise, though this is the part that’s scary - the turning process. “I’ll be okay, because I know you’ll be there. I know you’ll take care of me.”

“Yes,” he pouts, “but who will take care of me while I’m panicking over you?”

“Namjoon,” you say sagely, pleased when a laugh rips through him, rumbling in his chest.

He sighs. “We’ll be okay?” he asks.

You don’t think he means individually. But you include it in your answer when you squeeze your arms around and say, confidently, “We will. I know we will.”

He leans down to kiss you, softly at first, his lips light against yours. Then, more firmly. You melt against him, happy to be held, happy to be loved, happy to see a solution shimmering in the distance.

“You know,” he says softly, when he pulls away, “I don’t want to add any weight to this… we can see what happens after, like you said. But… I consider you my intended. That’s just… that’s how I feel.”

A shiver runs through you, thrilling and terrifying both at once. “There’s time for that after,” you say, accidentally repeating what Namjoon had told you once. “I promise.”

—

Taehyung and Satuel leave first, though she practically has to drag him.

“Promise you’re following us,” he demands on his way out.

You laugh. “As soon as we nail down this countercurse, we’ll head straight to the Ostium.”

“Don’t even stop for food,” he warns, but you know it’s a joke. Or, partly a joke.

“Not even fries?”

He considers this, then turns to Satuel. “Actually, can we stop for fries?”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on. You need to be back before midnight.”

This sobers everyone.

“Perhaps for the last time,” you say hopefully.

“Don’t say that if you aren’t sure,” Taehyung says darkly, and then kisses you goodbye, right in front of everyone, like he doesn’t even care.

“I love you,” he says, low, and you feel it down to your toes. “Don’t do anything foolish until you’re back with me.”

“Roger that,” you try to smile.

Satuel and Taehyung disappear down the hallway, so lightning quick that you can’t even watch them walk away.

Dr. Kim goes to start a pot of coffee.

Namjoon gives you a wry, knowing smile, and begins to organize paper and pens.

The three of you work all night, and it’s after four in the morning when you finally sit back, set down your pen, and declare it ready.

—

It’s still before sunrise when you pass through the Ostium, pausing to bandage up your hands after crossing - you were prepared, this time.

It’s clear right away that something is very wrong; not only is Satuel not there to pick you up, as agreed upon before she left, but the Ostium isn’t even manned. The whole building is empty, your footsteps echoing as you cross to the door leading out into Infracticus.

Your heart racing, you turn to look at Namjoon. It’s clear he’s thinking the same thing.

“What the -?” you start, as you step out of the Ostium into the pre-dawn purple. A coach is parked there, a team of amarisca hitched and ready to go.

Beside you, Namjoon shouts, already starting to run. Too late, you see the prone body on the ground, on the other side of the carriage.

“Satuel,” you manage, covering your mouth in horror, as you round the corner and spot her. Namjoon crouches, holding her up. Thick, viscous sangru - what Infracti have instead of blood pumping through their bodies - pools around her, as black as her eyes. It looks like an oil spill around her. You spy a gash on her neck, but there must be more.

“The palace,” she gasps, her wild eyes finding yours. “The prince.”

“Go,” Namjoon instructs. “I’ll stay here, I’ll help her -”

You don’t wait for the rest. You tear around the side of the carriage and start fumbling with the clasps of the first amarisca until it’s free from the rest of the team.

You turn back to where Namjoon is still cradling Satuel’s unmoving body. “The prince has a private stable at the beach,” you call to him frantically. “Get her there - I’ll send help as soon as I can.”

Namjoon nods in understanding, his face drawn and desperate, and you dig your hands deep in the amarisca’s mane and throw a leg over, urging it to move, clinging tightly as it begins its rocking gait over the road leading to the palace doors.

The palace looms in the distance, and you urge the amarisca to go faster, squeezing your calves and whispering pleas, though the latter does nothing for you. It seems like it’s not even getting closer, though the trees stream by you on either side.

Please let him be okay, you think as you frantically ride. It’s almost dawn - he would just be coming out of the curse, any second now. If the palace is under attack, would it be a hindrance or a help for him to be only beast?

Finally, the palace seems to grow in size, looming over you as the road curves around an approach.

You’re knocked from the amarisca’s back so quickly that you don’t have time to register what happened, hitting the ground with an unattractive grunt as all the breath is knocked from your lungs.

“Fuck!” you scream, as soon as you can inhale, pounding a fist against the dirt, because you failed, didn’t even make it to the palace, and now you’re going to die at the hands of some random Infracti, at the side of the road -

“Shut up,” the Infracti hisses, tugging at your arm, and you go limp because you think you might recognize his voice.

“S-Seokjin?” you whimper, turning to see if you’re right. You are, but he doesn’t answer you as he pulls you swiftly away from the road. Now you’re less sure you’re about to die, but it’s unclear.

“Listen,” he says, quietly, tugging you behind some brush and crouching. You follow his lead, eyes wide. “We’ve got about thirty of us infiltrating the castle. Probably a few teams are already in. They’re going after the royal family - that’s their only goal.”

“You’re - what?” you stammer.

“Focus,” he snaps. “I’ll help how I can, but I’m not going to out myself, and neither will Jungkook. Get in there, find Taehyung, and get him out. I don’t care where you go with him - just out of the palace. Don’t worry about the King and Queen, protect Taehyung. Can you do that, witch?”

You nod, unable to speak, mind already flying through your memories of the palace corridors, trying to think of the fastest way to the rooms where Taehyung spends his cursed nights.

“Go,” he urges you, releasing your arm. “I’ll cover your back as best I can until you’re inside.”

“Thanks,” you let out hollowly, taking a steadying breath. And then you run.

—

The first set of doors you come across is locked from inside, but you press your hands to the metal mechanism and call for all the magic you can reach until you hear gears turning, and - finally - a telling click.

You let yourself inside and quickly scan the corridor. It’s deserted - which is honestly a bad sign. The guards are somewhere else, which means there’s already trouble somewhere else.

You jog, making sure to peer around every corner, knowing that if any of the Score soldiers hear your heartbeat or smell your blood it’ll be over before you can even fight it. But there’s not much you can do, and you’ll be safer once you find Taehyung, so you hurry on until you reach the wing where he spends his nights.

You hear voices before you see them, but you round a corner to find a crowd of guards - Taehyung’s guards. He’s standing at the far side of the group, dictating orders. Over their heads, he spots you, does a double take. You watch him close his eyes for the barest second, relief clear on his face, and then he’s waving you over even as he continues speaking to the Infracti closest to him.

“Change of plans,” he’s saying as you approach, breathless. “The ten of you, join that group, get my parents to the safe room.”

“But, Maiesti, that leaves you without -”

“I don’t need you,” he says, sure, looking at you. “Not now that she’s here. My parents are sitting ducks. My venefici can fight with me.”

A few Infracti call out orders, and they separate into three groups, filtering out of the hallway in waves, leaving you and the prince quite alone.

“Did you just send away all of your guards?” you ask, horrified.

“My parents need them more,” he says, tone steely. “I’m not going to run - I’m going to take out as many of them as I can. Will you stay and fight with me? ”

“Taehyung,” you say frantically, trying to break through his resolve and get him to hear you. “They got Satuel - I had Namjoon take her to Potato’s stable, but it looked really bad.”

He stands there, frozen, caught between fighting for his family or saving his trusted guard. You know what choice you’d make, but you wait silently, anxiously shifting from foot to foot, and let him get there by himself.

“Alright,” he says finally, clearly displeased. “Fastest way to the stables is through here.”

—

Taehyung gets what he wants anyway. You hardly get anywhere before stumbling across a pack of the Scores.

They’re ready for you - five of them, all crouched defensively - likely heard your traitorous human heartbeat. But they don’t know who you are; they don’t know what you can do.

You send a blast towards their feet, which knocks three of them onto their backs. Beside you, Taehyung moves like liquid, in a way you’ve never seen before, a dark blur vanishing from your side and reappearing down the corridor, locked hand-in-hand with one of them, snarling viciously as they clash.

You can’t just stand and watch; the second Infracti you’d left standing is zipping towards you, a flash of motion, and you throw a wall up around yourself. He hits it with a sickening crunch before falling to the ground. Down the corridor, Taehyung seems to have finished off the one he was wrestling with, and is now rolling over a second man, fangs bared and black with sangru, growls and snarls rippling out of both of them.

You can’t watch, can’t keep an eye on him, because the two remaining Scores are up and they are pissed. You don’t have a single second to think, you can only react. You throw a hand towards the ceiling, shouting the spell you’ve favored since the beginning, and a large chunk of stone falls with a boom that rattles your bones, nearly knocking you off your feet. Dust flies into the air, and you shield your eyes, coughing a little.

You take stock of the situation as soon as you can see again. You only got one of them with the chunk of ceiling, and you can hear Taehyung still fighting on the other side of the unsettled dust. Which means there’s still one -

He’s on you. You don’t even know which direction he came from, but you’re on the ground and he’s snarling over top of you, fingers digging into your upper arms, black eyes narrowed in effort, fangs bared.

You kick and buck, trying to get free enough that you can use your hands and try to throw a spell, but nothing works.

“Taehyung!” you scream, and then the weight is off of you - as if the Infracti was never there. You sit up, frantically, and then you find him - rolling in battle just feet away, snarling and snapping at a sandy-haired body that growls loudly back.

Jimin.

You run for Taehyung, but he meets you halfway, hands reaching for yours desperately. There’s a smear of sangru down his face, but he seems okay.

“Jimin,” you pant, pointing behind you, and Taehyung vanishes into a flash of color again, rushing to help his friend.

By the time you reach them, it’s over. The Infracti that had pinned you lies still on the ground, his head at an angle that makes your stomach lurch.

“You have to get out,” Jimin blurts. “They’re here for you, they only want you.”

“We’re going,” you say, trying to give Taehyung a tug. He doesn’t budge. A growl rumbles from his chest, but it’s subdued. He’s not fighting, just frustrated.

“I know you want to fight,” you say, still tugging, “but Satuel -”

“Shhh,” Jimin says suddenly, holding up a hand.

You freeze, listening.

They’re already here.

They come in that formless blur of color, surrounding the three of you and stilling, their bodies filtering back into view.

Everyone is moving at once. It’s impossible to keep track of anyone, friend or foe. All you can do is try not to become anyone’s prey.

You choose a direction and slam a burst of magic at them. It knocks two of them back, but there are more coming for you.

Your fear gets the better of you; you forego defensive walls and arc your hand over your head, shouting a spell that’s meant to cut, one of the few offensive moves you’d practiced what feels like ages ago.

Time slows as you watch black sungru spurts from an Infracti’s chest, her eyes rolling back as she staggers to her knees before dropping.

Another Infracti flies towards you, lightning fast, face contorted, fangs ready. Somebody tugs you out of the way, and you stumble after them, getting it together enough to throw up a wall between you and the attack.

You glance backwards enough to see that it’s Jungkook who saved you, but you can’t dwell on it. Just ahead of you, Jimin’s raking his teeth across someone’s neck, sangru bubbling down their throat in the wake of his fangs. He drops the body unceremoniously and launches himself at another.

You look around frantically, trying to find Taehyung. You don’t find him before you’re grabbed from behind. You scream, feeling fingertips digging painfully into your upper arms. You throw your head back as hard as you can and hear the crunch as you make contact.

You spin around wildly, throwing a blast that sends your assailant flying across the corridor. He crumples to the ground, and you turn away, going back to your search for Taehyung.

You spot him just as one of the Scores leaps onto his back, the same way they’d done to you moments ago. Taehyung twists in the other man’s grasp and gives a brutal kick; the Score staggers away and Taehyung launches himself at his attacker, knocking them both to the ground. When Taehyung bares his fangs and lowers his head, you look away. But you still hear the scream cut short into a feeble gurgle.

To your left, Jimin is grappling with one of them, their hands locked. You throw a protective wall around yourself and inch closer, trying to determine if you can help without hurting Jimin, too.

Jimin spots you, his eyes widening.

“Back up!” you yell, trying to make your way closer.

His face goes taut and he gives you a nod, understanding what you mean to do. He gives the Infracti he’s fighting a mighty shove, successfully putting a few feet between them.

You attack instantly, before the gap can be filled, sending a blast so strong that it knocks Jimin backwards, too. He lands gracefully, having only been grazed, and gets up quickly, looking between you and the Score you’d just flattened against the stone wall.

“Nice shot,” he breathes.

“Help Taehyung,” you answer, panting.

You both take off down the hall to where you’d last seen the prince. He and Jungkook stand alone, two more bodies motionless on the ground between them. They’re both breathing hard.

“We have to go,” Taehyung manages, as soon as he spots you.

Jimin steps towards Jungkook and for a second you panic, thinking he doesn’t know that Jungkook is on your side, but instead of fighting they seem to hug - clasping the back of each other’s necks and pressing their foreheads together for one breathless second before breaking apart again.

“Stay safe,” Jungkook says. It comes out like a warning.

“You, too,” Taehyung says, and steps past you, grabbing for your hand as he goes. “We’re almost out - let’s move.”

—

Day is breaking in full when you finally breach the palace’s walls.

“Hurry,” you say needlessly, rushing to the stone stairs that lead down to Taehyung’s private stable. You hope Namjoon made it there, you hope Satuel is still hanging on.

You’re shaking so bad that you miss a step, adrenaline wreaking havoc on your systems. You catch yourself on the banister and continue on, Taehyung and Jimin right behind you.

There are no guards at the stable, and you burst through the door in a rush. Namjoon jumps to his feet, a rake in his hands like a weapon.

“It’s us, it’s us,” you blurt out, trying to look past him. “Is she - are we in time?”

“I really don’t know,” Namjoon admits, lowering the rake and letting you all inside. Jimin closes the door carefully, locking it from the inside.

You make your way into the empty space beside Potato’s stall, where Satuel’s body lies. She’s unmoving; it doesn’t seem like she knows you’re there.

“Okay, Healer,” you say, looking at Taehyung.

He kneels by his guard’s side, examining the places where she was ripped open. He shakes his head. “This requires more than I’m capable of.”

You step closer, kneeling beside him. “What if I help?” you suggest.

He looks at you, something unreadable flashing across his face. “You think you could?”

You nod. “If we merge magical signatures, the way we did for the ritual? You should be able to pull from my power - borrowing from me. I’ll be like… a battery?”

He smiles despite the desperate situation.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s try - we’ve no time to spare.”

You settle onto your bottom on the dirty, wooden floor. Taehyung takes your hand, and you close your eyes and focus on your breathing, inhaling and exhaling as slowly as you can with fear still running rampant through your system.

After a few minutes - admittedly longer than normal - you feel your magic rise up inside you, warm and soothing and ready. You feel the familiar sensation of it reaching for Taehyung’s magic, little tentative tendrils poking around until they find the empty spaces between his.

The feeling when the two magical signatures meet and accept each other is euphoric, and you fight not to lose yourself in it, to stay focused.

Beside you, Taehyung starts running his hands over the visible gashes, the places where it seems like chunks are missing. The skin stitches itself back together easily under his touch, but you can tell it isn’t enough. Satuel doesn’t stir, her unfocused eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above you.

You can feel it, the exact moment when what he’s trying to do becomes too much for Taehyung’s magic. It pulls on yours sharply, an alarming sensation behind your ribcage.

You inhale. You exhale. You don’t fight it. You let him tug magic from you, you tell your systems that you trust him with all of it.

Taehyung doesn’t give up, keeping his hands above Satuel’s undead heart, letting your magics both flow into her, fixing what’s been broken, restarting what’s shut itself down.

She blinks - that’s the first sign. Her eyes blink once and then focus on Taehyung, and then slide shut. They stay shut, which alarms you, but then you see her fingers twitch.

“Your Majesty,” she breathes, eyes still closed. You sag with relief, and you feel your magical connection to Taehyung untangle, your magic curling back up inside you, tendrils coiling back up and retreating.

Taehyung closes his own eyes, but he doesn’t release your hand. Behind you, you hear Namjoon press closer.

“Rest,” Taehyung says. “All of you. We should be safe here. Rest.”

You settle in on the floor, backs against the wooden walls of the stable, eyes on the door. You listen to the ocean pound the shore outside, listen for the cries of gulls to warn of danger. Namjoon sits to your right, his tight gaze on the door. Prince Taehyung crouches to your left, ready to spring to his feet.

It’s over an hour before Taehyung’s guards find you, inform him that the palace is clear.

“My parents?” Taehyung asks, standing and brushing hay and dirt from his pants.

“The King and Queen are perfectly alright,” the guard tells him with a quick bow.

Taehyung straightens beside you, and you recognize him in royal mode, even before his voice comes out cold and controlled. “Very well. I need Satuel to be taken to the Elders for proper healing. And tomorrow morning I’ll be having an audience with my father and the curse-breakers. Please inform him.”

The guard bows again and backs out of the doorway, probably to go get backup to help move Satuel’s weakened body. You look at Taehyung quizzically, but you don’t feel afraid, not with his hand still in yours.

He meets your gaze evenly. “A year ago,” he says, still cold, which means he’s scared, “my father made me some promises, and broke them. Tomorrow, he’s going to make me a few more - and you’re going to help me make sure he can’t break them again.”

<- Prev | Next ->

!!!!! I can't believe there's only two more after this!!!! It's all coming to a close!!

thank you so much for reading!!! chapter 15 will go up next week as planned!

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aurumacadicus · 4 months

Note

23 for the ficlet

Came back wrong werewolf Steve <3

The last thing that Howard ever said to him was 'I'm sorry.' Or at least, that was the last thing Steve had understood.

The transformation hadn't been finished, apparently. Steve's body hadn't finished changing until he'd been in stasis under ice water. The lupine serum had taken deeper hold as he'd floated, unconscious, until he was found and thawed and more wolf than man. Peggy couldn't even look at him. That was when Howard admitted he should have left him in the ocean.

Steve didn't remember much after that. He suspected the rage and confusion in him was too much. He'd attacked. He'd tried to rend. He'd gotten his claws in Howard's leg. Peggy had shot him, and her husband had used Steve's own shield to club him in the head and knock him out.

Now he ran in a forest. He killed and ate things warm and bloody. He chased off bears and other wolves. Sometimes, on the coldest, loneliest nights, he wished he'd been left in the ocean. At least he'd been unconscious. Maybe, after the transformation had finished, he would have even died. Now he healed within minutes, even after being shot in the chest.

Peggy had shot him in the chest, he sang to the moon mournfully.

He was aware enough that he knew the territory he called his own actually belonged to Howard. A misguided attempt to make up for not letting him die a hero. A desperate attempt to protect humans from him by erecting tall no-trespassing fences. Steve eventually decided he was fine with that. Howard would have done it even if he protested, and at least this way, he didn't have to try and be Steve Rogers. He wasn't Steve Rogers anymore. He was a monster. He couldn't even go completely human anymore.

So Steve was aware the moment someone had stepped into his territory. He didn't understand. No one had come into it before. Even Howard had stood outside the fence to observe him. And they weren't bothering to be quiet, either.

Someone was wounded, maybe. He could smell the iron tang of blood in the air. Pained yelps. A wounded pup? the wolf part of him thought. Perhaps whoever was trespassing was trying to hide from a greater danger?

Then there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh, another yelp, more blood on the wind, and his legs were moving before the fact that the injured party was being attacked again in his territory even registered.

The emblems on the uniforms the men were wearing shocked him to a stop. A skull. Six tentacles curled beneath it. Hydra. He felt a rush of heat, rage flushing through his body, quickly replaced by cold, calculating fury as he realized he hadn't wiped out Hydra in the war. They were still around. And he was just out here, howling at the moon and eating deer when he could have been crushing the bones of Hydra between his teeth instead. A growl rumbled from his chest, out his curled lips. The group turned as one.

His eyes locked with brown ones, and Steve snarled, hackles rising, teeth bared. Challenger, his wolf brain growled. Him first.

The man dropped his eyes quickly, as if realizing the danger he'd put himself in. Then, he lunged away from the rest of the group, tripping over his feet and onto the dirt. Foolish, Steve thought, muscles coiling, ready to leap.

The man grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his head, before he dropped onto his back, hands up near his head.

Submitting, the wolf in Steve realized with approval. Flashing his belly and its soft innards on display for him to choose whether to bite through or leave alone. Deferring to a more powerful wolf. His sharp eyes caught bruises along the man's side, a split lip and black eye. A bloody nose. A victim of Hydra.

Hydra, the wolf in him roared, enraged again, and Steve barely felt the heat of the bullets cutting through them as the rest of the group opened fire on him. He needed to rend. To tear. To bite and claw and kill and kill and kill because Hydra needed to die and die and die

Human blood didn't taste any different from deer blood, Steve thought, finally licking his chops. Coppery. Hot. But he didn't have any inclination to eat them like he did the deer. Just kill. That was all Hydra was good for, he thought. Killing.

The man who had submitted was still trembling on the ground. Some of the blood had splattered over him when Steve had bitten and torn. His eyes were wide, showing the whites all the way around, but he had the wherewithal to turn his gaze away when he realized Steve was looking at him.

A clever man, Steve thought with approval. He stepped closer, sniffing along the man's side to gather his scent. The man giggled reluctantly as Steve's wet nose trailed along his ribs. He smelled familiar. Like hot metal that had nothing to do with the blood trailing from his nose and lip. Steve found it in himself to shift, front paws turning to sharp-clawed hands, fur shortening, mouth shaping differently. He slid his hand over the man's soft belly, considering.

The man shivered, but he kept his eyes carefully downcast as he whispered, "W-what are you doing?"

Steve pressed his other paw--his hand. To the man's face. The man's exhale shook against his palm, but he turned, greedily leaning into his warm skin. He was cold. He didn't have a fur coat to keep him warm. A cold spring night in the New York woods was no place to be without a heavy coat.

"S. Steve-?" the man asked, more breath than air. "Steve Rogers?"

The man recognized him. Steve wondered at that. The only people who knew he was here was SHIELD.

Or. Steve remembered curious eyes in the window of Howard's car the last time he had been to visit. That had been years ago, though. He hadn't seen Howard since.

"Stark?" he rasped, voice rough from disuse. That would explain why Hydra was after him. If he was even half as smart as Howard, he would have been an asset to them.

He was Steve's now, though. He would protect the man with his life. He had submitted, had given Steve the choice of rending his tender belly open, had trusted him not to. Even Peggy hadn't trusted him enough to offer her hand for him to sniff, and here this man was, letting him snuffle along the soft, pale skin, as if he'd known the submission would convince Steve not to kill him. As if he'd expected it, instead of hoped.

"I'm Tony," the man offered, carefully lifting a hand to cover Steve's against his cheek. "You know my dad."

Steve didn't know Howard. Not really. He'd learned more about him as a wolf than he had the entire war. He curled his hand over Tony's hip, angling his body closer. He knew more about Tony now, here, the way he thought, how Hydra wanted him and he'd calculated he'd be better off with Steve, even if Steve decided to kill him. He had to admire Tony's thought process. Better dead under Steve's claws than under Hydra's thumb.

"Steve," Tony whispered, finally daring to look up at him, eyes darting to meet his and then away, as if afraid he still might challenge him. "What... what are you doing?"

"You're mine," Steve couldn't help but growl, more wolf than man no matter how hard he tried to be human. "You submitted to me."

Tony met his eyes at that, startled. "I... You can't be serious, Steve, I'm--"

"Mine," Steve growled, curling his hand over Tony's hip so his claws dug in lightly, just enough to remind him they were there and that Steve not using them was a choice. "You're mine."

"Okay," Tony whispered, other hand reaching down to cover the one on his hip. He was starting to shake. "Okay, Steve."

It was too cold for him out here, Steve figured. He cast a glance at the Hydra bodies, confirming what he already knew--their clothes were too shredded to wrap Tony up in. Not that he ever would have. His mate deserved better than Hydra scraps.

He turned back to Tony, leaning down to drag his tongue over the blood spatter across his collarbone. He didn't need Hydra's blood on him, either.

"Oh," Tony gasped, hands gripping Steve tighter, and Steve couldn't help a rumble of approval. Tony seemed smart. Capable. He must have known Steve had just enough humanity left in him to tell friend from Hydra. Steve would do him proud as a protector and mate.

#aurumacadicus answers #anon #1-161 stony ficlet challenge #stony

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hearted-anon · 2 months

Text

Mr Rich Man

Words: 1075

Notes: for @hi-im-1niki1-minaj333mwah love you <3

T/w: none, all soft tickling

Lee: Know

Ler(s): Jisung and Felix

Lee Know sighed beside the brownie boy as the beeps of the recording sounded throughout the dorms, failing to get the steps to this Tiktok again. Felix snickered beside him, trying his utmost best to get him to at least like the music in the background, but it was much more difficult than it seemed. After all, who would like this stupid annoying cat song continuously playing in his ears like a cartoon intro?

Jisung frowned behind the camera as his head cracked for ways to make this more enjoyable than it was, watching the cats struggle in front of him as their moves went out of coordination, their aegyo would feel too forced or they just simply forgot to start on time. Humming in thought, he eventually settled for faking some funny scenarios from the top of his head.

Right in the middle of their filming.

Abruptly, their moves paused as they watched the quokka pretend to fence in the background, before bursting into laughter. Their backs bended forwards as their fists clenched trying to hold in their laughter, reaching for the pause button to end their embarrassing bout of laughter. But as Jisung aided them in ending another failed shot, he noticed Felix’s eyes settled on Minho’s through his chuckles.

“W-What?” Lee Know got out through ragged breaths, noticing two pairs of sunshine-like eyes boring into him, sending a shiver of anxiety down his spine. Was he not meant to laugh? Had he done something wrong yet again?

“I want to hear that laugh again, come here hyung!” Felix yelled like a war cry before pouncing onto the older kitten, securing his place on his thighs. He craved- no, needed, that rich laughter he swore that could heal all his wounds immediately. Jisung, as curious as he was, waddled over to the duo where a very feisty cat was struggling to push the brownie boy off; he had his mind set on that goal and was going to achieve it, no. matter. what.

“G-Get away from ME! F-Fehehelix!” Minho shrieked, before fingers descended onto his stomach, tensed up into a row of abs that were practically begging to be wrecked. Squeezing and poking along the muscles softly, the Aussie’s eyes widened at the precious laughter and soft giggles that poured from the cat’s mouth, more than adoring it. Han eventually made his way over, squeezing his fingers into the oldest of the trio’s neck to wiggle and gently scribble along it.

“So cute! Why haven’t you told us you can laugh like this?!” Jisung fawned, eyes softening in love for the older’s laugh, deep and almost like it was rich in love and everything he could ever look for in life; the sunshine duo definitely planned on doing this more often. Meanwhile, the poor dancer was unable to find a singular exit out, cheeks beginning to redden under the continuous soft tickles.

“S-Stahahap it! Yohohou brahahats- eheheh!” Minho whined, covering up his stomach while his shoulders glued themselves to his ears. However, the sunshines simply opted for finding other spots to torment, Lix’s tiny fingers worming themselves through the kitten’s arms to his sides, poking and scratching the area ever so gently. Jisung scratched at the nape of his neck, blowing cold air into his ear to earn a hiccup.

“Nah ah ah~ That laughter is too cute to stop just yet~” Jisung taunted, whispering right into the oldest’s sensitive ears to watch them burn a bright red. They watched as if they were in love with the cat they had caught with all the noises they were hearing, the usually stoic cat now reduced to heaps of sweet, almost sugary giggles as they would put it; they were addicted to it and would never not be able to get enough of it.

“We aren’t brats, we love you hyung~” Felix cooed, leaning down to nuzzle his head against the oldest, earning a panicked snort. Just like that, they both froze in their tracks, staring down at the reddening dancer. It was rare to ever see him blush this hard under anyone younger than him, usually only giving into his fate when a sneaky leader would come to hunt him down; which more than often he avoided.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Lee Know barked, almost…upset that they stopped. A pout began to form on his lower lip, brows furrowing before his fists tugged and pulled at the Aussie’s fingers on his sides, which had completely frozen from the pig-like snort. Jisung too, had quit his gentle yet torturous assault on the poor boy, making him take his tantrum even further. As if they could read his mind, the sunshines smirked towards each other telepathically.

“You want us to continue?” Jisung chimed, with a knowing smile on his face. Although Minho knew they were genuinely trying to reassure him of his boundaries; they knew how sensitive and upset the cat could be when his boundaries were overstepped, he continued to pout, feeling his heart sink when the fingers refused to move. Taking in a deep sigh, Felix pinched up and down his sides once more, earning another adorable snort when Han massaged his shoulder blades.

“Ahahah- I-It tickles!” Minho whimpered, stamping his feet onto the wooden floor in a futile attempt to relieve the joyous sensations he loved so much. The sunshines hearts melted at this, what wasn’t to like about a grumpy cat being cheered up with smiles, snorts and giggles?! Leaning in, their heads clashed slightly as they nuzzled around in the oldest’s neck, pulling him to sit up to allow easier access.

“Really? How much from 1 to 10?” Felix teased with a soft smile.

“Are you happy now hyung?” Jisung inquired with a dimpled grin.

“Tehehehen! Y-Yehehes! Eek!” Minho could just feel his face practically being set on fire, the tender fingers that made sure his body was handled as if made of glass melting his entire mind; he couldn’t even register those words into his puddle of a brain that whatever the sunshines were spewing were meant to fluster him. Seeing that they have very much killed their hyung’s ability to think, both Jisung and Felix let up, rubbing at his chest and back in soothing circles as the cat laid still, only that same, deep, rich and happy laughter flowing from his mouth mindlessly.

“How about we try that Tiktok again now that you’re smiling hyung?”

#..?#skz tickle #stray kids tickle #kpop tickle #lee! know #lee! minho #ler felix #ler Jisung #ler han #ler han jisung

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spoiled-fawn · 6 months

Text

Lust by Nature {Part 1}

Masterlist, Part 2, Part 3

Read on ao3

Pairing: Captain John Price x fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, (eventual) slightly dubious consent, (eventual) Somno, he wants you but is stubborn, violence, succubus reader, sexual tension, reader is given a callsign, minimal descriptions of reader, will update tags as I go

Word Count: 4,015

Summary: A demon by nature; a succubus. Now finally designated to a team, you’re a pilot in how demons and hybrid creatures alike can change the war. However, your previous commanders didn't account for a man too stubborn for his own good. Captain Price stands firm in his morals and ethics, developed by his hardened years in the SAS. You, a lustful little devil, will put him to the test.

And maybe along the way, he’ll put your nature to the test.

A/N: For my own logistics, reader was born seemingly human but the traits and magic did not solidify until reaching adult years, making you appear youthful while stuck in that age. This was originally going to be PWP but I sit here 20k words later... I hope ye enjoy!

Being a far descendant of a fallen angel, you could laugh at the pitiful life you’ve led yourself into.

You’re a pretty thing- beautiful, really. Full of allure and a natural aura of sin that draws others in with a simple look. The blood that pumps and fuels your magic has been alive for a long, long time.

Boredom is a constant in the life of the soulless and damned. It’s agonizingly blurry if you don't set a task or just choose to meander around the world but fortunately for you, you’ve got quite the life ahead of you.

Coming from a state-of-the-art high-security prison base, you’re technically a super soldier with a special drawback. Needing humans to fuel your power; you suck the life out of them, literally, and take energy from their sexual desires and touch.

It’s almost the brunt of the joke when you answer the question of what you are, feeling each time such an expectant shame and laugh to be cast upon you like heavy stones.

A succubus.

Long-acting jester of the demons taken for a lust-driven fool.

Being detained early on in your young lifespan, you were trained to be used as a weapon. Not of mass destruction, but rather something to make these stupid games of war go by so much easier. Not having to slay countless bodies for information and getting a damn good meal from the lives you stole (maybe a few quickies when your superiors weren’t looking), it’s a considerably content life compared to others.

Graduating from training after a few decades was quite the celebration for you and the officials who have been overseeing you for a plethora of years. The military had found a suitable team for you, and you were designated to be put under the supervision of an elite task force.

Supernatural beings were not uncommon in the military, as a large amount were free to live their lives if docile. In the lands of gods and monsters, the humans still held supreme reign over the controlled populations. However, beings similar to you were quick to be captured and either trained or distributed- the world turning a blind eye to what you were capable of achieving in the good and the bad.

John Price. The name stuck to your tongue like you were thirsty and you had a thick paste in your mouth.

No, not semen. At least not yet.

Being appointed to Task Force 141 was exciting. It’s your first time with this much trust, but you know you’d never fuck around too much to land you back to your containment. Captain Price had steely eyes locked onto your form the moment you stepped out of the convoy; high-security cuffs around your wrists and a large band of metal wrapped around your torso. The assumption is to keep you from shapeshifting or lashing out at anyone now that you’re out from the heavy locks and fences.

To everyone else, you looked human. Nothing amiss besides the heavy security detail on your body.

“Captain Price.” Your General’s voice rings out for you, greeting him with a firm handshake.

“General, pleasure.” His eyes dart away from you to greet the man, and you take a small dissatisfaction at the notion, your eyes traversing the expanse of him, already ruminating and calculating his presence.

He’s strong. His energy is sturdy; A cement wall that has cracks laced upon itself, layers of bonding to cover them up and just barely sanded over to appear brand new. His physical appearance leaves your internal senses giddy with the sense of a new adventure. If you’d release your glamour illusion, your tail would be swaying slowly.

The contract was simple; Your powers would be used in specific operations under Price’s command. You were his, and his only, not being allowed to act under any other authority. Behave well and you’ll be integrated more into society by his terms, but the worse you were, the worse your containment.

Your payment? Being able to form a bond with Price, one that will satisfy your demon, while being sure to keep you useful.

The etymology humans created portrayed a slew of differing conditions for succubi contracts, most being a damning thing to land humans a hot spot in hell. Being able to create this tie meant that they’d be your selected mate while they’d bear your mark to ward off any other demons. Under this, it barricaded you from killing said person. Instead, the feeding would come from sexual desire, touch, and yes, semen.

Watching Price, the flames of your creation begin to already yearn for his touch.

It's with a simple handoff of your file, a thick manilla envelope, that gets passed off to Price with no other words spoken, and you can’t help but marvel at how they treat your ownership like a back alley drug. The General nods towards you, speaking your name before the simple “But we just call her Little Devil.” A small twitch of Price's mouth makes you wonder if he disapproves.

“She may be a demon but keep her well-kept, Price. Your trial run in this program is going to do more than change war tactics.”

Shifting the envelope in his hands, Price takes a survey of how much documentation they have on just your captive existence. There could be some good and some bad, maybe all bad but the chance of letting a temperamental half-demon could cause serious repercussions to both sides. Hypothetically.

“We’ll be in touch.” Price responds, the forced-looking grin making the blue of his eyes slightly disappear for a moment. A nod of his head, then attention back on you while judging how to best go about this.

“You speak…?”

It sets a bristle off inside you with an internal scoff. The chance to insult him for accusing you of being either incompetent or something of the silent type settles, but your probation period keeps you inside the lines of behavior. “Yes, Captain.”

When he hears your voice; It sounds ethereal. Like the crisp jingle bells while the sound is eclipsed if not swallowed by soft and red velvet.

A small tick of his right eyebrow was the only movement accompanying a hum in acknowledgment. “Right, well. Let’s get you settled in then.”

With the queue of acceptance, the General brings a small key from a pocket unbeknownst to you, moving to unlock the cuffs. There’s humor in watching you, the new operator being uncuffed while accepted onto base- and hey, maybe you could ponder the religious message it brings forward too.

But there’s not enough time for that notion.

Walking off the tarmac and into the nearby administrative building brings steady heed of stares. “So… Your previous situation. Was told it was more of a containment type of thing. Would you mind speaking on that?” Price’s toned-down voice comes out after more than a few paces into the building, leading you towards a stairwell into the third floor.

“The best way to describe it in normalcy would be similar to what you human soldiers do here- the barracks. Just imagine its very high security.” It takes a moment to draw up the answer, having expected the man to be as nitwitted as the normal “A sex demon, huh?” question asked in every new encounter.

“You’ve always been in that situation?”

The clicking of both sets of feet confidently strikes the ground. A sense louder than the random soldiers milling around you and the lack thereof as others stop and stare in bewilderment.

“No. Not sure if you’re making small talk or haven’t read my file yet, but my demonic integration did not start manifesting until I was in my early adult years. Got turned in when I was walking around the streets in full form. No control whatsoever on shifting.”

A broken-off hum leaves the man, sensing the almost frazzled static around him as he works to keep walking while maintaining an eye on you. “I have. Just wanted to hear it from you.” Truthfully, if you were in his place with an unshackled demon that had years of military experience walking alongside you, you’d have some sense of fear too. “And how long ago was that? When you matured?”

Eyeing him for a moment, he looks mid-40s if anything. Handsome, worn down from war so possibly a bit younger. “Quite some time ago. I’d say when your parents were born, Captain.”

He stops in a mid-step, balances perfectly set before turning to whirr his head at you. Eyes give an up-down motion on you before ticking his jaw. “Huh.”

He pushes his way through a wall of soldiers to an office door before opening it. “And how old-”

“Body stopped aging when all the changes settled. A second sense of puberty that I’m locked into.” The small upturn of your lips doesn’t pass him. All he can do is nod in response.

He makes his way to the desk against the back corner of his office room; The space is a good size, Having enough for his L-shaped desk with two chairs in front of it. A worn-in leather couch on an adjacent wall while a few framed documents hang on the wall, military in nature with medals attached to them while undusted fake plants serve as accents in the corners.

“Very well,” He gives a soft grunt when adjusting himself in his seat before opening up the large manilla folder. “You, are going to be judged based on your nature and human interaction during your uncontained enlistment. Ability to perform assignments, be of aid, and see what your specific capabilities can put forward with us.”

Head nodding in check with each item listed, “Understood, Captain.”

His blue eyes leave the documents for a moment to find your gaze already on him. “You’ve got a good rapport with every previous task, but your previous COs still didn’t state trust as a key factor. Why would that be?”

For a moment, you get lost in the focus of his body language; Price folds his arms over the table, holding his elbows as the pages become spread over his desk. The way he purses his lips after a question that holds an answer he will depend on. His lips make a small smack in the action, and it's cute in the way he’s so human.

“I didn’t trust them.”

An eyebrow arches at the vague response prompting you to continue. “Kept me like a lab animal, fed me or let me feed when deemed easy for them to write off in the report. That’s not how you treat a demon when expecting to use their powers, sir.”

“And this feeding… There’s multiple ways listed here but to be frank- I’ve still yet to get my head wrapped around it. You’re a sex demon, yeah?”

Ah. There it is.

His eyes dart down to the few pages that cover your needs and methods of survival, studying the paragraphs of information. A how to keep your demon alive handbook if you will.

“The premise of everything I need stems from what is deemed as life force, or just called energy. Sex is easy, and feels the most satisfying.” A breath before continuing. “ But relying on just energy wont last me long, yet its easier in some situations. Those barely alive are easy to take from.”

He knows there's more to be had with you. A temptress trained well with a pedigree in what you were made for. But he can only hypothesize. “And what are you expecting from being here?”

A look of surprise flashes in the widening of your eyes, not used to someone asking in consideration. “I’m expecting more hostiles, interrogations, or kills that I could take to feed myself. And sex too.”

“Oh-” A half cough leaves him before looking to the side. Surely he should have known, it's stereotypical but at least true.

“If you want me at full strength, I’m going to need the energy. I’m sure you could understand that, Sir?” The small tilt of your head, almost an aloof look sends alarm bells into his mind. They wouldn’t have sent a succubus in here without some sort of plan already being formed, some procedure and measure being used to-

“I am expecting to form a relationship with you, Captain.”

And at that, a full choked sound leaves him. He deserves doubled pension for this.

“And in what right mind, was that established in, hm?” He grounds out, opening a desk drawer to pull out a cigar before taking a cutter to the end of it. You measure the time it takes for him to light it and take a first steady puff.

“Well, the way I see it- and having discussed it with my previous superiors, this is supposed to mirror a real dynamic. This is the only point of contact to report on my behavior. I don’t think engaging in what I need would go over well if I went wild with other operators or soldiers around the base. Confirm or deny?”

Price’s eyes narrow as you speak, dragging his gaze away to stare at his locked computer screen. A grunt in the back of his throat sounds before taking another inhale of his cigar. For a man who has been fighting on the front lines for countless years, he keeps the smoke in for a steady amount of time. Healthy lungs. Good for him.

You haven’t tried a cigar, only have gotten a whiff of the burning tobacco coming from superiors. This smell is the lingering one you picked up on Price even when standing on the tarmac. Sweet, vanille and tobacco leaves.

“You said your previous company spoke on this with you.” He starts with a swift movement to rifle through the pages on his desk. “This in writing or are you taking the piss now?” He speaks in a deep grumble, holding the burning cigar between his lips.

An internal groan rattles your mind, already sensing this may be more of a struggle than ease of getting what you were promised. “Last few pages. It’s all in writing.” He seemed like a sensible man in the way that if a warm and inviting body was laid out to him while asking for himself, he’d take it.

“Commanding officer is to set an established and cohesive exchange, herein the succubus will be fed from a relationship in physical and sexual natures while in exchange not damaging or harming the officer.” His accent slides in a bit more thickly than you’ve heard up until now, eyebrows scrunched while he mumbles the page to himself. “And why in the bloody hell, was this not communicated to me beforehand?”

You can’t control the wry smirk that steals your lips while looking at him, trying not to laugh. “They thought it would be a no-brainer.” A pause, “Sir.”

Plucking the cigar out of his mouth, Price sighs while leaning back in his chair seemingly defeated. “You sufficed well without any previous relation in the company, there’s no evidence that this will turn out well.” His eyes now land on you in a quick movement.

“As I mentioned-” He cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No. I’m not going to sleep with my subordinate, less so one that can kill me if so pleases.” The uptick of his chin bleeds with firmness, a decision that screams arrogance of finality.

Settling down in a way that almost matches his, your jaw ticks. “Yes, sir.”

And truthfully it's all you can say. Agree and accept to stay here and be the guinea pig for others like you. You can warn all you want but by the devil himself, humans won’t learn until their wrongs meet them in their face.

“If I could so much as advise you, Captain;” Your chin dipping, licking the front of your teeth, and feeling the small prick of your dormant fangs. He nods for you to continue, “If you want me at my full capacity, I will need every ounce of energy I can get. You’re going to need to keep that in the back of your head. It’s not simple like a meal you eat. It’s a life I take or the sex I make.”

Now, a quick smile flashes over him only disappearing when he takes a long, longer drag of the cigar. “I’ll keep that in mind, Demon.” Sitting up straighter, leaning on the desk again.

“But whether or not you are a good girl, depends on what ethics I choose to apply.” The smoke puffs out in small bursts as he speaks, tendrils leading up toward heaven before it stills in limbo at the weight of it.

—

The men- your teammates, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap, each greeted you with somewhat seasoned restraint and respect by holding their tongues yet their eyes spoke their curiosity while roaming over you.

You could see the disappointment in their eyes. Being met with a seemingly normal human was not what they had been briefed on. Having let their imagination run wild at the title of a succubus, you’d guess they would have wanted to see every aspect of what kind of mystical enchantress you would be. Once the disappointment of not seeing such things the churches pray against, the view of your human form set in.

Lords above you were the finest piece of-

It felt like a surefire version of winning the lottery to have you assigned to them. Banking on the fact that you’d be their little guard dog and they yours, Gaz already having to scare recruits away at PT while you stared on with a coy smile. Training was as you’d have expected. Executions of strategies, questioning of tactics, and scoring your shooting were all within the long hours of the day. What you hadn’t expected was the lack of insults thrown your way in passing when you met their standards. No degrading words of being a a demon, or a slut by association of your breed.

It was two weeks before you were allowed to come on an assignment with them; The mission in the bitter snow of the Russian Tundra.

12 hours in and having stormed a bunker with countless bodies already strewn across, blood stains the polished cement and a flicker of sinister delusion makes you wish the snow was this color.

Tattered remains of your shirt sleeves show the color of your skin underneath, but miraculously no wounds present themselves even as your kevlar has obvious points of damage. The sight of you standing, gun raised and firing quick bursts of succession as the last body falls to the ground. It’s like a scene out of a soldier's bible.

Your chest heaves, mouth opens to lick your teeth as the adrenaline slows its production in your blood. Price is sure that if he put a body cam on you, it would be a haze of movements, a shadow clouding up the corners of the screen and filled with static. He’s still not sure what to think of you in the short amount of time you’ve been here. Quiet and speaking only when spoken to. And it’s not what he was prepared for; The thick dossier of yours being filled with reprimands, complaints, and classified lines that hid your after-action reports with details on your kill count.

From the first meeting, he knew you were spoiled rotten in that compound, save the punishments given on your worst days. You knew how to get what you wanted. Bitting time and time again to still be fed. Yet, now all he can see is you biting at others if only to protect your men.

“Saint.” The spur of Price’s voice makes you jump, the scene of death halting, eyes darting to a stack of crates where he lays. His squinted eyes lock onto your form, trailing up and down for a moment before he tries to adjust himself with a grunt.

“Who?” You ask while taking a secondary cautious sweep of the room before moving to him in a quick few steps.

“You, sweetheart. Saint.”

His grunt of pain doesn’t faze you, instead focusing the whiff of a sweeter metallic smell hits you. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Ghost, Gaz, and Soap have the outside perimeter locked down with getaway snowmobiles at Price’s word. He touches the side of his com to activate it, roughly alerting them you both had cleared the floor and will need to medevac in the next coming moments.

“Let me get that for you.” It was a severe contrast to the inhumane growling and yelling from moments before as you tore into the enemies, ones that had you in a blind rage for landing a shot on Price.

Shaking his head, he reaches out his hand to stop you. “‘M fine, just need a quick patch. We need to leave.” He grounds out, leaning forward while covering the wound on his thigh.

Common knowledge brought the understanding that succubi had a level of regenerative power, but most not having been raised in military secrecy or being able to develop themselves into having control.

“Stop. Just-” A breath settles in your lungs, measuring itself and the expanse of what you could do- how you could help and be useful. The previous rage and fight instincts transform with concentration and the swirling of conjuration. “I need a little…” You trail off, eyes sweeping upwards to his.

There’s a shame that humans hold. You blame it on them being entirely born of boring flesh, but that would be hypocritical to an extent. Taking his vest in hand, you pull yourself forward to lean in.

“What the bloody-” Price jerks back but can't even finish as you sush him, giving him a deep stare that almost sedates him. He stills and quiets at the same time, now holding your gaze that he swears he saw the current color be flooded by a deep red.

He blinks for a moment, already trying to fight the small calming waves you push into him but the sudden feeling of long talons priking into his shirt makes him freeze. Like an animal with food aggression, you keep him there while moving in to bring your lips together.

You can taste a bit of blood, and the saltiness of his sweat, while trying not to groan at just how good he feels against you. His lips are surprisingly plump, probably from being irritated due to the cold, but it adds a level of eroticness to feel his wet lips slide over yours.

“Stay still for me.” You pause the kiss that he’s surprisingly reciprocating eagerly, breathing into each other's mouths. The soft plea drives his heart rate up and you can feel the sense of adrenaline spiking. He’s going to sleep like a fucking brick tonight.

He shudders when you come back together with more force, purposefully dragging the tip of your fangs against his bottom lip as you crowd him.

There.

There is the sickly sweet thrum of arousal in his body that makes his mind stir, what you could give in a bastardized excuse of lust right now.

“Mmm, give me a minute.” Comes your wet slurred speech when pulling away, eyebrows furrowing as you focus on on his bullet wound.

The sight of you could be his glory to fight. Tattered from battle, your lips are tinted red, clothes dirty from the gunpowder floating in the air, looking as if so carelessly lethal while your presence is a magnet to him. He's already caught himself wondering why you were chosen to represent a being that fell so far from heaven when your instincts screamed the opposite in small moments.

Looking down to be sure he’s healed just enough, you miss the look of blatant shock he gives when the pink and unmarred flesh greets his eyes. “A right fuckin’ saint you are.” He murmurs, watching you call the boys for exfil, no longer medevac.

#captain john price #john price x reader #captain price x reader #tf141 #cod mw2 #captain jonathan price #john price #f!reader #cod fanfic #captain price mw2 #captain john price x reader #lust by nature #task force 141 #captain price x y/n #captain price

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mulders-too-large-shirt · 21 days

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s4 episode 2 thoughts

ah, this episode! i have heard it is very scary. so i’m curious to see how creepy it can be. usually what gets me the most is body horror, at least so far.

i’m really not a horror fan so i’m interested to see if this will push my limits or just be kinda silly. remember that evil AI in like s1 episode 8? and when it was unplugged it said “noooo, brad :(“ or something like that? yeah that one just made me giggle lol

(author's note after seeing the episode: what...)

(additional author's note: read to the end to see why i think this episode might be actually about the civil war's long-term consequences)

how far we have progressed since then!

let us begin!!!

we open with a storm and some scary music. pretty intense for the first few seconds. oh, now someone is giving birth. it is very dark and hard to see but it appears these individuals do not look like your average fellow off the street.

GAG! slurping noises are produced as the baby emerges. birth counts as body horror btw i do NOT make the rules. EUGH the umbilical cord…

(sorry y’all pls take no offense to those who have or desire children someday... it’s just something that makes me feel dizzy to watch but i support your dreams and choices i promise 🙏)

okay, but the baby is crying so that’s usually a good sign right? like better than a quiet baby, i think.

but a bunch of people are leaving after the delivery and i thought they would stick around to do things like look at the baby and see if it is healthy and stuff. but no. they’re leaving. where are they going...

they’re digging a hole?????? WHAT DA HELL. BABY IN THE HOLE??!!!!!! while someone cries terribly. OMG the grief…

WHAT THE HELL???

what have i gotten myself into……

intro time. always gonna think about that tweet regarding scully’s glamour shot on her ID. anyway just in case you forgot the truth IS out there.

so we see some kids in a place called home, pennsylvania, and they’re playing baseball. you know how children are, with their baseball. it’s as serious to them as a senator running a reelection campaign.

kid knocks the ball over the fence, and onto the property of “the peacocks”. the kids will NOT go get the ball, and instead find a spare. seems they prepared for this, or could maybe find a place that isn’t next to a very scary house to play ball, but i understand spacial constraints.

OH???? the kid is digging his foot in to go swing and…. BLOODY PUDDLE???? THIS MUST BE THE BABY FROM BEFORE????

he backs away as we see a tiny hand in the dirt. that poor kid omfg he must have been traumatized… and his sneakers were so bright and white…..

cutscene to mulder in the field after all the kids have fled! ah, mulder loves his baseball. in fact, he even sniffs it. he’s practicing his pitching LMAOOOO please be serious for FIVE minutes.

scully is measuring the hole while he does all this. in fact, he is not stopping. it just keeps going while she talks about the angle of the shovel.

she makes some quip about quitting the FBI and becoming a spokesperson for the ab roller, when he SHOVES THE BALL UNDER HER NOSE and says “smell that” THIS MAN IS SUUUUUCH A WEIRDO I LOVE HIM

“it’s perfume. eau de ball” (stupid little mulder smile)

very strong juxtaposition between baby death and a daydreaming mulder, but that is the sort of thing we have come to expect from this show. he seems enchanted.

WAIT! he’s talking about his sister… “all-day pickup games out on the Vineyard” and going down to the beach… no cell phones or faxes… oh man, this baseball has him talking about his family :(

“mulder, if you had to do without a cell phone for two minutes, you’d lapse into catatonic schizophrenia” <- WELL GET HIM! it is true. he is always making calls and then abruptly hanging up.

feels weird to be smiling like a fool at my screen as these two talk about their lives after seeing the opening scene... but here we are!

“scully, you don’t know me as well as you think you do. you know my work demands that i live in a big city, but if i had to settle down, build a home, it’d be a place like this”

OHHHHH MY GOSH

1. he has though about settling down and having a life outside of his work, and this is such a character reveal, and i know he wants like a small army of children, and

2. i just KNOW those words are gonna come back and bite him when this place is revealed to be some sort of cult

she says it would be like living in mayberry which i had to google BUT: it is the town from the andy griffith show. ah, i see. so very quaint.

someone pulls up to see them and i paused at just the right time to see that mulder’s shirt is very baggy and living up to my URL, which is good because sometimes i worry it’s a bit TOO niche, but i made it after watching 4 episodes so i’m too attached to change it now. meanwhile, scully’s coat is wonderfully sleek and it’s a fun little contrast.

this is sheriff taylor, who says this is a very small town, and there are no real suspects. mulder asks about the peacocks next door, and the sheriff goes… quiet. apparently three boys lived there, and their parents were hurt in an accident. the sheriff and his team tried to administer care to the parents, but the boys took the bodies home??? that’s. odd.

so these peacocks have no electricity, grow their own food, and… are inbred. the sheriff says they are feeble and sad, and wouldn’t have any idea what they are talking about. which just makes me think they are the prime suspects.

the sheriff is saying that he loves his town, it is quiet and peaceful, and he knew someday it would change when something terrible happened. when he saw “it” in the ground, he knew that day had come. he seems convinced it’s an outsider but also he is purposefully ignoring all the evidence in the other direction. and he wants their help, but he doesn’t want anything to change.

(i see... this is about the terrible secrets of small towns and the wish to keep everything quiet and preserve an idyllic image rather than make meaningful change)

apparently they were recommended to help out when “the victim” was described, so mulder says that maybe they should go take a look.

and whew, when they cut to a bundle of blankets next to some cans of spam (that look like they’re partially covered to hide the branding?) it’s a lot. it's a lot to handle, for me, emotionally, but i guess that's a fairly normal reaction. the sheriff just pulled the baby right out of the fridge. we also meet a deputy named barney.

they shove poor scully in a tiny bathroom with just a sink in it to do her work, because they don’t want anyone else seeing the autopsy go down. the sheriff says they can’t do it in his office, because everyone knows he never locks his office door, and they’d start rumors. this whole small town thing is starting to seem quite oppressive.

mulder is also here in this tiny closet-like bathroom, and i can feel the claustrophobia from here. despite the lack of space, scully begins.

and she is taken aback, but not as much by the fact that it is a child but that said child “has been afflicted by every rare birth defect known to science”. mulder has his arm on the wall leaning in and watching in a way that is weird for the space.

we only see a few shots of the baby- thankfully, because i don't think i could handle seeing any more of it than we do- but it’s enough to make me go whew, shout-out to the props department for making something that looks like that, because that is how i cope with seeing things on this show that make me nearly faint

she is reciting the various things that this child has been born with, and mulder says that they can probably rule out murder, right? but scully says idk… it looks like it WAS murder, actually. dirt in the nose.

lord, they walk out after doing that and somehow don’t need to like, down some vodka or something to cope.

“imagine all a woman’s hopes and dreams for her child, and then nature turns so cruel. what must a mother go through?” oh my gosh is scully gonna make me cry…

“apparent not much in this case, if she just threw it out in the trash”, says mulder, while they sit on a bench on he is manspreading like you would not believe. but i assume they are in a tough spot mentally so manspreading is permitted in this situation.

“i guess i was just projecting on myself”, she says, and oh my gosh does scully want kids someday…. stop i’ll cry!! i’ll cry.

“well, just find yourself a man with a spotless genetic makeup and a really high tolerance for being second-guessed and start pumping out the little uber-Scullys” he says, rubbing her back.

and i can’t decide if this is funnier if he’s truly and deeply down terrible for her and suggesting subtly that HE could be that man, or if he’s just being a really good pal. so i’m gonna turn around both options in my head for a while and see which sticks.

“what about your family?” “hm? aside from the need for corrective lenses and a tendency to be abducted by extraterrestrials involved in an international governmental conspiracy, the mulder family passes genetic muster” (said with a celebratory flourish of his hands)

oh my gooooooosh i love them both so bad. he is SUCH a nerd. and his constant need to joke about the horrible things… even when they are approaching a serious topic, life ambitions and the desire to start a family, he has to go in there with some sarcasm to avoid getting Too Serious...

see? he has good genes. allegedly. go forth.

but he sobers up, points out that the child they had to just examine is a serious tragedy, and some likely very young parents are probably incredibly scared. but this isn’t really an FBI matter. 10 points to him for being serious for once.

she is brainstorming how such a thing could happen- “now, we all have a natural instinct to propagate” “do we?” <- ace mulder subtext i see you…

scully is convinced that the woman who gave birth to that child did it against her will, and mulder points out that kidnapping is a bureau matter… she seems determined to save someone caught in a horrible circumstance here, and i admire that about her, the sense of justice she has. she gets up to go investigate.

but he calls out: “hey scully- i never saw you as a mother before” <- OH MY GOD??? OH MY GOD. i can’t even begin to process that right now. oh my gosh it seems like he has wanted kids SO terribly… but scully never really brought the subject up, which is fine because not everyone wants kids!! but what does it say about her character if she DOES…? i am analyzing.

i hope she is happy someday with whatever she chooses. music is playing as he looks after her. do not for a second think i missed that little musical flourish and gaze combo.

so, they go to the peacock's farm. where they find a chopped off pig’s head on the steps. it doesn’t seem to bother them at all, which must be a testament to the strength of bureau training.

mulder tries to do his usual “enter first and ask questions later” thing, but scully STOPS HIM, saying there is no probable cause.

WHAT!!! for once they did NOT JUST BURST IN!!??? their random entering of places is one of my favorite running gags and for once they didn’t. oh she is serious about this one…

so they just peek inside instead…. and then they get their guns and go inside after seeing a table covered in blood. oh…. the scissors from before…. yes, bloody table = probable cause

there is blood everywhere, and the footprint from the crime scene matches the footprint in blood on the floor. AND they find a bloody shovel. well!!! we know who did it now!!! but… where are they??

it is soooo dark and creepy as they make their way through the house. and someone is WATCHING THEM THE DARK as they investigate. BLEUGH we get an extreme closeup on their eyes…….

i am spooked.

now scully is on the phone with sheriff taylor, who is describing the warrants for the arrest of the peacocks he put out, while mulder slams a TV in their hotel room, trying to get it to work. typical mulder behavior

(i bet they felt a need to incorporate some silly moments to lighten out the heavy heavy heavy content, and honestly i didn't think it would work, but for me it kinda is. don't get me wrong, it's still VERY heavy, but it's not start to finish just trauma like we got in calusari, which stands out to me as being the darkest and least fun episode in the series so far. but let mulder sniff a baseball a little and smack a TV and our agents talk about having a family and it is slightly less overwhelming in terms of tone)

and she brings up the white cadillac they found there but he says get a lot of abandoned cars. damn, who is abandoning a cadillac...

what is this sheriff hiding…?

he pulls out his gun from a locked box, and seems deeply regretful. before he puts it back in the box… hmm…

back at the peacock farm. the brothers are packing what looks like clubs into the cadillac. and i notice how silent and scary the whole thing is… no music whatsoever.

meanwhile, mulder is doing a little dance to try and get the TV working, which scully is smiling at him in a way that implies long term affection and exhaustion. i want to get those gifs and save them upon my blog forever and ever.

he’s trying to watch the knicks game, but as she heads out, he says “goodnight mom”, and she looks… uncomfortable. i mean, it’s a weird thing to say, but still. he says a lot of weird things and she doesn’t always look sort of… hmm. idk, the only phrase that comes to mind is “cut to the quick”. i WILL be analyzing that.

she tries to leave and the lock is broken, so he places a chair underneath, which might do something but like… probably not a ton.

anyway, back to the cadillac, where the brothers are pulling out while listening to music. where are they going….

sheriff taylor is up late at night, “taking one last look around before it all changes”. oh, he loves his town… but it is rotten, like mulder says. AND HIS WIFE DOESN’T LOCK THE DOOR AS THEY COME IN!!! NOOOO!

the brothers are on the move, while scully sleeps and mulder watches a fuzzy documentary on hyenas?? okay. king behavior.

but back at the sheriff’s house, he can hear the brothers approaching, and pulling into his yard. oh no…. he looks out the window and the brothers aren’t there. so did they already get in…?

he’s going for the gun, he says, and they enter his house. and he’s got a baseball bat, but where is the gun! they have clubs! like the kind the bad guys in zelda use!!! they look very very dangerous!

he hears them approach as his wife is under the bed……… and he swings his bat at the intruder, but he is barreled right over, it’s three on one, and they beat him RIGHT AS HIS WIFE SEES THE WHOLE THING FROM UNDER THE BED. and they sniff and sniff and FIND HER UNDER THERE????????

what the fuck. who came up with this…….. that song is still playing as they get in their car and leave. i'm sure the song also has some significance to the meaning of what these guys are doing but tbh i have never heard it before so it's hard to unpack.

the deputy is at the scene of the crime the next day, smoking a cigarette, hands shaking in terror. he had come over to give the sheriff a report… and found them that way.

so the owner of the cadillac was found in baltimore, she had left it behind after running out of gas. this is not a lead in the slightest.

mulder is investigating the scene while scully pulls out files from the crime lab, and it is. well, it is very bad, to put it bluntly. the crime scene is horrific.

she says that the crime scene messed up the tests on the infant… but mulder proposes that… perhaps each of the brothers were the father? she talks about how babies are made and how that makes no sense, but he proposes that generations of inbreeding could maybe make such a mutation. but she says that isn’t possible, they’d need a female family member and there aren’t any left. hmm...

scully wants to try and trail them right now and go save whoever it was that was forced to give birth, but mulder points out that they are outnumbered and could further endanger the victim. what to do…? i don’t know the answer.

oh! the deputy barges in and says he’ll take them up there so it’s three against three. and they have guns, which should give them the advantage. okay. shoutout to the deputy.

mulder seems suspicious however, and says his suddenly entry was a bit “too chuck bronson for me”. so yeah, i had to google that too. this chuck fellow is the guy from machine gun-kelly. and NOT that sleazy rapper one. the more you know.

scully is confused, though, because why would they kill the sheriff? he didn’t even investigate them. unless they somehow overheard them talking about issuing the arrest warrants while in their house… and they are operating under the assumption that the brothers were not in the house when they were…. but we know that someone was in hiding!!!

OH! back to the house. one of the brothers declares he is hungry. we finally get a semi-decent look at them, and they are incredibly gruesome. someone is under the bed still….

and when they declare that they are “ready”, they strip down. they knew this day- and change- was coming, and all they can do is be ready for it. this is our home. and this is the way it’s gonna stay.

again, i ask, who came up with this……

the deputy and our agents are on the property, now. deputy wants to come in from the front and let them take the back. a brave thing to offer, but i am slightly suspicious of him. they have wired headsets on and bullet proof vests on, and he is going in.

so they’re approaching- scully and mulder in the field, the deputy out in front. scully is peeking through binoculars but she doesn’t see anyone inside!!! it has to be a trap!!!!

OH MY GOSH!!! just as scully tells the deputy to not go in, he opens the door and an AXE SWINGS DOWN AND CHOPS HIS HEAD OFF!!!!!

i am sorry for being suspicious of you, deputy. may you rest in peace.

mulder’s reciting his facts from the hyena documentary. they are witnessing something akin to prehistoric humanity. but he has an idea: divert them out of the house, so they don't have to deal with their traps. it is a good idea.

so they are sneaking into the pig pen, which had to be a pain to shoot. “scully, would you think less of me as a man if i told you i was kind of excited right now?” he asks as they try to get the pigs in a line to topple like dominoes or something???

“is there some secret farmer trick to getting these things moving?” “i don’t know!” lmaooo these city slickers...

they’re shoving pigs straight out the gate, and she’s trying to say some magic pig words from babe, which her nephew apparently watches all day. you know what that means...

! SCULLY LORE REVEAL ! she has a nephew!

but there are more pressing matters at hand than a lore reveal as one of the brothers emerges, falling for their piggy trap. we see them in daylight now, and it is an unsettling sight.

as the brothers try to herd the pigs back in, the agents sneak in, with mulder picking up a giant log to poke open the door. and it is a good thing he did that, because a trap descends right on the log that surely would have beheaded him as it did the deputy if not for the log taking the axe/weapon thingy for him. thank you for your service, giant log.

they sneak in beneath the log and close the door as if nothing went down. scully is yelling to see if anyone is in the house. they’re doing a sweep in excellent coordination. mulder mumbles “oh no” and i’m scared but he just picks up a newspaper that says elvis is dead and frowns 😭 his ass cannot be serious for more than five minutes

but something approaches!!!! they enter the bedroom and see photos of generations and generations of this family, with varying conditions. and at this moment mulder notices that someone is under the bed!!

he’s trying to say that they’re here to help, but whoever is down there is screaming, screaming at them to go away. so scully tries to move the bed, but she’s strapped to a board underneath the bed, and they pull her out and…. oh my gosh, she has no limbs, i think? it’s dark and hard to tell. they keep her under the bed..........

mulder says they’re going to get her home, but after a glance at the pictures on the wall, scully says that she already IS home. it’s mrs. peacock. the mother of the family that they thought died in the car accident!!!!!!

she is sobbing and they roll her back under the bed, with mulder having a horrific look on his face, unable to process what he just saw.

mulder is back on the prowl to find the other brothers. and he tasks scully with trying to convince mrs. peacock that she is the only one who can get “her boys” out of here without them being hurt. a mighty task, indeed.

she walks away, and he says “scully, w-watch your step” and he’s worried about her and i want to cry. oh!! we see a trip wire……….

so scully goes back to mrs. peacock, explaining that she needs medical attention, and the agents are here to help. she says that this is their home- why leave it? she has to see if the boys are okay.

and she lost her limbs in the accident that killed her husband. “sewed me up just like the family learned in the war of northern aggression” OH! so that is an WILD thing to say in pennsylvania. but it was at this point i thought i was putting the pieces together for an extended metaphor...

but she insists she felt no pain, and that no one in the family does. and they’re such good boys. scully points out they murdered three people, and mrs. peacock says she can tell scully has no children, but maybe someday she’ll learn the pride and the love “when you know your boy will do anything for his mother”

well i think you probably just made her swear that off forever!!! so!!!!!

the brothers see mulder in the window, and they start to run in. and as he holds one at gun point, another tries to bash in his head, so scully shoots him. but this isn’t enough to take him down! and the other one joins in on their attack, so it’s two against one tag teaming mulder!!! oh my gosh scully can you use your perfect aim???

yes, she can, but despite emptying the whole clip, they aren’t hurt!!!

they’re running and running and dodging a whole lot of terrible blows, and scully yells out that she has the mother! she trips over the wire and one of the traps falls RIGHT into one of the brothers, seemingly finally taking him out.

she notices marks on the floor, and when they go back for mrs. peacock, they can’t find the other brother or the mother.

so they put out an APB for them, saying that in time, they’ll catch them. but he counters with “i think time already caught them, scully”

cutscene to the cadillac- where mrs. peacock says that “sherman and george were good boys”- SHERMAN? a union name? edmund, sherman, and george…

it ends with mrs. peacock saying that there will be more peacocks, and they have to find a new home, make a new family to be proud of. she is in the trunk of the car while she says this.

okay so first thoughts: WHAT THE FUCK.

this episode definitely lived up to its horrific reputation. but i can’t figure out exactly what it is it MEANS!

beyond exploring the horrific topics of generational abuse, i feel that there is something a bit deeper going on here. i actually felt so compelled to see if i was imagining things that i went on the wikipedia page for the episode, which spoke of its themes on the american dream and the nuclear family. those themes i see for sure- how mulder was talking about settling down in a place like this, so quaint and quiet, how they started discussing their own desire for a family, and how every idyllic thought about what a family could be was upended on its head with the peacocks. that made sense to me. but...

that line- “the war of northern aggression”- was what the confederates called the american civil war to justify their rebellion. this is notable for the fact that this whole episode took place in pennsylvania, which was a union state- but somehow, they got so twisted up in their own hatred that they’re parroting the lost cause ideology over a century after the war.

the repeated motifs of “things being the way they are in a small town, in our town, in our home”- is that a symbol for the festering of post-civil war wounds? the inability for the war to make meaningful change when it came to the attitudes of the people on the losing side, who continue- even to this day- to spew their hateful ideology? the inbreeding metaphor- is that a representation of how hate begets hate begets hate, generation after generation, compounding and corrupting by the lack of intervention from outsiders who are too afraid to change “the way things are” and call out harmful behavior? and the newspaper from elvis’s death… is that another allusion to the family (or perhaps certain parts of the country) living entirely in the past, in addition to their lack of electricity and water, just stewing in their own hatred? even the name- home- reminds me of the “house divided cannot stand” rhetoric. is this talking about the rot of "back in the good ol' days" thinking?

or if not a metaphor for the country, and instead just the horror of abuse? of how people can feel that things are the way that they are, and so that makes it correct, no matter what the cost? about how warped perceptions of family can be made and shaped? and the fact that mrs. peacock went along with all of this, despite being the biggest victim of the family... is that to speak on the twisted nature of gender roles and how they are weaponized in familial abuse?

i have to clarify that i am not an expert on abuse in the slightest; i am just trying to work through the themes of what i just saw. you know how it is on this blog; i do my best to interpret the big issues, but also recognize that i can only see and comment upon so much.

i'm really, really curious to hear how you interpreted the episode, though. or how audiences have understood it in the past, or if it has ever been re-evaluated. what did the cast and crew have to say on it? i want to know.

man. this is gonna really make me ponder. i want to know. it was too purposeful to just be a “wouldn’t it be fucked up if…” sort of situation.

regardless of the terror, i actually thought this episode was pretty good. it felt cohesive, not just a sideshow of horrible things to make you feel shocked. and we learned more about our characters- their ambitions in life, the possibility of a family someday dangling over their heads, and the terror associated with everything that could go wrong. i think there is always some fear about starting a family (i wouldn't know, but i do read books and stuff), and for scully to just now vocalize her thoughts on the subject and to immediately see this case- i can only imagine what it did to her thought process.

i thought the more light-hearted elements were working at the beginning- mulder's TV dance, baseball time, the merits of their genetics, family talk- worked well at first. but by the end it was just... damn. that was a lot. maybe that is the indication of a successful episode, that it can take you along heavy subject matter with a sense of character analysis and horror, but end with just terror.

i'm not a horror fan outside of this show, so the balancing of the heavy and the humor always baffles me a little bit. i don't know how other materials do it, so i can't really say if it could have been done better or worse. i think the important part though is that they don't turn the tragedy itself into the joke. it wasn't giving "point and laugh at the horrible peacock family!" it was finding humor in other situations, that ultimately still surrendered to the sober feeling of what humanity can do.

whew. this one is definitely gonna stick with me for a while, and i’ll need like 12 hours to formulate my thoughts into something comprehensible. but, you ask, did you like the episode?

yes! while i'm not sure i'd watch it again for funsies, i thought our agents had to confront some inner demons while also learning a lot about them together and individually, which is exactly the thing i want in an episode. i think it brought them closer and they understand each other better, and i think we're getting into some real juicy parts of their relationship. i can't stop thinking about him rubbing her back- how terribly devoted they are to each other, regardless of if either of them can put that into words. those dynamics of devotion that go beyond words- it's so special to me.

and sure, i'll take the bait, and daydream about them living together... i am not above fan service in the slightest. it is me, the fan, who loves to be serviced.

but again. i'm spooked.

#but PLEASE: tell me what you thought of this episode. like i'm BEGGING you.#did you like it? did you hate it? were you spooked? did you think it had a deeper meaning? is it the scariest in the show?#does this episode have wild behind the scenes lore? or a dedicated fan base? or a hateful fan base?#please share all of the things...#maybe someday if enough people would bother to read it i'll make a full post on the things i see in parallel to american history #so if you'd ever read that please just sort of yell at me #sometimes i read into things too much and maybe it stops being fun after a while so i need to know #sometimes when we go from A to Z and back in terms of tone my recaps feel all over the place in a way that doesn't really happen as much #when watching the show visually. some tonal things are hard to translate to written media.#anyway! i need to know #juni's x files liveblog #the x files #txf

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beskarthief · 1 month

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Chapter 2 of the Star Wars fic "Order 65". The rest can be found here.

19 BBY, Coruscant, Senate District

Fox wondered what the senator had done to get herself into this mess.

He knew that was probably above his pay grade to ask, fierfek, he didn't have a pay grade. And he knew well enough that asking questions was a one way ticket to an early retirement. But some part of him wanted to be curious.

He didn't listen to it, though. Instead pushing the thought from his mind as he continued to sweep the perimeter of her apartments. It was a delicate balance, what he did. You had to be alert; absorb every detail and catalog it in the back of your mind. But you couldn't let those little details get to you. Couldn't remember the way she liked to arrange her rooms, or the kind of clothes she always wore, or the way she liked her caf. You had to know all those things, but you couldn’t know them.

Luckily, Fox had a lot of practice. The others though... he wasn't so sure.

Fox knew that if he explained things to them, at least some would understand. Kosmo and Eight would, he decided. They understood the importance of order, and order came with rules. But Spike had always had a tendency to run his mouth, even when it wasn't in his own best interest. And the other one, Lucky, he was too new for Fox to be sure. It was hard to believe there were still shinies, even this far into the war. Even harder still to think that Lucky's batch would be the last ones. Ever.

The war was really ending, wasn't it? Fox knew he was supposed to be relieved, but the thought just made him anxious.

Pacing around the perimeter again, Fox returned his attention to the task at hand. This was no time to let his mind drift. The sounds of the bustling Coruscant night gradually faded into the almost indiscernibly different sounds of the bustling Coruscant day and Fox stifled a yawn. It had been a long night.

He dismissed the others once the sun had risen, sending them back to the barracks to get some rest. It had been a long night, they deserved it. But the senator couldn't be left alone. He waited outside for her other bodyguards to arrive. The ones whose loyalty was to Pantora and not their Empire. If he could, he would stick around even after they’d come. He remained outside, not wanting to disturb the senator, who he could hear rustling about in her chambers despite the early morning.

Still they did not arrive and Fox stretched restlessly. What kind of behavior was this for trained guards? It was then that he realized only five minutes had passed since he'd dismissed Kosmo and the others. Frustrated, he paced the perimeter again before circling back to the landing pad. Time seemed to drag.

When he returned, the senator was standing at the edge, resting against the low fence that separated her from the open air and near endless drop below. It would be so easy, Fox thought. A single step forward, one push, plausible deniability, and it would be over.

He could say that he had gone back with the others, expecting the Pantoran guards to arrive soon after daybreak. Kosmo would back him up, once he explained. It would look bad, sure. But what did it matter? They were being weeded out anyway. And the only person who really mattered would know what he'd done. Would know that he could be relied upon.

It wasn't so hard, really. He'd done it before.

Fox's feet carried him unwittingly forward and he was suddenly standing beside the senator, looking out over the edge.

She was wearing a thin nightgown, and it whipped around her legs in the brisk morning breeze. Her hair, for the first time since he'd seen her, was not held up in some sort of elaborate bun; instead it tangled freely around her face and billowed across her shoulders and down her back. Her nose and cheeks blushed lavender in the cool morning air as she turned to look at him, eyes sparkling despite the bags beneath them.

"Isn't it beautiful, this time of morning?" she breathed. "It's as though the whole world is asleep."

Fox looked out over the ever busy skyways of the city and it’s million lit towers that pierced the sky. "With all due respect, ma'am. I don't know if Coruscant ever sleeps."

"On Pantora everything would be quiet now." she said wistfully. "You'd be able to look out and see the city wake up. I know it's not the same here on Coruscant. But somehow I still feel it. Even across the galaxy, I can feel Pantora waking up."

"It sounds beautiful." Fox said, taking a step back from her and from the edge. It was too soon. It would be too obvious. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. If he'd been thinking at all.

"Yes." the senator breathed again, voice still wistful. "Yes, it is."

She stood there for a long moment, not saying anything, just taking in the city as somewhere on the other side of the galaxy, Pantora awoke. Then, after Fox supposed the final lights of her city must have come on, she took a deep breath and turned back to him.

The other woman was gone - the one he would have called Riyo Chuchi - replaced by the senator standing before him once again. She smiled that same smile from the night before and looked around.

“Just you?"

Fox hesitated for a moment, wondering why it mattered. "With all due respect, ma'am, I'm more than capable of-"

"Not what I meant." she cut him off, almost apologetically. As politely as someone could cut another off. "You must be exhausted after staying awake all last night."

"Not the first time, ma'am."

She sighed, starting towards her apartments. "And it won't be the last, I take it?"

"Probably not,." he admitted, following her to the door. It would be better when she was inside, and he was out. The separation of a wall would do them some good.

But she hesitated in the doorway, glancing back at him expectantly.

"I'll keep an eye on the perimeter until your guards arrive." he assured her.

"Not what I meant." she repeated, continuing to hold the door.

Fox hesitated. "I'll sweep the room for you." he said at last, stepping into the apartments to do just that. They were immaculate as before, their white walls and counters shining in the early morning light. The seating area was plush and filled with intricately embroidered pillows. Most likely some sort of Pantoran design, as he had never seen it before. The long, flowing curtains had been drawn back from the windows to let the daylight stream in and gave the entire space a sort of dreamy, airy quality that was only accentuated by the high, lofty ceilings.

The senator followed him inside, closing the door behind them, and proceeded to the kitchen with little regard for whether Fox had completed his sweep of the area or not.

"Do you take your caf black, or with cream and sugar?" she asked, pulling two mugs from a nearby cabinet.

"You don't have to, ma'am."

She set the two mugs down on the counter. "Cream and sugar it is."

Fox watched helplessly as she poured first one, then another mug of caf. Picking up her own, she walked towards her personal chambers.

"It's the least I can do if you insist on staying up all night." the senator said, stopping once again in the doorway. "But if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to prepare for."

"Of course, senator." He didn't know what else to say.

She nodded to him, swept inside her chambers, and closed the door. After a moment, he heard a lock click.

Fox continued his sweep of the room until it inevitably led him to the kitchen. He paused there, staring at the counter, where a single mug of caf had been left. The drink was a warm, milky brown color and smelled richly of early mornings spent on patrol with Thorn and Thire.

It would be rude not to accept it, he decided. Afterall, how was he supposed to keep an eye on the senator if he could barely keep his eyes open?

Lifting up the mug, he took it with him and returned to his post by the door.

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eksvaized · 8 months

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[ Previous ┃ Next ] part 6

For days after his night out at the club, Simon struggled to sleep. His mind continuously replayed his interaction with the stranger. Every time he closed his eyes, vivid images of him violently attacking the man, breaking his ribs and nose, would flash before him. Whenever Simon looked at his hands, a wave of dread would wash over him as he saw his bruised knuckles and the stranger’s blood staining his skin. But then he would shake his head, blink twice, and realise that it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Simon was on the verge of losing his mind. He had been confined to the house, never venturing beyond its four walls, constantly berating himself and regretting what he did. But when being on his own became unbearable, and he started feeling like he was being suffocated, he decided it was time to go outside, hoping that the fresh air would offer some respite from his thoughts.

The night slowly faded away as he strolled through the empty streets.

Eventually, his feet carried him to you.

The early morning sky was devoid of sunlight, draping the outside in a sombre, muddy palette. Simon stood across the street from your house. His brown eyes searched for any signs of life in your home, but the darkness behind each window revealed nothing. You were most likely not awake yet.

He still wasn’t sure whether you lived alone, with parents, or had roommates. However, the longer he lingered in front of your house, the more he wanted to go inside and find out. Yet, he knew he couldn’t even think of breaking inside until you left, and it was safe to do so.

Simon had mapped out your daily schedule. At the very least, a sizeable portion of it. From what he could tell, you worked from Monday to Thursday. Friday was usually free and reserved for your friends. He still needed to figure out what you did on weekends, but that was going to be a task for another time.

You left home. Since it was Monday, he assumed you were going to work.

You were wearing a cosy, warm jumper, black jeans, and white sneakers. He enjoyed seeing you dressed like this. Your appearance at the club left quite an impression on him — he thought you looked stunning. Your dress clung to your curves in all the right places, and your black heels accentuated your legs and ass. However, it was your casual outfit that truly bewitched him, making him believe you were the most beautiful woman on this planet.

Simon stealthily crept into your backyard after deducing that there was no way to get in from the front of the house. He meticulously surveyed the surroundings and noticed a cracked window on the first floor. The fact that you would leave a window open was beyond his comprehension. If he were your boyfriend, he would scold you for such reckless behaviour because you shouldn’t be so careless and make it easy for intruders, like him, to break in.

Although the gap to get in was narrow, he was determined and managed to push the window up and widen it enough to squeeze his body through. A tall fence wrapped around your backyard, and he was certain that no one saw him climb inside.

Your place was devoid of furnishings. The kitchen was crammed with run-down appliances and the cabinets were painted a hideous shade of yellow. The living room had a ripped leather couch, an enormous rug underneath it, and next to it stood a shelf that was overflowing with books. He scanned a few titles. Did you enjoy reading or were you simply collecting these? But the covers weren’t dusty, so you must open these books, and at least flip through the pages now and again.

Overall, the home appeared clean, well-kept and cared for. Despite the lack of cohesive furniture, it was evident that you made an effort to keep it tidy.

Simon found only one bed when he made his way upstairs and looked through the other rooms — you lived here alone. Relief and concern warred within him, leaving him unsure of how to feel. On one hand, he felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that if he ever wanted to come back and sneak in again, all he had to do was to make sure you weren’t at home. However, it also meant you were vulnerable. This was a shady neighbourhood. He had done his homework and knew that in the last few weeks, at least eleven people had been attacked and robbed on their way home, while walking down these streets, not too far from your house.

Simon finally stepped into your bedroom, which was the room with the most furniture in it. The familiar scent of your perfume enveloped the air, permeating every inch of the space. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as his fingers slowly dragged across the blanket that adorned your bed. He imagined the two of you sleeping here together. Your bodies intertwined amidst the soft sheets. If you would roll away from him during the night, his arms would sneak around your waist and draw you back into his embrace.

He approached the wardrobe. Curiously, he proceeded to look through it. The first shelf contained neatly folded and organised clothes. As he moved his gaze down, he noticed your socks casually strewn about. Lowering himself to his knees, his eyes scanned the bottom shelf. When he realised what he was looking at, his pupils dilated and his eyes grew wide. He picked up a pair of your panties. Then another one. His fingers tightly curled around the fabric as he raised his hand to his face, bringing it close to his nose. Simon inhaled deeply.

As his desire intensified, a powerful wave of heat coursed through his entire body, making his trousers feel increasingly constricting. Consumed by an overwhelming lust, he acted on his impulse without any hesitation, not even bothering to consider the possibility that you may notice things were missing if he took them. He stuffed your panties into his pocket.

Simon continued to look around, driven by his unwavering interest. He was eager to learn more about you, and your room provided the perfect opportunity to do so. As he perused the various items scattered about, his eyes were drawn to a stack of notebooks resting on your desk. He reached for one and began flipping through. His fingertips were tracing the edges of pages while his eyes scanned your handwriting when he heard the front door open.

Fuck. You weren’t supposed to come home so early. Only an hour has passed since you left. His eyes examined the room as he put your things back, making sure to leave everything as it was. Someone else in this situation might have been terrified because they were about to be caught, but not Simon. He maintained calm, fully aware he had to keep his head above water and quickly find a way out of there.

He was on the second floor. The thought of simply jumping out of the window crossed his mind, but he didn’t want to risk dislocating his shoulder or breaking his spine. His mind was running at a thousand miles per hour. He could hear the distinct sound of footsteps echoing from downstairs. You were pacing from room to room, talking with someone on the phone.

In your tiny bedroom, there was nowhere to hide. Simon weighed his options. For a moment, he considered trying to crawl under the bed, but he quickly realised that he wouldn’t fit and it would only waste precious time. Ultimately, he concluded that his only choice was to conceal himself in the bathroom, located across the room. Once you come to your bedroom, he will quietly pass by the room while you are in it, rush downstairs, and exit through the window, just as he had entered.

Despite his stature, he moved quickly and silently, like a ghost, his footsteps making no sound. His plan worked out, and he left the house without you knowing that he had been in there with you just a few moments ago.

As quickly as possible, and without being seen by anyone, he crossed the street and positioned himself under the tree’s shade. Simon’s heart raced, and his back was soaked in sweat. However, he maintained a composed and emotionless exterior.

His hands were in his pockets, fumbling with the panties he had stolen.

It had only been a few days since you last saw him, but Simon, after today’s little adventure, couldn’t wait any longer and wanted to ask you out on a date. He quickly retrieved his phone, scrolled through his address book, and found your number. All the while, his fingers continued to play with the fabric inside his pocket.

‘It’s Simon, the guy to whom you owe a cup of coffee... Are you free on Wednesday?’

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod #writing #ghost x reader #call of duty #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #cod ghost #cod x reader #ghost cod #PO2

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matan4il · 11 months

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Daily update post:

The attack drone that hit a school in Eilat yesterday has been determined to have been Iranian, it was launched from Syria (on Israel's north eastern border), flew through Jordan (on Israel's eastern border) in order to reach Eilat (the most southern spot in Israel) and attack there undetected.

I'm still waiting for the global outcry over the fact that Iranian and Palestinian rockets and drones are targeting Israeli hospitals (sometimes repeatedly) and schools.

Word has spread that the Abu Shaker hummus eatery in Haifa, owned by an Israeli Arab family, is being boycotted for having donated to IDF soldiers. Israelis from all over the country have been coming to the eatery, to support the family. A recent poll, conducted after the start of the war, shows 70% of Israeli Arabs identify with the State of Israel, and see its problems as theirs, too.

Antisemitic attacks continue to take place globally. Yesterday, two Jewish school were shot at in Montreal, Canada. In Los Angeles, anti-Israel protesters have attacked Jews trying to reach the Museum of Tolerance for a screening organized by Gal Gadot of some of the footage evidence of Hamas' massacre.

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Twenty four members of the US congress sent a letter to the president of UPenn to denounce the university's refusal to denounce the Hamas massacre. More and more Jewish students have been speaking up about how unsafe they feel on north American college campuses, including at Ivy League universities. Here's anti-Israel protesters referring to Concordia University in Canada, proudly cheering to the statement, "We terrified them!"

In Germany, 85 years after Kristallnacht, they projected the words "Never again is now!" in the colors of the Israeli flag. Jewish people will remember the silence of those who condoned the massacre of our people, but we will also remember those who stood by us.

Yesterday, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad (PIJ) published a vid of two hostages, an elderly woman and a kid, 12 years old Yagel Yaacov. Once again, their texts are dictated by terrorists, so the media here is refusing to play along with this psychological warfare, and has not shown the vid. But a screenshot has been shared, showing the difference in Yagel state by comparing a pic of his from before Oct 7 (on the left) and in the vid published (on the right):

This is also a reminder that not all of the hostages were kidnapped by Hamas. While Hamas orchestrated the breach into Israel, the massacre and most of the kidnappings, other Palestinians, both terrorists and civilians, are known to have used the opportunity to infiltrate Israel, too. The PIJ terrorists are estimated to be holding at least 30 of the hostages. This makes reaching a deal that includes the release of all hostages that much harder. It's not known, but is possible, that there are others, aside from Hamas and PIJ, who are holding Israeli hostages as well.

Regarding even civilian Gazans having infiltrated Israel, as one example there's CCTV footage recovered from the entrance to kibbutz Be'eri at 12:16 on Oct 7, almost 6 hours after Hamas first tore down Israel's border fence, where you can see regular people from Gaza coming in, including even an old man with crutches:

I read an account in Hebrew by an Israeli mother of a guy who was there, during the massacre. She asked for her identity to remain anonymous. She wrote: "He's screaming every night, he calls for his friends to return, he screams that he's sorry, he stares at the sky for hours on end, he waits for them to return, my son survived, but he is not with us." Her son was one of the soldiers who fought off the terrorists on Oct 7. There are at least hundreds of Israeli soldiers currently being treating at mental health institutes after what they had witnessed during the massacre. Israel's social security estimates that there are altogether 13,000 Israelis who are being treated for mental health issues following the massacre. And that's just for the first day of the war.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #israelunderattack #terrorism #anti terrorism #antisemitism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #Instagram

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13as07 · 4 months

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Cats and Dogs #3

(Kiba Inuzuka)

[Artwork is not mine! Credit to rereren ren]

Requested by: Myself

Word Count: 4,200

Warnings and/or Pre-Notes:

[Reader] is a Neko (or as close as I could get with my rushed research and to go with the story line) per request

Threats of Violence

Name Calling: Mutt, Dog, Kitty

———————————————————————

I keep my eyes locked on the ground, a mix of emotions rolling around my head; pain still sizzling from Kiba's bite marks, nakedness from the lack of my headband, embarrassment from the collar - and once again, the bite marks - on my neck, and lastly, anger towards Kiba for making me feel all of this and for taking my headband with him. Dumb, stupid, smelly mutt.

Since Kiba still has my headband, I've spent the day trying to haunt him down. For my headband. I want my headband, and that's it. It's the only reason I'm wandering around the Inuzuka clan.

I - and most of my clan - usually avoid their territory for many reasons. Mostly the smell; their stomping grounds always smell like, well, dogs, and wet fur. Another part has to do with our clans' tension with each other. It's not 'war with each other' level but it's definitely 'jumping each other's members' and 'political fighting' level.

It's dumb that I'm here, especially by myself. I'm a cat prancing on the fence of a dog pound, and the dogs are catching wind of my scent. I should have shown up with a plan, I have no clue how to track Kiba down. I can't pick up on his scent, the smell of his clan overwhelming my nose. Unless he stumbles on my path or I ask someone, I'm going to be stuck wandering around.

I glance around the road, looking for someone who is somewhat not threatening looking. Everyone out here is either whispering or shooting me a dirty look so maybe it's not the best group of people to ask. I look around again, my eyes settling on a little pop-up store. That should work, I think.

I quickly scurry around the street, a few snapped jaws and growls shot my way as I pass people. I shove the door open, stumbling into the shop and making sure the door closes behind me. Not much of a line of defense but at least I can be certain no one will snatch me up from behind.

"Hello, welcome into - " the cashier starts, stopping when his eyes land on me. He blinks at me a few times, eyes rolling over my form before snagging on my ears. "What the hell is an Izuno doing on Inuzuka territory?"

"I - uh. I'm... looking for Kiba. Do you happen to know where he is?" I stumble out, my hands jumping up to cup my ears, suddenly feeling self-conscious about them. Maybe I should have taken them off.

"And what might a sneaky cat want with our Delta?"

"What?" I mutter, quickly blinking as I look over the man. Our two clans share a few traits; animalistic noises, collaring on occasion, heightened senses, and animal-based canines.

My clan however has a few things that Inuzuka's don't; Ears, bells, some even sport tails, and of course, elegance, grace, and balance that our dog counterparts don't have. I'm not sure what Inuzukas have that we don't but apparently, they have weird names. Rankings, maybe? Like Captain and such. Why the hell is Kiba called a delta? What the hell is a delta?

"I just... he has something of mine and I need it back," I shortly explain, glancing around the store. There's a stock-boy two aisles in front of me, squatting down, and poking his head around the shelves as he watches this play out. Two verses one; not terrible odds but not the best. I can take on two dogs.

"What might he have that you needed so bad that you're trespassing?" The clerk asks, teeth barred as he inches his way around the counter. He's bigger than the stock-boy; I should focus on taking him down first if it comes to that.

"He has my village headband. I can't go on missions without," I mutter, trying my best not to let my eyes slit; if I don't act like I feel threatened, they'll hopefully not feel threatened. Screw the village rules, screw the jounins for being the only ones allowed on missions without the headbands, and screw the Hokage for leaving my rank at chunin. "If it wasn't important, I wouldn't be trespassing. I just need the headband back and Kiba has it."

"Seems like something a sneak feline would lie about to incriminate our leader's son," the clerk growls, full around the counter now. The stock-boy has started inching forward too, fully out from behind the shelf but still low to the ground. "Do you know why us dogs are superior to you cats?"

"You're not," I hiss before I can stop myself, my eyes winning over and slitting. My vision slightly yellows, picking up every movement from the clerk's moving forward to the dust on the floor shifting because of the step. My canines and fingers ache too, prepared to rip something apart if a fight keeps brewing.

"Agree to disagree," Clerk grumbles, a soft wolf-whistle of agreement coming from the stock-boy. "Us dogs are better than you cats because we have our pack. We don't do anything alone, especially enter enemy territory."

"We're not enemies," I mutter, taking a step back. Would it be better or worse to stumble back onto the street? "Our clans have been in a truce for decades now."

"We all know that's fake," he cackles, taking another step forward. "It's a façade to keep the village leaders out of our business. Us dogs and you cats are still at each other's throats like we've always been. Personally, I haven't torn up an Izuno in a while. Boy," the clerk calls, flicking his eyes toward the stock-boy for a moment. "Have you ever ripped apart a cat?"

"No," the younger boy growls, his eyes glowing a soft green in the dim lighting of the store, causing my hair to feel like it's standing on end. "And - "

" - he's not going to," a voice cuts in, a hand landing on my shoulder. "We're at peace with the Izuno, don't go ruining that peace because you're an old-time racist."

The two men bow their heads a bit, the glow of their eyes snapping off. "Not liking cats doesn't make me a racist," the clerk says when he lifts his head, a glare still locked on me. "Even if the cat is an Izuno. The truce is as fake as the boy's hair color and you know it."

The stock-boy grumbles about his boss calling out his dye job, turning away to go back to work. "I don't think the truce is fake," the guy behind me mutters, moving closer so his arm rests on my shoulder, his hand dangling by my side.

The scent of Kiba envelopes me, tipping off who it is before I tilt my head back. Yep, definitely Kiba. His usual smirk isn't anywhere to be seen, his jaw is locked like I remember it being while he was chewing his way through my skin, his face as hard as stone and his eyes having a flicker of glow to them as he looks at the clerk. Unlike the stock-boy, his eyes glow a hazel color.

"Of course, you don't," the clerk mutters, sliding back behind the counter. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Mom placed an order, I'm here to pick it up."

"Yes, yes. Alph's order is all packed up and in the back for you. Feel free to use the side door," Clerk mutters, waving his hand toward one of the doors, his full attention still on the magazine he's reading.

Kiba nods, dropping his arm down to my hips before pushing me forward. I'm shoved across the store and through the door beside her releases me. "You know," he starts, leaving me be to peek through the different boxed orders. "When I said I would see you again today, I meant it as me running into you around the village. Not as you sneaking around my clan and almost getting yourself into a fight."

"I wasn't sneaking," I huff, rubbing my nose to lessen the smell of the room. It smells overbearingly like bleach.

"Whatever you want to call it, Kitty. Still, you shouldn't have come around alone. You should have asked Lee or Tenten or even Neji to come with. Shino would have been the best, the clan is accustomed to him being around and actually like him, surprisingly."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"So next time you come around you don't almost get bitten. Well, bite by someone other than me of course," Kiba shoots me one of his grins, closing the lid of the box he checked before picking it off the floor. "Come on, Kitten. I'll walk you home after I drop this off to Mom."

"I'm not coming around again and I don't need you to walk me home," I grumble, jumping forward to stand next to him when the door we just walked through opens. I cling to Kiba's arm, trying to ignore the feeling of it flexed from holding the box in his hands.

"Do you mind letting Alpha know I need her order a day early this week? The Mrs and I are going out of the village next week and I haven't trained the new guy on ordering yet."

"Sure," Kiba mutters, his tone rough and slathered in anger again. "Come on, Kitty," he grumbles, shifting his hips to push into mine. I reluctantly let go of his arm, scurrying forward to open the only other door for him.

Once we're out of the street, alone in the alleyway of the building, the anger leaves Kiba and he relaxes a bit. "Scaredy Cat," he teases, gently bumping into me before he heads down the alley.

"I'm not a scaredy cat," I scold, staying close to him when he leads me out of the alley and the safety blanket of darkness it offers.

"Ya? Why'd you grip my arm so hard then?"

"I was worried your wimpy arms were going to give out," I hiss, accidentally bumping into him, my attention focused on his clan members who are whispering and staring at us. The accidental bump paints a grin on his face again. "I have a question."

"I have a question too. A question for a question?" He chuckles, the sound cutting short when a member walks a little too close for my liking. Kiba notices right away, jaw locked as he stares down the teenager until he gives us some space. "Ask your question first."

"Why did the clerk call you a delta and your mom alpha?"

"They're a sort of pack ranking thing. My mom is the chief so she's alpha, my sister is her right hand so she's the beta, and I'm ranked after that so I'm a delta. Everyone else in the clan is called an omega."

"Like the writing thing?"

Kiba lets out an annoyed sigh, glancing at me for a moment before looking ahead again. "Ya, like the writing thing," he grumbles, shifting the box in his hands. "My turn," he adds, his smile back on his face. "Are the rumors about my dick great enough for you to walk into a wolf's den for it?"

He really knows how to burn through his brownie points and then some. "One, I came for my headband. Two, all the rumors about your dick start with 'five seconds' and 'three inches'. Three, you are descendants of dogs, not wolves."

"One, I forgot I had your headband. I meant to give it back before I left. Two, I can last for about fifteen minutes and go for quite a few rounds. Plus, my dick is nine inches. Just measured it this morning and everything. Three, dogs descended from wolves, so technically I did too," he teases, making sure to add in his penis brags.

"Of course, you're obsessed with your dick."

"Obsessed with putting it in you, ya," Kiba answers instantly, with no shame and not even a hint of teasing in his sentence.

"What?"

"You heard me."

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My eyes jump around the gates Kiba and I have stopped in front of. It's pretty, made out of dark black metal and twisted in a swirly design of two dogs facing each other, the tips of their noses touching in the center where the gates separate. 'Inuzuka Breeding Farm' is curved into the sign standing above the gates. I assumed Kiba's clan was in control of the in and out take of the dog population, I just never thought hard enough to figure out how much of it they controlled.

Chatter on the other side of the fence fills the silence that made itself welcomed during the rest of our walk, breaking up some of the tension between us. "Kitty?"

"Kiba?"

"My key card is in my left pocket, do you mind getting it out and scanning it for us?"

"Sure," I mutter, keeping my eyes on the ground as I carefully reach into his pocket. The smooth plastic brushes against my fingertips before I grab it. The word 'Delta' is stickered on the plastic above the scanning strip. The Inuzuka's take this dog ranking thing seriously.

I walk up to the fence, running the card through the reader. Once it's scanned, there's a pop and then the screeching of metal moving. Kiba moves forward without a single blink, walking through the gates and continuing to trudge along. I stand still for a moment, not sure if I should follow after or wait here. "Kitty?"

"Coming," I call back, scurrying forward to fall in step next to him. The last thing I need is to get corned by a pack of mutts. He seems to be beelining for the big barn in the middle of the field, a few smaller barns, and lots of different fenced areas surrounding it.

"Not yet, Pretty Kitty." A chuckle follows his boyish joke, making me roll my eyes at him.

I swear, the only thing Kiba thinks about is sex. "Is there anything rattling around that box for a brain of yours aside from your dick and using it?"

"Your eyes, usually. How soft and smooth your ears are too... and your thighs. I like how they jiggle and how they expand when you sit down. That shit is hot."

"You're a pervert," I mutter, looking at the ground again as I try to fight down the heat curling across my cheeks. He can't seriously like that my thighs double in size when I sit down... right?

"That's not perverted. What's perverted is I shoved my fingers into your scratches and thought about suffocating between your thighs last night."

"Shut up, Kiba."

"Yes ma'am," he answers, a hint of a giggle in his laugh. My face feels like it's on fire from his line of confessions. He is just a smelly dog. A dirty, smelly, horny dog that gets a kick out of toying with me... and saving me, apparently.

The doors of the building slide into my sight. They're barn styled, no surprise there. Like the front gate, the door is covered in a metal design; this one being three puppies dog piled on top of each other. "Is this the puppy barn?"

"Ya, it's the most annoying barn," Kiba mutters, shifting the box again. "It's always packed and busy. The moms, their litters, people coming in and out to look at and work with the dogs. It's just a lot." I hum along to his ramble, taking a few quick steps forward to scan his keycard again and push the door open for the both of us.

Instantly the smell of dog assaults my nose, making it scrunch up. The noise of barks, puppy chirps, and people attack my ears, the sound seeming a lot louder than it did outside of the building. Kiba was right, the barn is packed. Members of his clan are everywhere; some walking people around, some in the dog kennels, and some running around doing who knows what.

"This way, Kitty," he mutters, softly bumping into me to lead me down the right way.

I follow after him, my hand jumping up to cling to his elbow as I'm led through the crowd. People part for him as we walk, quite a few freezing and staring when their eyes land on me. "Where are we going?"

"The adoption room. Well, it's the room we use to expose the dogs to their potential owners to make sure everything clicks right but adoption room just sounds better."

"Oh," I mutter, tightening my grip on him when one of the members wrapped in a doctor's coat shoots me a glare.

Like clockwork, a door labeled 'Adoption Room' falls into view. This one doesn't have a keypad so Kiba can shoulder it open. When the door swings closed behind us, the noise gets muffled quite a bit. He continues leading me around the sitting room looking space, setting the box down on the coffee table. "Hey Mom," he mutters, snagging my attention.

I poke my head out from behind him, being met with a desk I didn't realize was there. Sat at the desk is a woman who looks a lot like Kiba, which makes sense since she's his mom. Her hair is crazier than Kiba's though, and a lot longer.

"Kiba," she greets back, looking up from the paperwork she was staring at. Her eyes instantly lock on me, her frown deepening. That can't be a good sign. "Dear Lord, what happened to that poor girl?" What?

Kiba goes to raise his hand, freezing for a moment when he notices I'm clinging to it. He switches arms, raising the one I'm not holding up to scratch the back of his head. "Me," he whispers, looking anywhere by his mother or me.

Heat returns to my face when I realize what she's talking about; the marks and collar around my neck. I look trashy meeting the Inuzuka chief right now, great.

His mother's face falls to her hands, rubbing her eyes as she lets out a long sigh. "When you told your sister you bit and collared your way into a partner, I thought you were kidding." Partner? Partner?! "Please tell me you at least gave the poor thing some proper disinfectant. Do you know the kind of illness she could get because you bite her too hard? The risks to her health and wellbeing they can cause?"

"I... did not... do that. But I'm going too," Kiba answers, racing the second half out in a single breath.

His mother mutters to herself, not bothering to raise her head from her hands. "Kiba, Kiba, Kiba," she mumbles, finally raising her head. "This is not how you treat your partner. Have you even taken the girl on a date? I doubt it. Take her on a date, do you hear me? Make him take you on a date. Somewhere nice, and expensive," she says, turning her attention towards me during the end.

"Yep, alright Mom. Will do," he answers, turning and tugging me towards the door.

"I'm not done lecturing you!" She yells after that, her voice being cut off by the door closing, the sound of the barn replacing it.

"So," I mutter, letting go of him and taking a step away.

"So," he echos, starting the walk back out of the barn. "I... might have... overshot us - you! - to my sister and she might have... told our mom."

"That's..." I start, scanning the different dogs as we make our way out. "... nice."

"Ya... ya... I might have... left out the whole... alley parts."

"But not the forced collaring thing?"

".... No... my - uh... my sister knows... about that."

"Cool," I murmur, dragging out the word. I click my tongue, scurrying out the door when it falls into view. "Now what?" I ask him once he's out of the building too.

He glances at me, cheeks blown out as he scratches his head again. "Well, I did save you today. I think that gains me a bit of a hangout before I walk you home."

"... fine," I mutter, running my tongue over my teeth as I stew on the new information just dropped on me. "We're not a thing though."

"I don't know about that. You are wearing my collar after all."

"By force," I hiss, crossing my arms over my chest as I wander after him. "We're not together."

"You're just playing hard to get. If you didn't like it - or me - you would have had Neji cut it off yesterday." Dumb mutt. Dumb cocky mutt that believes he has some wolfie claim to me. Dumb smelly mutt that I don't hate as much anymore. Dumb stupid mutt that makes me excited at the thought of being his partner.

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Kiba's house is... very dog. Four or five dogs are stretched out on the porch, one that I notice as Kiba's. Aka-something. His dog is the first to rise, slithering his way over to us. Unlike the other times I've seen him, the dog is pretty calm, even licking my fingers as his master greets him.

"Your dog doesn't hate me anymore," I mutter, rocking on my heels as I wait for him to unlock the door.

"Akamaru has never hated you. He just kind of vibes with me so he feeds off of our enemies-to-lovers thing."

"We're not... that's not a thing. Definitely not a thing we're doing."

"Sure," he mutters, holding the door open for me. Kiba is stupid. His lopsided smile is stupid. His lingering eyes on my thighs are stupid. His not-so-subtle grab of my ass when I walk by is stupid.

"Don't do that," I hiss at him, swatting at his hand. I let out a long sigh as I settle in the entrance, waiting for him to walk in. Despite the house being run by dogs, it's pretty nice. Lots of bright colors, lots of light filtering in from big windows, and lots of dog hair. Surprisingly, it doesn't smell like dog as much as I thought it would.

When Kiba does walk in, he grabs my wrist, using it to drag me around the house, up the stairs, and into his bedroom before he settles me in his bed. His blankets, along with almost everything in the room, are covered in the white fur of his dog.

My eyes jump around his room, my hands situated under my thighs as I sit on the edge of the bed. Almost every inch of his walls is covered in photos. A lot are of our teammates, a few of his sister and his mom, and a couple of random photos of things and people I don't know. My eyes snag on one of the photos. It's a picture of Neji sandwiched between Hinata and me on our last beach day. "How'd you get that?" I ask, pointing at the photo.

I glance around the room, not sure where Kiba is at. He's hunched over a laundry basket, searching the pockets of a pair of pants. At my call, his eyes flicker out, snapping toward where I'm pointing. "Whose camera do you think we used the whole trip?" Oh... ya... I guess it was Kiba's camera. "What? Sad I'm not stalking you?"

"No," I whisper, settling my hand under my thigh again. "Keeping it is stalking enough."

"You looked happy in it. It's one of the only times I've seen you smile. The only time I've managed to capture you smiling. You have a bit of a resting bitch face."

I can feel my resting bitch face deepen from the comment. "Sorry that I'm not as obnoxious as you dogs."

"It's cool," he says, a smile on his lips as he shrugs his shoulders. My headband dangles from his fingertips, the bell still securely tied to it. I lean forward to grab it, but Kiba moves it out of my reach. "Not so fast, Kitty. If you want it back, it's going to cost you."

"I earned my headband, then you stole it. Give it back."

"Nope," he hums, toying with it as a way to rub it in my face more. "It's mine until you pay up."

"If you're going to make me pay for it, I'll just order a new one." I knew this trip was going to be a waste. I should have ordered a new one and taken the unwanted vacation time as I waited for the new headband to arrive.

Kiba chuckles, tossing it onto the desk in the corner. The metal clinks against the wood, clicking and making the bell ding before it settles in its new spot. "I don't want money for it, Kitty. I want some more play time," he says, a wolfish smile on his face, canines poking out with the threat of more bite marks and eyes slit in their predatorial way as he takes slow steps forward. "So, Kitty, are you going to pay for a new headband or are you going to play with me?"

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