#i was on the edge of my rope and its like my soul was like 'wheres that petty bitch i know? are you really gonna let yourself be defeated

[eyestrain-addict]

[thekeystothebasement]

REQUEST!! Head empty just thinking about throwing the 141 guys on their back to ride the living soul out of them till they're babbling non sense+ including König and graves these boys are to die for🤤🤎🤎🤎

A/N: I'm slowly making my way through the requests, This one took me a bit longer than I expected. It was quite challenging writing similar prompts for different characters without sounding repetitive.I went hard on Captain Price and Ghost's parts but I sort of felt like the quality went down after that :(

Let me know what ya'll think!

Check out my post: WIPS and Requests if you're interested in what I have planned or curious about the rules I set for requests.

Captain Price:

You've been needy all day and Price hasn't been giving you the attention you've been craving.

He was constantly pacing around the base, in meetings, and never having an opportunity to be with you until you found one.

After wandering around the base like a lost puppy looking for its owner, you found Price at his office, sitting in his big leather chair.

You could hear him sigh out of frustration, rubbing his temple, you could see the exhaustion on his face.

Normally you would leave him alone or even convince him to rest but you were so fucking needy.

The ache between your legs only seems to grow by the second.

Seeing him lean back into his leather chair, legs spread and letting out a sigh of frustration you finally decided to pounce.

"Daddy" you whimpered as you bounced on his dick. You were riding him eagerly, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips. Normally Price would be so rough with you, pounding you against his desk and calling you a whore, his little slut. But Price couldn't even form a coherent sentence. Any words coming from his mouth were slurred as he looked at you with hooded eyelids.

"I'm a good girl, right?" you asked as you kept your relentless pace. "I'm taking care of daddy." you giggled as you felt him throb inside of you. You rocked your hips against him as you leaned closer to him and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"C'mon daddy, let it out." you whimpered. You gently nipped at his ear earning a throaty moan from him. "Let your baby take care of you. Be a good boy for me."

You let out a gasp at his weak attempt to thrust up into you, his nails leaving marks on your hips.

"Princess..." he whimpered

"Yes, sir?" you were smiling down at him, feeling him tense under you before shuddering as his cum shoots deep into you. His body goes limp on the leather chair as you continue to ride him, not satisfied with the amount of cum he gave you.

"Giving up already?" you pouted. You could feel his semen run down your burning thighs, leaving you even hornier.

"C'mon old man, your princess wants more."

Ghost:

Ghost never liked to relinquish control.

Whenever you tried to take the reigns you were always put in your place

On your back with your legs over his shoulder as he pounded into you, desperately trying to breed you.

Despite how good he made you feel, you always had the fantasy to be on top.

You wanted Ghost to be the one left quivering and begging.

You wanted to be the one in control. You wanted to be the one to be able to hold's Ghost pleasure over his head.

You wanted Ghost to beg you to let him cum, which is exactly what your ears are hearing.

"Fucking hell, don't do this to me, baby..." Simon pleaded. The rope tied around his wrist wouldn't budge no matter how hard Simon's hands tried to reach out to your body. He couldn't remember how many times you kept bringing him to the edge of pleasure, riding his cock and squeezing your warm wet cunt around him, to only pull away when you feel the familiar throb of his cock ready to burst his semen inside you.

"C'mon lieutenant..." you whispered into his ear as your fingernail traveled from his neck down to his chest. "I know you can beg better than that. How much do you want to cum inside this wet pussy." You teased.

You can see how red his tip was, practically ready to blow his load inside you with the slightest touch. His breathing was labored, his chest rapidly rising and falling. The rope tied around his ankles kept him from bucking his hips into you, as you hovered over him. Your pussy is just a few mere centimeters from his cock.

"c'mon princess..." he choked out, completely frustrated in the predicament he woke up to. "Please ride me..."

You couldn't help the wide grin that appeared on your face as you looked down at Simon. As soon as those words left his mouth you bounced down onto his cock earning a whimper from the man below you.

"As you wish lieutenant."

Soap:

You and Soap had made a bet after a heated argument in front of the 141 task force.

Somehow the topic landed on Sex

Soap had begun to brag that he could last hours to the point he'd outlast his partner which earned a snort from you.

All eyes landed on you at your reaction, Soap didn't take it lightly and thus started your mini argument

The argument ended when you and Soap agreed to have sex with each and see who would last the longest.

The group was astounded at the interaction and decided to stay at the bar longer than they planned as they watched you and Soap leave.

They did not want to be around you both as the bet took place.

"Johnny..." you panted as you looked down at the male before you. His eyes were squeezed shut as he roughly panted below you. "Admit it. You can't outlast me. My pussy is about to put you to sleep."

Soap could only whimper as you continued to bounce on his cock, vulgar wet sounds emitted by your actions. A ring of white can be seen in the base of his cock, the ring getting thicker and thicker as you continued to ride him. His hips would lazily try to meet yours, missing the rhythm you had set.

Your giggles echoed in his room as you felt his body stiffen, knowing his semen was about to be freed from their chamber. You could hear him babble nonsense as your cunt squeezed around his cock, squeezing the last bit of cum he had. Hissing as he nutted in you.

"you're a fucking minx..." he panted out. His hand tapped the inside of your cum covered thighs.

"Tapping out, Johnny?"

Gaz:

You and Gaz were the youngest members of the task force.

Because of this, you two got along well.

A little too well for everybody's comfort

It was no secret you two were fooling around with each other

Every member has their own experience catching you two in the act, mortifying all who were involved

But that never stopped you and Gaz from doing it again

The bathroom, kitchen, and even the sparring room were not safe from your lewd acts

Hell, you could imagine Price's shouting already

You were riding Gaz on Price's favorite couch, the worn-out fabric couch by the coffee table

"You got issues Gaz,"

Gaz was leaning back on the couch, 'coincidentally' the very spot Price sits on every day. He watched as you did all the work. Watching as your breasts jiggled with every bounce on his dick. He leaned further into the couch as you continued to belittle him.

"You like it when we get caught," you teased. "Pervert."

Gaz felt his eyes rolling to the back of his head, you were breathtaking, you looked so beautiful riding him. Your hands settled on his shoulders as you raised your hips and fell down on his cock, his balls slapping against your ass.

"Hurry up and cum Gaz," you gasped out. His fingers tightened around your hips as he edged closer and closer to the height of his pleasure. "Don't want the Captain to walk in and see me riding his favorite sergeant?"

"...fuck..."Gaz moaned. His eyes squeezed shut as he imagined your words. "...baby"

"Sick-fuck..." you teased. You quicked your pace, moving your hips in a circular manner. "You want the Captain to see me milk your cum from your balls?"

"shit..oh god..." Gaz cried out. You felt his body stiffen as he chanted 'yes baby' He could feel your walls squeezing around him, desperately trying to milk him.

As you feel his cum dribble down your thigh, your next set of words had him running through a list of emotions, his limp dick twitching inside of you despite his consciousness telling him how wrong it was to be getting hard in the situation he found himself in.

"Hi, Captain. Enjoying the show?"

Konig:

Konig's eyes followed you everywhere and you noticed for quite a bit of time.

You never really held a conversation with the tall male before.

He was too anxious to talk to you but whenever you approached him and try to converse with him, he could only reply with one-word responses.

Despite the lack of conversations, you enjoyed his presence.

You would be writing in your journal across from him and he would sketch on his sketchpad.

You've seen his sketches before, he was quite skilled and you rained compliments on him.

He would awkwardly laugh at your compliments, his mask hiding the big smile and blush on his cheeks.

Konig's body would soon stiffen under your next question, his hand harshly gripping at his sketchpad, and his pencil snapped in the other.

"Have you ever done nude art?"

You already knew the outcome when you suggested he draw you nude.

The devious smile on your face as you led him to your room and rid yourself of your clothes.

You admired Konig's self-control when he actually did try to sketch you nude but you had other plans.

"Mesmerize every square inch of my body." you panted. Konig was sprawled on the floor as you used his body for your complete and utter pleasure. His sniper hood was discarded in the room as his forearm covered his eyes, tears streaming down his face from the pleasure of your tight walls squeezing his overstimulated cock.

Whimpers and breathy moans escaped his throat and released into the room. Wet sounds resonated in the room as you bounced on his cock and scratched and clung to his chest.

"I'll remember..." Konig breathed out. "I'll remember...Scheiß...your curves..and...tight pussy"

You laughed at his weak attempt to reply to you, his sentence broken each time your ass landed on his balls earning whimpers and curses from the male. You could feel Konig's dick throb inside of you and his moans becoming higher and more frequent.

"Cum inside of me..."You begged. "and then you'll be able to draw me full of your semen."

Graves:

As soon as you got a glimpse of his eyes, you knew you were going to fuck him into submission

The way his eyes would shined when he stepped into the dinner and noticed a cute young waitress looking at him with a soft smile

He'd sit in a booth and pray you'll be his waitress for the night

He'd subtly flirt with you but you knew what you wanted and aggressively flirted right back at him

His eyes would follow your figure as you'd walk away, his eyes focusing on your ass

When you returned with his food you sat in the chair in front of him and kept him company as he ate his meal

Eventually, your boss yelled at you to get back to work, leaving Graves smirking at the small pout on your face.

You would lean down to his ear, his eyes gazing at your cleavage, your hand squeezing his shoulder as you whispered into his ear, "I get off at 10. If you'll wait for me, I'll make it worth your while."

You stood back up, dusting your skirt and sending him a wink before getting back to work

Despite the car having tinted windows, the rocking of the car and the smudged handprints on the windows gave away what was happening inside.

Phillip was sprawled on the car seat that was set all the way down, you were sat on his clothed dick, rocking your wet folds against the wet fabric of his briefs. His briefs stained with his cum and your arousal.

“C’mon baby….fuck,” Graves whined. “Let me fuck that pretty pussy of yours.”

You gave him false hope as you lifted your hips up and pulled down his briefs. You continued to rock your hips, your wet folds spreading your arousal on his red tip. You felt him shudder under your teasing, his eyes squeezed shut as his hands tried to grip the leather seats.

“Please stop teasing me, baby.” He begged.

You grinned at him, lining yourself up with his dick before you slowly eased him inside of you. Your eyes closed shut momentarily before the were snapped open, feeling Grave shoot his cum inside of you.

Your laughter filled the car as you began to bounce on his dick, whimpers and moans escaping from Graves.

“Was my pussy that good,” you questioned. “Fucking nutted just by being inside of me….Pathetic”

Graves couldn’t help but enjoy the way you degraded him, feeling your warm walls hug his cock, and the way yours eyes looked down at him. Your eyes looking at him as if he was a toy for your pleasure. Disregarding how sensitive he was from all your teasing, not caring how many times you made him cum inside of his briefs, his cum and your arousal mixed with each other, wet sounds emitted each time you lowered your hips all the way till his balls were tightly pressed against your ass.

“Shit….gonna fuck myself on your cock till the sunrise…”you said as you felt him throb inside of you once again.

“ if you can even last that long…”

[wp-blaze]

A Note on Memories: Birthday Cakes Made by Mom

There is nothing more perfect than a mother that spends hours crafting a magical birthday with every cent and ounce of time she can spare.

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

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Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader

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Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

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[5.5k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 6 "The Book"

Green.

Green spanning as far as the eye could see. A thick, overflowing forest accompanied by such humid air it made you nauseous and slightly out of breath. It did well to shield you from the sun and you no longer had to use your blazer as a substitute for a poncho and avoid a sunburn.

It took you nearly two days to stop gawking at the luscious flora once you’d set foot in it and the ghoul had found it necessary to bark a threat at you a couple of times when your feet had stilled to take in the scenery. You didn’t let his grumpy nature affect you though. You’d never seen such a view and you let your eyes feast with mouth ajar and hands fisted. Sticky mud, twigs, and leaves clung to the soles of your boots and the vapor you were sure was radioactive frizzed up your hair.

You’d expected the forest to be brimming with life, from animals to insects, birds, and critters, but there was nothing. When you took the time to recollect the past three weeks while silently following behind your bounty-hunter-turned-tour-guide, you hadn’t seen any birds. The bombs wiping them out was the obvious explanation, they were gentle creatures, they didn’t stand a chance and it was a melancholic realization. Bird songs were the symphony of nature and it was painful to know you’d never be able to hear it.

You adjusted the backpack strap away from your throat and rubbed at the sore spot before taking a few springy steps to catch up with the ghoul. His pace had quickened for reasons unknown and you had to jog to be able to keep up with him. It was tedious considering the slippery ground actively worked on slowing you down, but you’d take this over going a faceoff with the sun any day.

Humanity’s traces could be spotted scattered amidst the greenery, bits of metal sprouting from the dirt, tattered cloth at the bases of the trees, or hanging off low branches, a plane wreckage in the distance. It was comforting that other people had passed by your route and left a piece behind, an echo of their presence. You wanted to believe they were good because so far there hadn’t been a soul you had encountered that hadn’t tried to attack you.

WELCOME FOR TO TILLBURRY

A bright red billboard was risen high above the treeline, fastened to a multitude of wooden planks nailed together. The once pearl white paint was now a deep yellow with spangles of rusty brown, the words were peeling off, weathered down by time, you could tell even from where you stood.

You stand shoulder to shoulder, except the ghoul’s is more at level with your cheek. He kicks some buildup off his shoes and opens his canteen.

The settlement is right down the hill. Tillburry. You made it to Tillburry.

“We made it?” you release your lips from their toothy prison and your face lights up with an untamable grin. You beam up at him and shake his arm excitedly. “We made it, Mister.” your eyes dart back to the sign, you’re practically vibrating next to him. “I can’t believe it!”

He pauses between swigs and glances down to where you’ve taken hold of his wrist. His lack of reply stirs your attention and you follow his gaze, then let go and step away with a wary expression.

“Uh…Sorry. I just got a little – ” you’re tugging at the frilly edges of your dress anxiously, one foot readies on its toes if you spotted even a glimpse of a rope peaking from behind his back. “ – I didn’t – No tying up, please? My ankles are still sore from last time, Mister.”

You’re an eye-bat away from bolting, again, and it never works because he’s scarily good with a lasso, but you’re stupidly optimistic. Last time you’d gotten on his nerve he’d tied you up and hung you from the ceiling lamp of an old farmhouse, gagged as well, mind you, because you wouldn’t stop talking. At least, he’d been kind enough to take your shoes off so you could stretch your feet and keep the blood circulation going. The fact that he’d used you as a sentient coat hanger was less nice.

Then again, you’d gotten another dose of his scent while he’d had dinner by himself and ignored your existence for a good hour or two. It wasn’t all bad, or maybe it was but you were too dependent on him to protest against his unorthodox punishments.

“Ain’t no point.” he clicks his tongue and glosses over his canteen before tucking it away. “You don’ learn nothin’ cept how to complain harder.” he taps a gloved finger against the center of your forehead, forceful enough to have your neck tipping back and you scrambling for balance. “Thought you were supposed to be smart. How come nothin’ sticks in that lil skull o’ yours?”

“Mm, have you thought about maybe…” your eyes squint at his rough gesture and you pull away with a wince. “Maybe a nicer approach to your lessons, Mister?”

“Nice don’t keep you alive, Darlin’.” he doesn’t spare a breath before answering and after a moment you reluctantly nod.

His malignity and somber methods were a necessity both for your development and safety yet you wished it weren’t so. You wanted for a kinder world and less spilled blood and were likely one of many, but no one had the privilege of choosing what they were born into. Despite all ill circumstances, you were still lucky to be taken under the wing of an expert, taught how to survive by someone who’d lived so long and accumulated enough knowledge to fill a library.

It wasn’t peaches and marmalade up here, although you had a can of both stuffed somewhere in the depths of your backpack.

The hand which had been resting on his hip reaches for the hefty tato sack slumped next to his boot and he secures it over his shoulder before nudging his head towards the welcome sign.

“Les go.”

You’re hot on his heel, stomping down the mucky hill with acute prudence, your dress was already dirty, you didn’t need to add mud stains to the extensive collection.

The peaks and roofs of ramshackle buildings loom above the shabby fence surrounding the settlement, dyed in varieties of reds and yellows, some fully, others unfinished because there was no more paint to spare. The vegetation became sparse and the soil soon gave way to dusty gravel that crumbled delightfully under your boots. Once close enough for a better inspection, you notice the defensive walls are nothing more than plates and pieces of different scrap metal bolted together. A swirl of barbed wire is draped on the top and rotting pikes are sticking out from the base.

It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome you were expecting.

Anxiety and excitement kept you glued to the ghoul, mostly hidden behind his unfriendly frame. A meager excuse came up as a means to start up a conversation that might ease your quickening pulse and sweaty palms. You decided to keep the silence, though, opting to restrain your questions for a later time, when there was less tension built up on his shoulders and his fingers weren’t instinctively gliding over the handle of his pistol.

You heard the marketplace before you saw it. Your stomach flipped once you stepped beyond the open town gates, now being able to put faces to the buzzing chatter lingering in the air.

“Holy moly…” you gasp with brows raised high and your step falters.

It was busy.

After years of solitude and countless dreams of a normal pre-nuclear war life, after nearly a month in the company of a single man who preferred action over word, the reality of civilization crashed into you like a boiling wave. Hot prickles pinched at random places around your body, beads of sweat are already trickling from your armpits and your skin becomes clammy. With a heart lodged in your throat, you stumble forward, giving in to the ghoul’s rough tug on your wrist.

“Keep movin’.” his rasp fails this time, impossibly outmatched by the turbulence simmering inside you.

“Mm…sorry.” it’s an empty apology, insincere because he sees your eyes flitting and knees wobbling.

You never expected the settlement to be this…overwhelming.

Strangers are passing by and blending together in a jumbled blur of worn-out clothes and limbs. Carts are being rolled between the isles, restocking items as soon as they’re bought, and smoke lingers high above your head, amassed from chimneys, food booths, and cigarettes.

You find it difficult to breathe the more information your short-circuiting brain is forced to process.

“Get your RadAway right here good people! Three for the price of one – ”

“ – Cactus fruit for sale! Fresh out the – ”

“ – Bullets, guns and more bullets – ”

Stalls were huddled together, adorned with junk and trinkets, things you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. And even if the owners already had at least one customer looking over their products, they still hollered at the crowd bustling around them. There’s a heavy stench in the air, of car oil and lack of hygiene, sweat and musk blending in with roasting meats that smell like no animal you’ve eaten before.

Shopkeepers had the doors to their establishments open, waving over weary wanderers with promises of a good time and helpful products.

“Stimpaaaks! Rad-X and more! Whatever your heart desires! Save a life! Buy a stimpaaak!”

You avoided eye contact, keeping your sights low and only skimming over the intricacies of the stands. The flood of strangers was cordial enough not to bump into you, but when a roasted cricket was shoved in your face and behind it a pair of foggy blue orbs stared right into your soul you recoiled.

“Ah, no thank you, Sir!” you give the merchant a wide apologetic smile and lift a hand to your mouth.

You latch onto the ghoul’s forearm when the merchant’s face falters for a split second before he’s already trying the unfortunate person behind you. For a moment there you’d thought he’d pounce on you, there was no telling considering the man looked half-dead.

“Aww, was wrong, Sweetheart?” your bodyguard barks out a laugh, sneering down at you. “Don’ want a cricket on a stick?”

You don a thin-lipped, unimpressed expression and detach yourself from him.

“I’ll stick to crackers and canned beans, thanks.”

His teasing tone unwittingly shook off a part of your anxiety. The overstimulation eases to a broiling irritation and most of the smells and sounds fade behind a wall of ignorance. You still sweat more than you’d like, but your pulse nestles back into a steady rhythm. You take a breath and squeeze your palms a few times, working through an alien mental exertion as your face settles with neutrality. 

“Suit yourself.” he snorts, guiding you towards a particular stand. “Dunno what you’re missin’ though.”

“Think I’d rather keep it that way.” you murmur under your breath and turn back for a more in-depth examination of the unappealing delicacy. “…Yeah.”

Bugs…Who eats fucking bugs?

There’s a steaming caldron propped up over a steady fire, but you can’t discern the scent and your upper lip is already twitching into a disgusted scowl. The owner has his elbows resting on the display counter, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled to just below his meaty biceps. His thick mustache spreads into a delighted smile and he abandons his hunched-over posture when he notices your uncanny duo approaching.

“Welcome! Browse at your leisure.”

“One o’ those.” the ghoul motions towards the cauldron and you’re ready to fight back nausea, anticipating a monstrous fiend turned snack to emerge.

You were wrong.

The man sinks a ladle inside the lively water and fishes out a potato.

“Oh.” you blurt without a second thought.

“What d’you think it was?” he tosses a few caps on the counter and plucks the boiled potato from the merchant’s ladle and you can’t help but grimace.

“At this point, nothing would surprise me.” you answer honestly, then cock your head with a face scrunched at the unnerving sight. “Doesn’t that sting? He just…y’know…took it out of the water?”

Does this man honestly have no pain receptors or is he just high again? Either way, you were left stunted every time he took a blow without a flinch. From bullets to hot potatoes, nothing could scathe him.

“ ‘S fine.” he blows away the steam and unfastens his hunting knife to cut a sizable piece from the top, then tosses it at you.

You catch it with a precious glint in your eye, graced with a bittersweet smile. Him willingly splitting food was a new addition, but an act you cherished fervently. A display of custody so fleeting and illusive it was unclear how intentional it was.

Then the heat finally registers and you’re forced to juggle the mushy piece between your hands.

The ghoul dips his half in the disturbed salt pile next to the fresh vegetable crate, and you mimic him once the potato has cooled enough to hold. He’s already moving and you follow closely behind while giving your treat a few more needed puffs and tapping off the excess salt.

“So what are we looking for now, Mister?” you ask and dodge bumping shoulders with a dazed old woman while adopting a steady tempo by his side. You’re looking up at him with wonder while sinking your teeth into the potato and he’s very tempted to lick his thumb and try to wipe off that incessant glee from your face.

“Trader’s shop.”

“Oh, right! For the Pip – ” a hand is harshly smacked over your mouth. He shakes his head curtly and his mouth dips into a short-lived frown; you clear your throat and nod in understanding.

Right…Everything from the vaults was considered a rare treasure on the surface. People were ready to kill for a single one of the items each of you was carrying. Caps flowed whenever a mint-condition lint roller was involved, let alone more practical things. And Pip-boys were at the top of the pyramid. They were priceless. Some would sacrifice a limb to get their hands on one because it meant they were settled for life.

You scan over the current of wanderers for any prying eyes but find none. It was too noisy; your words had been drowned out the moment they’d escaped.

Maybe you should try not to forget you aren’t living in a vault anymore…

You hold onto a wrinkle at the back of his coat as he cuts through the busy market, then wipe away the remnants of potato bits with the back of your hand.

Everything seems to have the same coat of decomposition to it, from the persons to the buildings, but it has a charm to it, it’s lively and somewhat welcoming.

Familiarizing your surroundings presents you with a feeling of peace and the anxiety is finally washed away for good. Well, as long as you keep reminding your self-centered doubt that nobody’s gawking at you or paying you any mind. You’re just a nobody lost in a sea of nobodies and you like it that way, just you and the ghoul minding your business, not being threatened or attacked or anything that would coerce you into taking action.

A safe haven. Finally.

A gargled moo pierces through the din of chitchat and your head snaps. And there, amidst the stalls a cow is lazily sloshing at a bucket of water while simultaneously rearing its snout around and sniffing the air because it has two freaking heads. It looks skinned, reminds you of your grumpy gunslinger and you can’t help but titter. You make a turn towards it, handholding with your nosiness. Then you reassure the concerned squeal at the back of your head that you’ll find your way back by the distinguishable cowboy hat sticking out like a sore thumb in the crowd.

Just a closer look and then you’ll be right back by his side.

A two-headed cow. How fascinating!

Your escapade is short-lived. An iron grip takes hold of your backpack no more than five steps in and jerks you back. The strap digs into your throat and you gag with a backward blunder.

“Ehugh – ”

“ – The hell you think you’re goin’?”

The back of your head collides with a solid chest and you gaze up to meet an acquainted scolding face.

“The cow. It has two heads.” you answer candidly, blinking up at him, dumbfounded. “I – ” your lips purse as you briefly mull over your next sentence. “ – I wanted to see it up close?”

“ ‘S called a brahmin, Darlin’.” he’s unimpressed with your revelation, lets you go, and spares a brisk, disinterested glance at the mutated cow.

You dust off his crude gesture and smooth out your dress and backpack. His barbarian tactics are slowly losing their charm; he makes a mental note to up the ante in the future.

“How does it work though. With two heads?”

“Take one good look a’ me ‘n tell me if I’m a fuckin’ vet.” his arms are crossed over his chest, weight rested on one hip. You disregard his snappiness as your eyes roll from him back to the brahmin.

“Do they bite?” you know it’s probably a herbivore, but considering its disfigured state and the scarce vegetation along your journey, you have reason to consider other possibilities. With a palm placed on your waist, you tap a forefinger against your hipbone in thought. “Can I pet it?”

“No. Now move.” he grips your upper arm like a disgruntled father and drags you forward as you keep your neck craned to the side to stare at the cow over your shoulder. “Ain’t got all day.”

“But – ”

“ – You stray more than two feet away ‘n I’m puttin’ a leash on ya.” he hisses you into silence and presses onward, towards the last few remaining stands.

The thickness of the crowd lightens as you approach the end of the market. Once you manage to escape all the fuss and buzz you give a gentle pat to his wrist and he releases you with a warning grunt to keep close.

Given more room to note the architecture and structure of Tillburry, it reminds you of an old cowboy settlement rather than a pre-apocalypse town. The buildings are raised in such a peculiar array, all random and each one different. There are no traditional houses, per se, everything is turned into a business, from a shady hospital to a loud bar made guest house because even travelers need a bed sometimes. You see a few tire-ridden trailers, but even they have a makeshift sign plastered on the door offering services for caps.

A label scribbled with coal rests above the entrance to a two-story shack.

Trade & Barter – If it exists, we have them!

Mm…Maybe you could become the local English teacher, give the folk a few grammar lessons, put that multi-subject dossier in your head to the test. Make theory into reality and try your hand at machinery, build a lamp or do some testing and create a water purifier. From what you’ve read, it’s not that difficult, but the materials needed can range from tricky to impossible to scavenge.

You step onto the wooden porch of the trader’s shack, the bell above the door springs to life when the ghoul enters and you follow suit.

First things first, you had to figure out if you were going to continue travelling with him or if he was going to keep his word and let you settle here. There was a small chance he’d forgotten and if you didn’t mention it, he’d let you trudge along. Tillburry was a nice place, but you’d choose him over anything else if you had to pick.

“Evening good people!” a scrawny old man peaks from behind the counter accompanied by a symphony of metal clanks and a few curses. He dusts off his hands and plants them over the register with a crooked smile. “Mah name’s Hank. Now how can I help you lot?”

He eyes the ghoul in an odd manner, then you.

“Oh, it’s you…”

“Got another deposit t’ make, old man.” said ghoul slaps all five Pip-boys on the counter and rests on one of his elbows as he leans down. “Thousand caps up front, the rest every few months till you pay em in full.”

You have to squint when Hank’s eyes bulge out of his skull and he hastily stuffs the merchandise under his desk.

“You tryin’na get me robbed?!” he straightens to look over the windows then hunches down and continues with a hand cupped over the side of his mouth. “Where did you find so many?” he pauses then, a certain grimness to his face. “Never mind, don’t wanna know.”

Your vision is overflowing with all the junk strewn about, hanging off walls, stuffed in dusty display cases, over tables and windowsills, there’s items even on the floor. Most of it is weaponry and repair parts, a trinket here and there, a greasy comb, gold teeth, and a half-built robot of some sort. You lightly kick at a stray margarine cap abandoned on the floor, then stop when an elbow is roughly dug into your side.

 You spare your assailant a bitter glare while tenderly massaging away the pain, then click your tongue but relent at the curt “behave” you’re tossed back. 

The trader has the light strapped to his forehead shining down on the Pip-boys. He fiddles with each one briefly, turning the cog and testing the menus, then tries them all on his wrist to check the security of the straps. He’s humming, muttering something incoherent while evaluating the treasures from your vault.

“We doin’ business or not, Grandpa? They ain’t fucken’ fake.”

“I might be old, but I’m still a babe compared to you.” Hank spits back with surprising vigor and disappears under the counter. “Now have an ounce of patience you grumpy bastard. Gotta check em or else Imma be the one dealing with the consequences.”

“Sorry?” your attention darts back to the ghoul who’s suddenly avoiding eye contact. “How old did you say you were, Mister?”

“Ain’t you got junk t’ stare at?”

The remainder of his reply is cut short by a snort of a laugh erupting from behind the register.

“Oh, he’s ancient that one.” the trader resurfaces with an old plastic bag stuffed to the brim with caps, he ties it neatly and pushes it forward. “Been around since – ” he sputters, frozen solid as the edge of a hunting knife is pressed flush against the collar of his shirt. “Right…” he swallows once, then gently steers the blade away with the tips of his fingers. “Ain’t my story to tell, sorry Lil miss.”

“Sure ain’t.” the ghoul nods, lower lip slanted.

“Uhm…can I – ” you pipe in and set your backpack between the two before blood is spilled. “ – Can I trade too?”

“Sure you can.” Hank nudges towards you, hands clasped together and stubby fingers intertwined in silent anticipation for your upcoming offer. “Watchu trading?”

You’re rummaging through supplies, pushing away food cans and bottles of water until you reach the very bottom of the bag. You grip a thin, plastic wrapper and force it past the sea of provisions before showing your open palm to the trader.

“Is this worth anything?”

“Well, well.” he snatches the item and settles the glasses dangling from his neck on the bridge of his nose as he concentrates on the label. “Pristine condition too. You don’t see these around much anymore.”

“A toothbrush.” the gunslinger is scowling when you turn to look at him. “You brought a fuckin’ toothbrush?”

“Three actually. One for each of us and a spare in case I lost mine. Which reminds me!” you’re digging through the bag again briefly before plunging another packaged toothbrush into his face. “Here’s yours.”

He plucks the damn thing from your grasp while you keep up a sickly sweet smile, twirls it in his fingers and he would have been annoyed if he wasn’t already so thunderstruck.

“Why do you have to be like this…”

“Twenty-five caps.” the trader declares and stuffs the merchandise in his back pocket.

“Deal!” you exclaim and gather up the caps as soon as they’re set on the counter.

“Workin’ through your debt already, Sweetheart?”

You squint at the question and shuffle away from your interrogative companion. Your foot is already tapping incessantly against the floorboards, a dead giveaway.

“Yes?” you clear the lump in your throat and lift your nose towards a book hanging just above a display cabinet. “But also I wanted to buy – ”

“ – No.” short and stern, no wiggle room. “You ain’t wastin’ no caps on a damn book.”

“Why not? They’re my caps.” you ask, but are promptly ignored when he gives you a cold shoulder and turns back to Hank. You aren’t even graced with the courtesy of debate.

With a regretful look, you secure your backpack over your shoulder and give the tome a last, pained glance as you rub at your upper arm.

“Gimme five packs o’ Grey Tortoise too.”

Hank stacks the cigarette packs in the ghoul’s outstretched hand before leaning back with a nod, instigating the end of their trade.

“Good doing business, Cooper, now get the hell out before I go bankrupt.”

You snort before you realize it.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!”

Your body freezes and you’re looking straight ahead as your teeth clamp down on your lips. The laughter bubbles, pushing against your chest and throat and you barely manage to inhale a shaky breath.

“There somethin’ funny, Smooth-skin?” the ghoul, Cooper, tantalizingly engulfs you under his frame. Each hand is gripping the counter, on either side of you, as he forces his chest into your shoulder blades and leans down until his voice is right in your ears. “Hm?”

“No.” you rasp, and your jaw clenches immediately after as your vision blurs with tears and you’re fighting so hard not to fucking cackle. You’re suppressing yourself so violently that you’re shaking. “No, Sir.”

His name is fucking Cooper. The deadly gunslinger, the boogeyman, the ruthless killer, the zombie cowboy. Cooper…

You can’t breathe.

“I’m gonna…Gonna wait outside, Sir.” you proclaim with a strained voice and slip out of his dangerous embrace, ducking under his armpit and heading towards the exit with stiff footing.

After securing the caps and cigarettes in his bandolier, he’s ready to follow, but a curt whistle from Hank stops him and he turns back to see the man waving him over. Already lacking patience for the upcoming exchange, he sighs and spares you a once-over to make sure you’re out of ear reach, and then he’s back at the counter, glaring.

“Go on.”

You shift to the left of the door, leaning back against the windowsill and leaving your backpack to rest between your feet. The world is slowly dimming, crickets deftly chip in the distance and it would have been pleasant if you hadn’t known they can grow as big as your arm. A few people pass by, scuttling towards either their homes or the bar opposite of where you stand. Besides a muffled murmur, there’s nothing you can catch from the conversation and curiosity gnaws at your gut, but you don’t have the courage to peek inside the shop and risk getting caught. A steady whizz as the minutes pass by, you don’t care for being left out, there’s already too much you’ve witnessed and endured that you wished you never had.

An abrupt rise in octaves catches your attention and your eyes flick to the side. Something in their exchange wasn’t going right, a topic was unraveled that was acrid for both parties and you curse at your limited hearing for being unable to catch any particular words.

A storm comes out the door that nearly knocks the bell off and startles you. You step back to avoid him in his blind fury, a distinct “oof” escaping you when the book is blindly thrust into your stomach. The sun has sunken, and an array of moths flutter around the swaying light bulb above the trader’s entrance and despite Cooper’s soured mood, you’re happy to have him back. Plus, he’d relented and gotten you the book, either he or the shopkeeper had pitied you enough to hand it over.

You’re dancing around him like a butterfly, the title “The Count of Monte Cristo” bouncing in and out of sight as you twirl the tome around.

The bar is well-lit, Christmas lights hang from the windows and roof, and he’s headed straight toward it. The atmosphere is unpleasant, whatever discussion he’d had with Hank had left a sour taste on his tongue, pinched some nerve that you could only guess.

“Thanks, Mister.” you try with a soft note and secure your present under your armpit for safekeeping, hoping a little sugarcoating might help ease his frustration. “I’ll cherish it forever.”

He pays you no mind, not even when you pinch the sleeve of his coat to keep in toon with his hasty stride.

“I like your name.” you peep through the mingling silence and glance up to find a strained expression and a sharp glare directed away from you. Your smile does nothing and falters quickly.

There’s a gap there, one that didn’t exist until you left him to converse in private with the old trader. The lingering question of whether you’re staying here or going with him is dismissed for the moment despite the time you have together ticking away. There’s malice building on his features the longer he stays locked away in his head and your words drift past him without effect.

“Mister?”

No response.

It’s when you wrap a hand around his wrist just as he’s about to burst into the bar that he stops.

You release a breath and ignore your skittish nature yanking at you to run, or apologize and hope for the best. There’s a clog in your throat and you feel the air becoming harder to intake, but that doesn’t stop you.

“Whatever he said isn’t true.” your eyes search the display of shells fitted over his chest, then flick up to find his. “You’re not a bad man, Cooper.”

It’s a shot in the dark because you don’t know what was said or done. But this is better than leaving him to sulk. He gets to know that you’ll stick by him no matter what happens. You’ll be there, even if the whole world turns against him, he’ll have someone who will stand by him.

“I’m a rotten man, Sweet pea.” his gaze is steady as he replies. He doesn’t believe you and not because you’re naively spewing words of comfort, but because he’s seen a lot more than you. He remembers the things he’s done and will keep doing and he knows himself well and you’re just plain wrong. “You jus’ don’ know it yet.”

“You’re a survivor.” you repost, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “And we’re all a little rotten inside.”

He rests a hand on your head, then moves to slump an arm around your shoulders and puffs out a breath. He’s not up for such a conversation, not now, not with you.

You don’t know him, not really. You don’t know that his vials are running dangerously low while your presence is turning into a solid option to get more. There’s a good reason he’s kept you safe and barely scathed and it’s not a measly three hundred caps.

And you hadn’t done anything to deserve such a fate, but his life came before yours, a rule of survival that you’d never learn.

Hank had had his suspicions the moment he’d laid eyes on you, but it wasn’t his business and despite having grown soft from decades living in a settlement, he had no right to dictate how others survived in the wasteland.

It might be cruel to keep you in the dark while your life is being weighed by a constantly shifting scale, but the ghoul would rather you enjoy the time you have left. Maybe they’d be kind and sedate you before harvesting your organs and you’d remember him as the hero he wasn’t, or maybe you’d grow a brain and stay in Tillburry. At least now he has the caps to buy off two large whiskey bottles and wash away the image of your face when struck with betrayal.

He was a survivor, you’d said so yourself, he did what he had to do, but that stupid conversation and Hank’s stupid expression wouldn’t budge from the back of his eyelids.

“What’re you gonna do if she doesn’t stay here though?”

“There’s always Super Duper Mart.”

“Oh, by the way.” your voice is a spark in the void of hopelessness, ripping him out of the maze of thoughts he’d unwittingly fallen into. He leads you through a haze of clinking tankards and lively, drunken chatter, a heavy smog of cigarette smoke that makes your nose wrinkle, and dim lighting to hide people’s identities. But you’re just happy to be with him and it’s visible by the perky smile on your lips. It’s painful to look at. “My name is – ”

“ – Don’t.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 7 >>>

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[keenvictory]

Hi Lovely~

Synopsis: KINK Alphabet 

: ̗̀➛ Featured Characters: Jacob Alden x Gn!Reader

̗̀➛ Content Warnings: Pure nsfw! Stalking, dubious consent / voyeurism, somnophilia, BDSM dynamics and kink talk.

̗̀➛  Additional notes: Jacob Alden is my girlfriend, my babygirl, my sweet puppy. I wrote this in 2 days with nothing but lust in my heart. Go play the Lurking for Love Demo right now if you haven’t! 

A = Aftercare | Oh someone please take care of this poor, big puppy. Whether he’s domming or subbing this guy is gonna be spent, he just can’t help but give his all for you, even when big, wet tears are dripping down his cheeks and he’s shooting blanks, he can’t get enough of you. Tell him he did good and he’ll just melt, Jacob is nothing but putty in your hands in those first few minutes of post-sex bliss. He’s nothing but good to you, after he’s pulled himself out of that lusty haze. Fresh water, homecooked meals, his big, soft arms, there’s nothing he wouldn’t give you for treating him so good... Well, except your freedom. 

B = Bondage | Jacob prefers to do the tying, rather then being tied up himself. Anything is good, rope, handcuffs, tape if he’s in a hurry. Seeing you tied up and waiting for him, unable to run, to resist, goes straight to his cock every time. The first few times he couldn’t tear himself away from that camera, capturing every perfect angle, every push and strain of the restraints, every flush or shiver of your skin. He didn’t dare blink, as if you’d disappear the second he looked away. Of course, you can’t, not when you’re tied up like that, as soon as he remembers that he can’t keep his hands off you. Can’t hurt to nudge him in the right direction though. 

Despite his preference, he’ll happily let you tie him up, at first, until he realizes he can’t reach out and touch you when his arms are tied up, and then its a session of sweet, sweet torture.  

C = Collar | Jacob would cum through his jorts if you gifted him a collar. Doesn’t matter if its supposed to be for you or him, its a guaranteed way to make an instant mess of the man, in his pants, and in his heart. The Collar itself is just as likely to make him cry as it is to make him cum, but a leash attached is purely erotic. Tug it while he gives you head, let the rough band of leather tighten around his throat and he’ll moan like he’s on the brink of something divine. Outside of play he’d adore something like an eternity day collar, subtle enough to wear it out and about, with that darker pull of being owned by the other, forever.

D = Dominance | Switch Jacob soothes the soul. Honestly, he’s just happy to be with you no matter what, what does it matter who’s in control, as long as you’re beside him or in him or on top of him. Whether he’s fucking you into the mattress, or letting you fill him up so good, he is totally smitten with you. 

E = Edgeplay | This man can’t edge to save his life. He wants you so badly, all the time, and when you are just so so close he can’t help it, he wants to hear all the sounds you’ll make, he wants to see the exact moment that coil of want and heat inside you snaps. Once you get him started, its hard to get him to stop. But he’ll try so hard if you ask him to, every edge driving you both mad with need.

 Edging him, however, is a beautiful sight. He’s so wonderfully needy, and so vocal about it too. He’ll beg you to let him cum, promise you anything you want, give all of himself to you if only you let him cum, just once, you can edge him all night afterwards if you want, just once, please. It’s a perfect balancing act, right on the edge of overwhelming. Jacob loves basking in your attention, when you’re so focused on him, on teasing him and bringing him right to the edge, it hurts so good. You might have to tie him down, though, he’s desperate enough to act out and take what he wants by force if you don’t. 

F = Feelings | In the moment, he feels nothing but euphoric, he’ll do anything, say anything, so long as you keep looking at him, keep touching him like that. Pride goes out the window the moment you have your hot mouth on his cock. Nothing is too embarrassing to say, no amount of begging too needy. The next morning, however, is a different matter. He gets embarrassed about the filthy things that fall out of his mouth when he’s close, promises himself that next time will be different, that he won’t make a fool of himself to you this time. That too goes out the window when your hand slips beneath his waistband. 

G = Garments | Jacob loves lingerie of all and any kinds. You dressed up just for him? In an outfit so seductively revealing only he can ever see it? Be still his beating heart. The outfit itself doesn’t matter, be it leather, or lace, or a sexy nun costume from Spirit Halloween, he’s hard as stone and fumbling for his camera. That’s the only downside, to putting on something sexy for him, you’ll have to wait an hour while he captures every angle of you in that get-up, unless of course, you do something to distract him from that precious camera. 

H = Heated | He isn’t really the hate-sex type, not when his obsession with you runs so inhumanely deep. Possessive sex, on the other hand, is a given. He’ll be at it for hours, making you cum over and over until you’re seeing stars, muttering to himself that he’s the only one who can make you feel this good, he’s the only one who can see you like this, who can make you squirm like this. He’ll fuck away any memory of the stranger who asked for your number until all you can think about, all you want, is him. 

I = Importance | Kinks aren’t a deal breaker for Jacob, he might be a little mopey and a little clingy if you aren’t one to lavish praise (he only wants to make sure he’s doing a good job), but his lust for you can’t be shaken from one unshared fetish. If there’s anything he really needs to get his rocks off, he’ll just put his depraved imagination to use.

J = Just Kidding | He’s a little awkward about broaching the kink subject, bless him. He’d have a much easier time of it if he was sure it was something you were into before bringing it up, he doesn’t want to scare you off with something unusual. He probably stalks your browser history to try figure out what you’re into before asking if it’s something you’d be into. He’s too nervous to ask you to praise him directly, but it’s pretty easy to infer when he, panting and sweaty, asks you if he’s doing good while he’s nestled between your thighs. 

K = Kinks | Praise this man!! Call him a good puppy while he eats you out, tell him he fills you up so good when he bucks into your soft flesh, or that he takes you so well and watch him practically preen against you. He’d be accidentally into overstimulation, he rarely goes in with the intent to overstimulate you or himself, but he gets a bit overexcited, and can end up overstimulating you both if you don’t coax him back a little. You’re just so gorgeous when you moan like that, how can he possibly be satisfied only seeing you cum once? He’d definitely be into experimenting with power dynamics in your relationship, that man would let you walk him like a dog, lets be real. 

L = Limits | This man would rather die then be cuckolded. If you brought it up, even as a joke, you could watch the light die in his eyes in real time! Anything that involves other people touching or looking at you sexually is a no go for him. You’re all his, and he doesn't like to share his toys. Degradation would also be a tricky one for Jacob. He loves you so much, talking down or harshly to you doesn’t come naturally, it’d have to be negotiated well beforehand for him to even consider it. 

M = Masturbation | Yes, oh yeah. He’s already tried masturbating with you, long before you got together. Pressed up against your clothes in your closet, staring through a crack in the door and surrounded by your scent. Desperately stroking himself, and trying his best not to moan, not to breathe too loudly, too hard, and alert you to his watchful presence. Timing his strokes to your own movements, watching every twitch of your hips, every flutter of your eyes. He’d jump at the chance to take it further, to watch you up close, to time his orgasm with yours. Forgive him if his hands wander, either to grab his camera or to touch you, he really can’t help himself. 

N = Noise | Jacob is incredibly talkative during sex, even if its just muttered or whispered mostly to himself, it’s an old habit from... a lot of masturbating with nothing but his hand and a good imagination. The only way to shut him up is to let him give you head, but he’s always an enthusiastic volunteer for that he’ll end up moaning into you, his breathing loud and ragged. He’ll rant and rave about how good you feel, how much he loves you, how gorgeous you look when you moan like that and too many obscenities to count. He usually ends up embarrassing himself with the things he says, but he just can’t seem to stop himself either.

O = Orgies | Wanting to share you, in anyway, is a difficult concept to get his head around. He doesn’t want anyone else, why do you? Is he not good enough? Does he not satisfy you? It leads him down a spiral of self-doubt that isn’t pleasant for either of you. If you manage to convince him that it’s something you want to experience as a couple, like a swingers event, he might be more open to it, but that’s a long and hard road to go down. 

P = Porn | Homemade porn is Jacobs thing, secretly snapped photos of you asleep, or in the shower, or getting changed are printed and fucking painted with cum within minutes. He doesn’t feel the need to use porn from strangers, not anymore, not when he has you. At the start of his obsession, when he’s hungry for you but hasn’t yet taken enough photos to satisfy himself, he might scour the internet for pornstars with your features, with the same color hair, the same body type. It doesn’t quite sate him, though, nothings as good as the real thing, and he ends up feeling worse for having tried. Strangely, he feels more ashamed of trying to find porn that looks like you, then making his own without you knowing. 

Q = Questions | Jacob is pretty curious about kinks, and is fairly open to trying a lot of new things with you. He wants to make you feel happy and satisfied at the end of the day, he doesn’t really mind if he has to put on cat ears and the maid dress to do that. A lot of things he’d try at least once, topping, bottoming, pegging, outfits, chains, paddles, even doing stuff outside, if that's what you wanted. So long as you can keep it between the two of you, he’s willing to try. 

R = Roleplay | It’s one of those things Jacob would be too embarrassed to bring up, but willing to try. You’re already his biggest fantasy, he doesn’t need or particularly want you to pretend to be anyone else. But he’s happy to be the priest, or the pizza delivery guy, or the handsome stranger you’re picking up from the bar for a one night stand, if you want him to. Roleplay that lets you both be yourselves, but play out a different scenario he’d like the most, he doesn’t want you calling out anyone's name but his own. 

S = Safeword | If he got to pick the safeword it would be something insane, like Crawfish, or Rainbow trout, or Whale shark. He’s very good at respecting the safeword, any use of it and whatever play is happening is done, and he’s at your side in an instant, making sure you’re not hurt and have whatever you need to feel better. The last thing he wants is for you to feel unsafe around him, he’s taken so many measures to prevent that. He’s reluctant to use it himself though, even when things get overwhelming or he’s in over his head, he doesn’t want to risk disappointing or upsetting you. He gets better at it with time, but he you know how he is with boundaries. 

T = Touch | Sensory play is fun! Jacob would have no qualms with using wax or ice on either of you, and it’d be a fun experiment to see what feels best or gets the biggest reaction. Restricting the senses would also be interesting. He’d be a big fan of blindfolds, of the suspense and the trust involved, but less of a fan of things like gags. They’re fun, for a short time, but he loves hearing your voice when you’re on the brink too much to be able to use it the whole session.

U = Undermined | Jacob Alden is the furthest thing from a brat you can possibly find. As a sub, he’s always on his best behavior, trying to fulfil your every request and satisfy your every whim, he just wants to be good for you. As a dom, he is so incredibly soft that it’s almost too easy to be a brat. Tease him just enough though, and you’ll get the punishment you want. 

V = Vengeance | Things like overstimulation or restraining him is a perfect way to punish him, he rarely acts out on purpose, usually simply unable to stop himself from cumming when being edged, or reaching out to touch you when he’s supposed to be keeping his hands to himself. His body works faster then his brain, is all. So making sure he can’t touch you at all? Or making cum over and over until he’s red-faced and sweetly pleading with you to give him a break? It just makes perfect sense. 

On the other hand, he’s not great at coming up with punishments for you by himself, but he can be incredibly devious, in his own way. Aside from the usual things, like spanking or sensation play, he has a set of punishments that are more rewarding for him, then punishing for you. Tying you up with a vibrating toy set to high, and leaving you there for however long he deems fit as he watches you through the lens of his camera. 

W = Whipping | Impact play is where things get a little hesitant. He wouldn’t mind a little spanking, a paddle or hand here or there, but he doesn’t want to seriously hurt you, not if you’re here returning his feelings at least. Choking or knife play or anything similar he could handle, but he’d do a lot of research before hand, to figure out the safest way to help you get your sick little rocks off.

X = X-Tra | Jacob cums a lot. Like could overflow a shot glass with one climax, passed out eight times but here's your cereal a lot. He’s a little embarrassed about it, when it just means there’s a fuck-ton more clean up to do. But if you’re someone who likes creampies, or simply just watching him make a big ol’ mess of himself, he’ll be secretly very flattered with the extra attention it gets him. 

Y = Yes, Sir | He’s not attached to any honorific, sir, daddy, etc, he won’t ask you to call him something in particular, but he won’t be mad if you have a title you want to call him either. It’s not that he’s disinterested in honorifics, but his favorite thing to hear you moan out is his own name, he doesn’t think it gets much better then that. He likes pet-names in general, and prefers some of the sweeter sounding ones, rather then any official title. Pumpkin, peanut, puppy, it all makes him a little weak in the knees. 

[mi-i-zori]

Breathe

Cod - Nikto x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS : Nikto drinks blood like a starved beast.

WARNINGS : NSFW - 18+. Beware, this is kind of unhinged. Canon-typical violence, blood (Reader has periods - emphasis on period blood), Nikto (a warning in himself), blood/period kink (?), poetic smut, fluff.

Author’s Note : I have no idea why I keep using poetic sentences whenever I try to write smut, but hey. Guess its just how I am. A filthy romantic at heart.

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform.

Nikto licks blood off his fingers on the daily like a starved beast, savouring a taste he knows will never fully satiate his hunger.

It does not matter if the crimson nectar is his or not ; he keeps engraving its flavour deep into his mind. It leaves a warm, metallic feeling in the back of his throat - one similar to the one lining the surface of the gun that was repeatedly shoved past his teeth after its bullets were lodged in-between his ribs, the thick ropes circling his wrists harvesting his own, personal flavour directly from his veins.

Both life and death flow past his tongue, carving countless nightmares in the few hours of sleep weighing heavy on his subconscious - dragging a never ending series of shuddering breaths up his oesophagus whenever he wakes.

He can never escape them, for reality is just as bitter as his dreams. So he drowns it it blood, gunpowder and alcohol, turning away from the shredded screams coming from his reflection in the mirror.

Until that moment.

Your face is pulled into a grimace as you tell him about the way one of your stupid coworkers shamelessly blabbered about how dirty he thinks period blood is, filling your head with somber thoughts at the idea that yours is quickly approaching.

You don’t see how his eyes light up when they fall upon the date circled in red on the calendar of your phone.

And it is only when his lips meet your bleeding walls for the first time, lapping at the tears running down the inside of your thighs with a newfound reverence blossoming on his tongue, that the spectre in his head finally goes silent.

You look like divine absolution, he thinks, watching with rapt attention as moans flow from your lips like a holy river. Lust fills his mind, body and soul as he wonders if edging you further would allow him to taste the stars running through your veins. Would the world end up falling apart with you ?

The thought of the Earth shattering like glass against the echo of your climax fuels the fire burning in his stomach.

So he keeps staining his mouth red with your blood and slick. War-torn hands hold your legs still around his head as his fingers pull at your flesh, moulding it to his will - and he growls loudly against your core, the waves of a supernova bursting through your entire body as a new orgasm shakes the very foundations of your universe.

Is it the third ? The fourth ? The fifth ? You stopped counting a few seconds after his mouth first latched on the sacred flower blooming between your legs, too lost in the song of your own pleasure.

Nikto doesn’t need anything more to find his own release. He then crashes on top of you as you both fall from your high, lips sharing the last remnants of your erratic, scorching breaths.

He lays there for the rest of the night, lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat - your divinity dancing on the back of his tongue.

The constellations lining your mind call out to him as he sleeps, flickering with the promise of finally carrying him away from the ruins of his heart. They light up his bones from below the thorns, and he would gladly sacrifice what is left of himself if it meant you could cradle them against your breast.

The warm softness of your skin soothes the pain still lingering in his scars, and he subconsciously cages your bare form in his arms as he drifts to the world of dreams.

He can finally breathe.

[aetherdoesthings]

my little brat~ (MINORS DNI!!!) [REUPLOAD]

forethoughts: 100th post on the blog is smut. hehe. i know i said i wouldn't write page long smut but as i was writing this i may have crossed the page limit. oopsies. the grip robin has on me 😔

notes: fem!reader, BDSM themed, dom!robin, sub!reader, light bondage, robin calling reader a brat

word count: 1.8k (i too am shocked by this number)

[this is a reupload because problem happened]

“You couldn’t just get yourself out of trouble, can you?” Robin let out a sigh, circling around the bed, her eyes glued to the sight in front of her. 

“Mmmmmnn…” You moaned, moving your head to the direction of her voice, breathing through the ball gag that occupied your mouth. Because of a small stunt you had pulled earlier in the day, one that involved you nearly falling off the Sunny, Robin was furious at you. She didn’t express her feelings yet, until night came. You were kneeling on the king sized bed, knees nearly touching the edge of the bed. Your calves were bound to your thighs with silk ropes, arms tied behind your back. You knew Robin was mad at you; you knew why she was mad at you. But your situation now was starting to make the idea of pissing your girlfriend off seem delightful. 

You bucked your hips forward to no avail, a pathetic whine leaving your mouth as Robin sneered at you. There was nothing close enough to you to give you the pleasure you so desperately craved, except for the bedsheets underneath you. 

A whine was ripped out of your throat as Robin’s hand curled around your neck, squeezing the sides with enough pressure to let you know that she wasn’t fucking around, but not enough pressure to actually do damage to your jugular veins. 

“Does my brat think she can get pleasure?” Robin scoffed, forcing you to look her in the eyes. “It seems I have been too lenient with you. Well then. All the more reason to teach you a lesson you won’t forget.” 

Robin unbuckled the gag around your mouth, letting the drool roll down your face. The babydoll she wore found its way on the ground next to your mountain of clothes, as she sat juxtaposed to you. While you knelt with the muscles in your thigh screaming for mercy, Robin leaned back like a queen on a throne, spreading her legs. 

With the nod of her head, you bent down, knees still spread apart. You dove head first into what you could only call perfection.

Everything about Nico Robin was perfect. Personality, looks, whatever it was it was pure perfection in your infatuated eyes. You could never fathom the idea of people calling her the ‘Devil Child’, when all you saw was an angel from heaven. But God, if Robin’s pussy isn't the prettiest little thing you’ve ever seen. 

With only your mouth at disposal, you take a deep breath, before licking a long strip across Robin’s slit.

Despite Robin’s stoic expression, her body filled in that empty space. Her hand went to your head, cutting off any potential air to your nose. You didn’t mind. You would die a very happy soul if you were to die in between Robin’s legs. Grunts of pleasure and chuckles could be heard, which only spurred you further on. Your tongue flicked back and forth over her clit, before alternating to a languid circle around as you flattened your tongue against the hardened nub. Oh, how you wished to see Robin’s expression to you and your tongue dipped between her puffy folds, gathering her slick before greedily swallowing it down. 

“Hah… at least there’s one good thing that comes out of your mouth, you little brat.” Robin snickered, still in that domme headspace she always loved to be in whenever you would be on your knees servicing your mistress.

“Mmmmnn…” You whined in response, getting back to work. You knew you were doing a damn good job when Robin’s legs were thrown across your shoulders, locking your head in between her trembling thighs. By the way you could start to feel your heartbeat in your head, it was a matter of time before you’d pass out from the sheer lack of oxygen. But not before you made your mistress come. You wanted to make a mess of Robin, wanted to drown in her heavenly juices and feel the pride of making your mistress come undone with just your organ. Your tongue traced over every little fold of her lips, mouth wrapping over her clit and sucking until a sharp gasp exited Robin’s mouth, but the iron grip around your head did not falter. You continued to do little kitten licks over her pussy, letting her ride out her high on your face, rubbing that sweet juice all over. Your eyes looked up at your mistress, a sense of pleasure and pride swirling around in your stomach when you saw her face. As her eyes met yours, you blinked twice, and she immediately removed her legs from your shoulders, letting you sit up as oxygen finally entered your body. 

Instantly, you could feel the lower half of your face wet and messy with slick and saliva; being buried in between your mistress’ warmth suppressed the gross and wet feeling. Even if you could, you resisted the urge to wipe it away, because the hungry and pleased look on Robin’s face was all the confirmation and assurance you needed.

Robin sat on her knees, a pleased smile on her face as she scooped your face. A contrast to her attitude prior, she smiled at you, leaning closer to give you a kiss on your lips, still covered in her slick.

“Color?” Robin asked, as she ran her fingers through your hair.

“G-Green.” You responded. A system Robin had set up before you even had your first session with her, in order to help her know if she was actually hurting you or not, and for you to express your feelings and needs during a session. 

Robin chuckled, kissing your forehead. “My little brat. Are the binds too tight?”

“No. I’m okay.”

Robin nodded her head, satisfied with your answer. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet. Turn around, head on the pillow, ass up.”

You did what she said, as you watched Robin get off the bed, strolling over to that drawer, conjuring her favorite strap and the largest dildo you owned, spreading a healthy amount of lube over the purple silicon, as she made her way back to you.

“So that’s what it takes for you to listen, huh? A pussy in your face and a cock in your cunt?” Robin sneered, as her hand made contact with your ass, a loud smack echoing the room. You whined in response, tilting your head sideways so you could breathe. Her left hand held your bound arms, while her right lined up the tip to your glistening and drenched folds. Your pussy squeezed against the unyielding silicon dildo. It's big, and you want it.

Robin’s voice took on a more serious tone as she created a dip in the mattress. “Safeword?”

“Bumblebee.” You respond, bracing yourself for the moment. But it never comes. You look at Robin--a bold choice to make while she was in this headspace. 

“Go on. Say it.” Robin stared back at you. You let out a whine, resisting the urge to move your hips backwards, knowing that would land you in hotter waters. It made it worse that you knew what she wanted to hear out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry…” You mumbled, letting out a frustrated whine. You were only met back with another spank, one that would definitely leave a mark on your rear for a while.

“What are you sorry for?” Robin mused, her hand ghosting the skin of your other cheek. 

“I’m sorry… for almost falling into the ocean.”

“Why are you sorry for that?”

“Because I almost died trying to get my book from the crow’s nest when I could’ve just asked you for help.” You felt like a kid again, being scolded for doing something bad and now have to apologize for it. But instead of your apology being ignored and unheard, Robin let out a pleased chuckle, leaning over to kiss your cheek, and without warning, she pushed it in. 

Robin never liked being mean to you; she was the type to pepper you and treat you like a princess, even though you would be on your knees, hands tied behind your back as her hand raked through your hair.

“Good girl.” Robin muttered, the sounds of your moans and yelps making her move faster. Thank God Franky had soundproof your room weeks ago, otherwise your moans alone would have woken everyone up. The pressure of the dildo's fat head is incredible; you could feel the way your pussy willingly gives way to the unyielding silicon, and it reminded you of the first time you had ever met the end of a strap-on Robin wore. Robin was unyielding, not breaking a single sweat, while you were a moaning and babbling mess, head buried in the pillow, unable to move. All you could focus on was your pussy getting stretched by every thrust Robin made, hollowing you out before filling you again, and again, and again. Every drag of the silicon cock inside of you made you a liquid mess perfect for Robin to mold and restructure, as her skin slapped against your thighs, lighting a spark behind your half lidded eyes everytime you could hear a slap.

It didn’t take long for Robin to bring you over the edge, giving you a ‘go ahead’ as pleasure fills your body. If Robin wasn’t holding you up by your arms, you would’ve collapsed and probably passed out from the amount of pleasure coursing through your body. You let out a pathetic whine as Robin carefully pulls out of you, creating several hands to undo the strap-on and grab a towel from the drawers.

Robin undid your binds, rubbing small circles on your wrist as she pulled your body into a sitting position, letting you lean against her for support. She wiped away any remaining slick or saliva from your face with a thumb, before shoving it into your mouth. You happily swallowed it all, before melting into Robin’s touch. She wrapped you with a towel, cradling you like you were an infant.

“Did so good for me, my little brat.” Robin cooed, planting soft kisses all over your face. “All it took was a cock in your cunt to get you to apologize.”

“I‘m sorry…” You mumbled.

“Shh.. shh… none of that, darling.” Robin kissed your forehead. “Just remember you can always ask for my help, no matter what. And if you forget, I’ll always be there to remind you, no matter how hard you need me to drill it into you. Figuratively and literally. How about I draw you a nice warm bath, and have Sanji cook you your favorite snack, and we can cuddle as I read you a story?”

A sleepy smile formed on your face as you nodded your head, pressing your lips against Robin’s collarbone. 

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[deancaspinefest]

In The Dog Days

Author: Hectatess | Artist: ReverieOfForgotten

Posting on Saturday March 23 

One day deputy sheriff Castiel Novak is out on his usual run, when a guy comes up to join him. They hit it off, and before the day really starts, he has a new running buddy called Sam. Fast forward a few months, and Sam comes running into the office, all upset because his brother is missing! To top off this eventful day, Castiel finds a dog without a collar.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

Bone tired, Castiel shrugged on his trusty trenchcoat and dragged himself home. Most days he loved walking home, especially after a refreshing shower had cleared the air like today, but now he was on edge, looking around for the smallest sign of something that might be Dean. That was why he noticed movement in the bushes a bit to the side of the road. He approached carefully, not sure what to expect. Whatever he had thought, a bedraggled, wet dog, wasn’t it. “Hello, you,” he cooed. The dog snapped his head up and Castiel gasped. The animal’s light eyes seemed to pierce his very soul. “Wow. You are a beauty, aren’t you?”

The dog laid its pointed ears flat and from the rustling behind it, Castiel deduced it wagged its tail twice. Careful to not spook the animal, Castiel traced the fluffy neck with his hands, looking for a collar, but not finding it. “You’re a stray. I’m too exhausted to take you to a vet. You don’t look rabid, or fleabitten, so I’ll take my chances. Amara might bust my chops tomorrow, but I can’t look into your adorable face and leave you out here. It’s supposed to rain more tonight. C’mon, you fluffball, I’ll give you some burger meat…”

At the word burger, the dog’s ears snapped up and its soulful expression cheered up. A doggy grin appeared and a pink tongue lolled out. Castiel bit his lip. He had no rope or anything to lead the dog home with. “How do I get you to follow me, buddy? I can’t even grip your collar.” The dog did a little head tilt, ears pricked. Then it trotted from the bushes and shook itself, ears flapping and spraying water everywhere. Castiel jumped back with a startled ‘Hey!’ The dog looked at him with that silly doggy grin, and Castiel chuckled. “Alright,” he said, wiping the droplets off his face. “I guess I’ll just hope you’re going to follow me.” He started walking and to his relief, the dog trotted along.

(continue reading on Ao3 on Saturday March 23)

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Soft✨

Here is a quick little thing I wrote about Joel being in love, and it’s so precious and in his POV 🥹 I love soft Joel so much, and he deserves the world. Kinda went off how he feels about Aly in my fic Look for the Light 💜

Pairing: Joel x reader (Joel’s POV)

Word Count: 774

Tags: Soft Joel, Joel being in love

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Lilac. That’s what she reminds you of. It’s what her hair smells like when you pull her toward you and wrap your arms around her. Her hair drips off the scent and laces its aroma all over you as it intertwines around you like a thick rope that tugs you to her. It’s what you call her, your precious lilac.

Ecstasy. It’s how you feel when you’re rolling around with her in the sheets as you hover over her and entwine your fingers with hers. It’s how you feel when you tangle her up in your arms and hold her close after making love to her in the early hours of the mornings.

Blue. It’s the vibrant, diamond pair of eyes that she hypnotizes you with. Those ocean eyes that could cure a sick man and bring him back to full health by just a flutter of those long, thick eyelashes. Those eyes. Those damn beautiful eyes that you fell for not long after you met her. They pulled you in and kept you mesmerized like a siren’s call, drawing you closer to her. Tethering her to you, forever.

Soft. The way her long, dark waves fall down her back and lick at the edges of your face when she’s lying on top of you at night. It’s the way her skin feels as you trace every inch of her, memorizing her perfect figure as your hands explore her entire being. It’s the way she takes your hand in hers and grazes her thumb against your skin, leaving behind invisible marks that burn your skin, igniting all your senses for her. Soft is the way her lips kiss yours so slowly, so delicately that it makes you fall for her even more. Soft. She turned you into a soft man when you were nothing but sticks and stones, a withered soul walking alone in a cold, dead world. But she showed you life was worth living again. She gave you a new one, a new hope. Soft. Just like your heart is now as it beats for her.

Sunshine. That’s what she was. Sunlight, the warmth that beats down on the back of your neck on a clouded rainy day. Sunshine. That’s how she came into your life. When you were sitting alone in the dark, desperate to find your way out of the darkness. She pulled you out of the grey and brought you back into the light. She was like an angel, the way her face lit up as she smiled at you that first time. The gentle curve of her lips could bring you to your knees. She’d take you to church, let you worship her body again and again as you got lost in her light, in her infectious laugh.

Love. The first person to ever make you fall in love, the first person to show you what love felt like. It was warm, tender, irrevocable, just like her. Falling for her was so easy, poetic. It was like taking your first breath in a field full of violets, her favorite flower. She was a breath of fresh air, a candle that burned just for you. Love was how you felt when she grazed her fingers through your scruff, kissing your cheek and telling you how much she loves you over and over again. You couldn’t get enough. You could never get enough. Love. The first time you confessed your love for her, poured your heart to her in the middle of a raging thunder storm. It was passionate, desperate, a love song that you splayed out with soft words meant just for her. You loved her for so long, loved her in the first month of meeting her. Your special, sweet girl.

Delicate. How you spent months planting a field of lilacs and violets just for her, to show her what she meant to you. To show her what a rare, delicate flower she was. Delicate. The way she gave her heart to you, promising herself to you as you said your vows back to her in the middle of a flower field that you planted just for her. Delicate. The way you spent extra time telling her all the ways you would continue showing her how much you loved her.

Home. Home is how she felt, what she was. Home was wherever she was. You’d follow her anywhere, to the ends of the earth. Let it swallow you whole as long as she was with you till the end. She was your home. She was your forever. Your always. Your infinity and eternity. Your beautiful lilac. Your constant.

[in1-nutshell]

Bot Buddy being Rattrap's younger sibling

SFW, familial, platonic, Cybertronian/ bot reader

Beast wars

Buddy is a calm and sensitive soul. Their beast mode is an armadillo. They tend to be a bit more open minded to some things than Rattrap is.

Rattrap loves his younger sibling to bits… that being said, he has a peculiar way of showing it.

Their dynamic gives off.

No-one-can-hurt-them-but-me vibes.

“Hey Rattrap look at this picture I drew of the flowers this morning!”--Buddy

“I’ve seen prettier flowers than those.”--Rattrap

“Yeah, those are kind of ugly.”--Cheetor

“Take that back! Those are the most beautiful flower in the world!”--Rattrap

“Aww thanks Rattrap.”--Buddy

“Get lost you bumpy bowling ball.”—Rattrap

Rattrap being the older sibling is protective of his younger sibling. He doesn't like it when they have to go out on a solo patrols. Not that he would ever admit it. Buddy knows this, of course.

“All righty then. See you in a bit Rattrap.”--Buddy

“Now at this time, at night, all by yourself. Yeah, fat chance bumpy.”--Rattrap

“Woah. Woah. Woah. Where do you think you’re going hot shot?”--Rattrap

“I’m going on patrol.”--Buddy

“Do you want to come then?”--Buddy

“Now why would I want to go on patrol with you? I got stuff to do here in the ship where its safe and warm.”--Rattrap

“Oh, okay then, I guess I can get Cheetor to come.”--Buddy

“Yeah right. And have him reveal your location in 5 seconds. Nope, give me a second to look for my blaster.”--Rattrap

“Thanks, I guess?”--Buddy

“Yeah, don’t mention it. Really don’t mention it.”--Rattrap

Buddy is extremely protective of Rattrap. As much as they don't like or understand much of his way with words, they do not tolerate anyone talking bad about him. Especially the jab is without reasoning. They have been known to defend Rattrap more times than they can count.

“Back off Dinobot!”--Buddy

“What?!”--Dinobot

“He didn’t mean it and that was uncalled for!”--Buddy

“…”--Dinobot

“… Okay maybe he did mean it but still uncalled for!”--Buddy

Unlike Rattrap, buddy will trust almost anyone/ anything. This puts Rattrap in edge every time. He has lost the number of times Buddy has tried to befriend or trust something the Predacons have said. He swears that they will be the death of him one of these days.

“Hey Rattrap! Theres a note from the Predacon’s ‘You can have some Energon goodies if you just come over the ridge. Enjoy!’ Wow, that’s nice of them.”--Buddy

“Buddy, I swear—THE ROPE IS RIGHT THERE HOW—and now your stuck upside down. Again.”--Rattrap

“Help?”--Buddy

“Yeah. Yeah. I got you kid. Primus this has been the 10th time this week.”—Rattrap

The other Maximals find it a bit hard to see Buddy even being remotely related to Rattrap. If anything, Buddy might have been related more to Rhinox than Rattrap. Rattrap knows this an is a bit self-conscious on the topic, not that he talks about it anyways.

“Maybe it’s like how he said that he is related to Arcee?”--Cheetor

“He’s related to who?!”--Dinobot

Optimus appreciates the way Buddy can reign in Rattraps attitude a bit when they are around. Optimus knows that those two have a good bond, a rare one that hasn’t been seen in a while. It’s nice though. Primal has learned not to question the loyalty between the siblings. He once went out on patrol with Buddy and Rattrap where they were ambushed by Waspinator and Terrosaur. Buddy insisted Optimus throw them up to help with the attack. He did it and it sent Rattrap into a small frenzy. When Buddy had gotten back down safely, Rattrap was trying to tear a new one in the leader before rushing over to see if Buddy was okay.

“Throw me!”—Buddy

“Are you sure?”--Optimus

“Absolutely Optimus!”--Buddy

“Wait what?”--Rattrap

“Okay Buddy, get ready!”--Optimus

“Wait what!”--Rattrap

“Weeeeee!!”--Buddy

“Buddy!”--Rattrap

“They’re fine Rattrap.”--Optimus

“You’re the one who isn’t going to be fine if they get so much as a dent Banana breath!”--Rattrap

“Rattrap—”--Optimus

“I swear if they don’t—”--Rattrap

“Hi guys.”--Buddy

“Buddy! Are you hurt? Are there any dents? What were you thinking? Did Primal hurt you?”--Rattrap

*Confused but happy Gorilla noises.*

Rhinox knows about the little talks here and there about Buddy being his long-lost sibling instead of Rattraps. He did humor it a bit at first thinking it wasn’t going to be too bad. Buddy had joined in just for good humor too.

But after a bit he doesn’t react too much.

Then he notices how Rattrap acts when the joke is brought up. He does his best to try and make his friend feel better after that. He does like Buddy’s nature and enjoys their little talks when they have the ship to themselves.

“You know Rattrap, Buddy and I’ve been talking.”--Rhinox

“Oh yeah? What about?”--Rattrap

“Buddy was telling me how they were worried about you when you came back late from patrol the other day. They seemed to miss their brother.”--Rhinox

“Oh okay…”--Rattrap

*Content rat noises.*

Cheetor doesn’t believe that sweet sensitive Buddy is related to dirty mouth Rattrap. The difference is night and day between those two. How is this possible? Buddy, due to them being younger is probably the closest age to Cheetor. Automatically making the two best friends. They have their own mini adventures from time to time. But no one knows about that. Most of the talking ends up being inside jokes that no one understands.

“Cheetor this isn’t like the Riverbed incident that thing will explode. Don’t use the blow torch this time.”--Buddy

“Oh, okay then. Thanks for the heads up!”--Cheetor

“Riverbed?”--Optimus

“Inccident?”--Rhinox

“Explode?!”—Rattrap

Dinobot wants a DNA test done immediately. He firmly believes that this is some trick that everyone is on. He does respect Buddy, however. Buddy was the first Maximal to greet him with open arms with kindness that he almost forgot existed. Then there’s their brother, Rattrap. The very bane of his existence. The thorn in his side. He can’t connect the dots at all.

“Hi Dinobot!”--Buddy

“Greetings…”--Dinobot

“How’s your day been?”--Buddy

“It’s been well.”--Dinobot

A little later

Rattrap tripping Dinobot with his tail

“Eat  floor Chomperface.”--Rattrap

*Confused and angry Dinobot noises*

Tigatron and Airazor like their teammate. Like many other the others, they don’t quite understand the siblings. But they are more understanding of their dynamics. Due to them being out of the base so much any time with Buddy is cherished. Sometimes they will ‘kidnap’ Buddy from the base to catch up on the latest things with the crew or the ship.

“And what did Dinobot do after that?”--Airazor

“Well Rattrap said he started making frustrated noises after he tripped him.”--Buddy

“I’m sensing something else to the story.”--Tigatron

“Don’t know really, you guys got me out before he told me the rest.”--Buddy

Silverbolt loves Buddy. They are his platonic soulmate. They are his number one in his book of friends because Black arachnia is his number one true love. Its common occurrence to see Buddy with him if they aren’t with Rhinox, Rattrap or Cheetor. Silverbolt asks love advice from Buddy all the time. Whether Buddy is in a relationship or not, they try their best to help their friend.

 Buddy is his wingman for life.

And helps decorate places he wants to bring his love to

“Buddy! My platonic soulmate!”--Silverbolt

“Silverbolt! My bestie in love!”--Buddy

*Offended and confused Cheetah and Spider noises.*

Blackarachnia in the beginning was confused by Buddy’s entire existence. Time and time again when she was with the Predacon’s Buddy would offer her a place within the Maximal ranks. Not matter what she threw verbally or physically, Buddy was stubborn in getting her to join. When she did join, thanks to Silverbolt, she was quite jealous of Buddy’s relationship with the Maximal.

She would never admit it though.

It would be until Silverbolt mentioned how Buddy helped pick the venue and some decorations for their definitely not date, that she would ease up on the Maximal.

“You really care about him don’t you.”--Buddy

“…Yeah, I guess I do.”—Black arachnia

“Good! Now remember, no one will find you if you hurt him.”--Buddy

“What?!”—Black arachnia

“I have some energon goodies, you want some?”--Buddy

“… Yes?...”—Black arachnia

Primus help the poor soul that makes Buddy cry.

Get prepared for the Maximal beating of a lifetime. No amount of time travel will help fix the damage that will come upon that body after they are even remotely done with it.

[jgmartin]

SUBJECT 21

I watch the sunset bleed.

Its outer edges drip like molten gold. In the distance, I hear the hiss of steam before I ever see the clouds rising from the arctic snow.

“Told you,” Raens says. He stops short of me, slings his rifle over his shoulder and folds his arms. He surveys the sunset like it’s a regular occurrence. An everyday thing. “There’s a reason this place is under lockdown.”

“So it’s true,” I say. “They haven’t let anybody leave for the past three years.”

“Not a soul.”

I look back at the sunset. A pit of unease grows in my stomach. The shape of it is all wrong. It’s pulsing, throbbing like a living thing– like a monster from science fiction. “What about the guy I replaced?”

“Lently?"

"Yeah."

"Dead and gone."

I stare at Raens waiting for him to crack a smile, to tell me he’s fucking with me, that this is all a joke. A little hazing for the new guy. But instead he sighs, looks away– wipes the back of his glove against his eyes. “Look on the bright side, kid. The isolation pay is fantastic, ain’t it?”

The pay was good. Three times my yearly salary, in fact. "Nevermind the money, three years is a long time to vanish off the face of the earth. How does the military explain that?"

“You got a sweetheart back home? Couple of rugrats, maybe?”

“Not yet.”

He nods. There's the hint of a grin on his lips. “That’s what I thought. They don’t pick people with loose ends for this kind of thing. They want shadows. People like you and me who can fade away without anybody giving a damn.”

"I mean, I got family."

"Sure, kid. We all got family. Question is, do they give a shit about you?"

The question stings. It stings because I know the answer, but I can't bring myself to say it out loud, so I change gears. "What's the deal with the bunker?"

Raens follows my gaze to the little hill of snow rising from the earth. It's about a hundred yards away, and its heavy steel doors are lit up crimson in the setting sun. "You mean why aren't we allowed inside?"

I nod.

“Official answer is it’s classified. Unofficial answer is they’re building weapons down there and don’t need you getting into things you shouldn’t be.”

I watch the sun drip molten gold and I ask the obvious question. “You’re telling me that this is us?”

“I’m telling you it’s him. Dr Thales. Head of research and engineering."

I’d heard the name before. The man was supposedly a genius, a real marvel with a resume to rival Einstein and the ego to match. “How the fuck did he manage to get our sun to bleed on Earth from all the way across the solar system?”

“Who says that’s the real sun?” He slips a pack of cigarettes from his parka and slides one between his lips. “Smoke?”

“Not for six years.”

“Suit yourself.” He lights it up and takes a drag. For the first time, I notice the dark bags beneath his eyes, the deep lines infesting his cheeks, his forehead. Raens looks like a man at the end of his rope. Exhausted.

“Never used to smoke,” he tells me, pocketing his lighter. “Bad habit with no real upsides, but then I got posted here and it was like I needed something, anything to look forward to.” He breathes out a plume, shaking his head. “Cigarettes became my breath of fresh air. Ain’t that funny?”

“So, that’s it then? You and I are stuck out here guarding some… mad scientist?”

“We’re not here to guard anybody. We’re contingencies.”

“For what?”

“Subject 21. If it escapes, we do our best to slow it down and buy time."

"Then what?"

Raens shrugs. "Reckon we just die."

I open my mouth, but the words are still trying to catch up to the conversation. “Hold on. What's Subject 21?”

“One of Thales’ experiments. We call it the Boogey Man because nobody’s seen the thing outside of Thales and his team. But we know that it’s powerful. Powerful enough that you and I, plus the rest of humanity, are nothing but ants.”

“If this thing’s that powerful, then why doesn’t it just break itself out?”

Raens takes another drag. Closes his eyes. Savours it. “Figure it doesn’t want to.”

“You're joking.”

“Best we've pieced together is that S21 is in some kind of catatonic state. Doesn’t speak. Barely moves. Mostly it just stands in its cell and stares holes in the wall, sometimes literally, if you trust the radio chatter.”

"It has to eat, doesn’t it?”

Raens looks at me like I’m four years old, like he almost envies my ignorance. “It doesn’t have to do a damn thing. That’s what makes it special, kid. It doesn’t have any rules because it makes the fucking rules, and that’s exactly why Thales is trying to kill it.”

Behind us, the pulsating sun is dipping below the horizon. A chill creeps under my skin, and it’s got nothing to do with the plummeting temperature. “Why? Why kill this thing if it’s just keeping to itself? Isn’t that kind of… Immoral?”

“Might be. Not really my place to say one way or the other, but Thales seems to think S21 is just dormant. Hibernating. That it’s liable to wake up any day now and then… well, all hell breaks loose. And I don’t mean that metaphorically.”

“What does this thing do, shit nuclear warheads?”

“That’d be nice. Easier to deal with, I’d wager.”

“What’s worse than nukes?”

“Just told you, didn’t I? Hell on earth.”

I laugh. It’s the only reaction I can think of because the implication is so absurd that nothing else makes sense. “So what, Thales has Satan locked up in his bunker?”

Raens ashes his cigarette, stomps it into the snow. “Worse.”

I keep my laughter alive, but Raens looks deadly serious. He's quiet. Pensive. He watches the shadows creep over the bunker doors, watches them creep across the entire landscape and he says, “You ever wonder what happened to God?”

“God?”

“Sure. Jesus takes one for the team, then God just ups and vanishes, doesn’t he? There’s no sequel to the Bible. Some fanfiction, maybe. But no sequel, not even after a few thousand years.”

“Haven’t given it much thought. I’m agnostic myself.”

Raens cracks a smile. “Keeping your options open, eh? Smarter than you look.”

“No. It's not that. I just… never really knew enough to make a decision one way or the other. I couldn’t be certain if there was a higher power out there.”

“Well, now you know.” Raens steps off, making his way back toward the hill for shift change. I waddle to catch up to him. I'm still getting used to moving under six layers of kit.

“You’re telling me that this thing– Subject 21, is God?”

He shrugs, his feet crunching against the snow. “That’s what the troops seem to think. And to be frank, there's been supporting evidence."

"What kind?"

"The kind that's damn near impossible to ignore." Raens pauses suddenly, raises a sleeve and checks the watch on his wrist. Then he looks up the sky. Frowns. Keeps walking. "I wouldn't worry too much, kid. This is your first day. You'll see what I mean soon enough, and by then you'll probably wish you could forget all about it."

"But I mean–"

"Trust me."

I let the question go and latch onto a new one. “So all these weapons, what's Thales using them for? I mean, if he doesn't think they'll work at killing S21?"

"That's something that–"

There's a low screech from high in the distance. I open my mouth. Raens cut me off.

"Shut it," he snaps. He pulls me down to the hill with him. Raises a finger. It's the sort of finger that tells me to keep quiet or else. We wait there for what feels like minutes while Raens scans the dark sky, as if he thinks we're about to be spotted by enemy aircraft.

“How’s your shooting, kid?” he whispers.

“Pretty good," I say, moving to unsling my rifle.

He puts a hand on mine as if to say don't you fucking dare. Then he adds, "Keep it on safe. I don't want you panicking and putting a bullet through me."

"Why?"

He chuckles. "I've lasted this long, and–" His voice is gone. My eardrums scream. A sound erupts with the low bass of infinity, and I fall to my stomach clutching my skull as pressure builds behind my ears like a kettle set to boil.

I try to say words. I try to ask if we've stumbled across another weapon and if it's going to kill us, but when I look at Raens he’s got tears in his eyes and his jaw is set. He’s got tears in his eyes and the sonuvabitch is smiling. Ear to ear. “Heads up, kid!” he shouts over the din.

I look skyward, and through the dark clouds bursts an explosion of light. Suddenly, the world is bright. I stare up in awe and horror as a battalion of winged creatures descends from the heavens, bellowing on trumpets whose sound could shatter mountains. On instinct I raise my rifle, but the creatures streak past us.

They streak toward the bunker.

“What's happening?” I holler into Raens' ear.

He thumbs over his shoulder, and I almost miss it in the creatures’ blinding light, but Thales' sun has risen again. It’s pulsing. Shuddering. It’s rising from the horizon and spinning as its molten rays tear away from it and hurtle toward the creatures.

They react, but not fast enough. Thales' weapon is gruesome in its efficiency, in its totality for destruction. The blazing arrows snap through the air like heat-seeking missiles, finding their marks and engulfing the creatures in flames. One by one they fall to the ground. One by one the trumpets that could shatter mountains are made silent.

Soon, the sky is clear. The arctic outpost at the end of the world is quiet again, and I’m left alone with Raens, trembling in a snowfall of ash. “Were those things…” The word is on my lips, but it almost feels blasphemous to say. Something floats onto my shoulder. It's white and smeared with soot, and I think it might be a feather.

“Angels,” Raens says, standing up. “At least, that’s our best guess. They’ve been making the rounds every couple weeks or so, ever since Thales got his hands on Subject 21. Tricky things. Never fall for the same weapon twice.”

Raens says the last bit as if he’s giving them some kind of begrudging respect, and all I can think about is the ringing in my ears. The fact that after this, we’re fucked. If angels are real, and if God is real, then that means Hell is real, and right now it's looking like the premiere destination for both of us. “We just murdered… " I breathe. "A hundred angels...”

“Murdered? I wouldn’t bet on it.” Almost on cue, fallen feathers begin to coalesce all across the ashen snow, vibrating violently. They hover for the space of a heartbeat, and then altogether they shoot upward, piercing the sky like gunshots and leaving glowing pillars in their wake.

The pulsating sun slows, then falls back beneath the horizon. Darkness finds us again.

"You okay, kid?"

My heart is beating so fast it hurts. My body is covered in goosebumps and I'm trying to tell myself that I'm dreaming. That this is some left-over Sunday school trauma working its way out of my system.

"This is not what I signed up," I sputter. "I mean holy shit, Raens. I’m not going to sentence myself to an eternity in damnation– because clearly that exists now–just to satisfy some government curiosity or one man’s vendetta or… or…”

I cast about for the words but there’s nothing there. I’m too scared. Too weighed down by the overwhelming immensity of the situation to properly formulate my thoughts.

“Thought you didn’t believe in God?” Raens says with a grin, pulling out a fresh smoke. "Agnostic, wasn't it?"

“That was before I saw an army of angels get picked out of the sky like birds.”

Raens lights his smoke, and then he sits down in the snow. "Look on the bright side, shift's almost over and our relief should be coming over the hill pretty quick. You hungry?"

It takes me a second to answer because I can't believe how relaxed he is. I want to grab him and scream that we're the bad guys, but before I can muster the rage he pats the ground beside him. "Take a seat, kid. I've been here a few years so there ain't much that surprises me. Not these days."

I stay where I am. My chest is heaving like a bellows, and I don't know if it’s what I just saw or the cigarette, but I feel light-headed and woozy. I'm afraid if I sit down I'll black out. "What's Thales' deal? I mean, is he like some kind of occult monster? Militant atheist?"

"Thales, an atheist?" Raens laughs, laughs hard enough that he starts coughing. "Far from it. Might be the most God-fearing Christian I've ever met, now that you mention it."

"I'm not tracking."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be. Thales is a complicated man and not without his faults, but one thing you cannot deny is that the man is devout. Grew up in the Bible belt. Reads his book every night. Hell, rumor has it he used to moonlight as a preacher in days past."

“A preacher?" I mutter. "Why would a preacher want to murder God?"

"Same reason any good Christian does anything," Raens says, blowing smoke into the sky. "Cause' God told him to."

I open my mouth to reply but the words aren’t there. A thousand questions ricochet around my mind, but I can't seem to grab hold of a single one. Instead I stumble onto the snow next to Raens. I shake my head. Reach out a quivering hand.

“On second thought,” I tell him, “I will take that cigarette.”

[huskyremix]

Hello! I wrote a short fic on how Elios and Narinder first met, this AU doesn't even have a proper name really but I've been wanting to give more attention to my wolf-sheepy. Story under the read more~

It was a Guide's duty of the spiritual plan to bring lost souls to peace, to lead and corral them to the afterlife proper. It was not always a peaceful job, however, as there were beasts whose only instinct was to hunt the souls of mortals as their prey. It is unknown where these creatures come from, if they are made by a God's hand or perhaps the corruption of a soul itself. They appeared as a mix of black smoke, controlling twisted foliage to make-up their false bodies, their "eyes" typically gleaming hues of purple, or just shining brilliant white. It was, as well as certain other workers of the plan, a Guide's job to see to it that souls are protected and brought to peace at all cost.

In all of Elios' (short) time as a guide, the only threat he encountered were these smoke-y beasts. He has not, to his knowledge at least, encountered any of the God's that reside and run the other plans of this world. Yet here was one, right in the middle of a small clutter of souls who Elios assumed just recently arrived to this side, judging by the two overturned and broken wagons who had appeared to have crashed into each other in the Mortal plan. 

This God, a black cat in appearance, had a soul pinched in between two of his fingers, and with one unabashed glance at the sheep, he leaned back his head and swallowed the soul in one gulp.

"What are you doing?"

Elios tried to keep his voice steady, grip on his staff tightening. The cat did not answer right away, and lazily licked his lips as if to savor any remaining flavor of the dead he just ate. Then, he smirked. 

"Ah, you will have to forgive me, little worker. I was just merely curious, you see," He grinned, now, facing the sheep directly "What does a mortal soul taste like? And now that I know, I must say... they're quite underwhelming. No flavor at all... and yet"

"Perhaps just one more wouldn't hurt?"

"..."

Elios ignored the shiver that crawled down his spine, wool beginning to stand on end as it went. 

"As a Guide, and protector of all souls that may arrive in this plan, it is my duty to keep them safe. Be it from the beasts that reside in this plan, to mortal or even Godly influence. That… includes you.”

The cat gave a snort, clearly unimpressed "You do not know who I am, lamb. But I am in a good mood, and so I will introduce myself to someone as low as one such as you. 

I am Narinder, and these souls will one day be mine to judge and do with as I please! 

Kneel before the future God of Death!"

Elios kept firm in his stance.

Narinder's mood quickly shifted from feeling smug to annoyance, becoming impatient with the Guide's defiance to get on their knees.

"Did you not hear me? Must I really repeat myself? I said-"

"I heard you the first time,” Elios spoke, “and as I have said, it is my job to watch out for all souls. It does not matter from who, if you seek to harm or devour any more, I will have to see that you do not do so again."

Elios moved his wooden staff from his side to be placed directly in front of him and Narinder, gripping it with both cloven hooves, then slammed the base of it on the ground. In doing so, the three bells nailed near the top of the staff rung, just below its crooked head where a yellow crystal freely swung from thin rope, and now began to let off a fiery glow.

By this action, Narinder was taken aback, a warning noise building up in his throat. Then, he couldn't help but let the edges of his lips curl into a wicked, fanged grin. 

"Hmpf. Ha... Ha HA HA...! You are quite amusing, aren't you lamb... fine then, I will gladly beat you down until you truly know your place!"

With a yowl and unsheathing of claws, Narinder charged.

---

Time passed, and in the clearing dust of the battle between Guide and God, only one remained standing victor. Narinder, on the other hand, was lying flat on his back in the dirt in a semi-unconscious state. Elios was still catching his breath, but other than a few new rips to his already ragged looking cloak, he remained unscathed from the cat’s assault.

Once steady, Elios moved towards the defeated God. He peered down through the unkempt wool that covered his eyes- more so than the wolf-head shaped cap on his head- waiting to speak until the sheep knew that Narinder could hear him.

“Have you learned a lesson today, O’ fledging God? Although I cannot ban you from coming back to this plan, if I find that you dare consume a single soul here again, I will personally deal with you once more, and I will win again.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to performing my duty.” 

Narinder could only groan in response.

Elios lifted his staff and summoned the crystal to glow again, calling out to the surrounding fluttering souls to gather towards its warmth. The Guide made sure not to miss a single one, and sent a silent prayer for the one lost by the gluttony of the cat. Without sparing another glance to the God, Elios turned on his heels and walked away, souls following in the glow.

A short time later, Narinder begrudgingly sat himself up, his ego more bruised than his body. He considered himself lucky, at the least, that no one had witnessed or would need to know about the embarrassing defeat. Red eyes glared after where that damn lamb had simply walked off to, but there was no one in sight to feel his sulking. 

Narinder swore, then, that it would definitely not be that last that the lamb, Guide, whoever he was, would see the last of him.

[kirimoochi]

unyielding lightning.

₊˚ ᗢ kazuha x gn!reader.

⤷ short drabble taking place during the traveler's time in inazuma.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Paimon rolled the Traveler back and forth, nervously trying to wake them. The only thing she and Thoma remembered was the breaking of the sky and the purple lightning which engulfed the two figures. The next thing she knew, the Traveler was knocked out cold. Now lying on the ground unconscious.

The Raiden Shogun carefully treads with a circular glimmer of light around her. Her sword glows in a bright violet color as Thoma struggles to break free from his restraints. He runs towards an abandoned polearm, stuck to the ground by the Traveler’s previous attack. He rubs the ropes against the sharpened edges, looking up to see the Shogun raise her blade. 

Before the Traveler could be struck down, thunder clapped and singed the wooden ground. Thoma’s eyes widen as a mysterious figure appears in front of the Archon, their sword clashing against hers. She is caught off guard, stepping back in surprise as she squints her eyes. She lets out a small gasp under her breath as she stares at your Electro Vision.

It crackles and dances amongst the cold air, covering your figure with a thin sheen. It roars and growls at her, unbefitting its original purpose. The force of your slash hitting the Shogun’s sword blows both Thoma and Traveler away, the two of them colliding with each other. The sudden rush was enough to knock some air into the Outlander, effectively waking them up. 

“You dare use your Vision against me?” She comments, glaring at you. 

Letting out an amused scoff, you frown. Raising your hand, you graze it over your blade, the steel surface radiating with violet light. “Against all odds, I stand before you,” Your Vision fluttered amongst the breeze. It pulsates and breathes with life. A firm reminder that no matter where you may be, your heart will never yield to such false realities. “For my brother, which you’ve so cut down like cattle.” 

“Have you no regard for the lives of your people?” Tightening your grip on your sword, you harden your glare. The months and years you’ve spent underneath her tyrannical reign steeled your soul. You’ve waited years for this moment. “I won’t forgive anyone who does not shiver when met with blood.” 

You nod, directing your attention to Thoma. He meets with the side of your eyes with a look of fear and uncertainty. “Get them to safety, as part of my duties, I’ll handle things from here.” 

Traveler tries to step forward in an attempt to help you but falls into the arms of Kamisato’s housekeeper. They were unsure how well you could hold up against an Archon. Even they weren’t a match for her. Thoma grips the side of the Traveler, pulling them along as they both jump toward the next platform. The three of them run off, their necks turning back to see you one last time.

“You…” she grits her teeth as she presses forward, delivering a swift attack to your side.

You dodged her attack with relative ease, drawing your blade against her, you lightly graze her skin. The electro-coated blade causes her knees to buckle slightly. This allowed you to send a strong kick to her chin, knocking her back.

She restrains herself from letting out a cry of pain. Even though this was the same Vision bestowed onto you by her, it felt different. It was fierce. Unyielding even. Although she has tried to reach out to propel it toward her, it resisted her calls. How could this be? She asked herself. For an Archon who was unable to control the very gift she has given to people, it was unheard of. Glancing up to meet your eyes, they shined with bright determination. The very same look was given to her by a man of violet scarves. 

In her fit of rage, storms rose to immeasurable degrees, the wind blew wildly as you brought your hand up to shield your eyes. Sucking in a deep breath, you bend your knee, concentrating on her next attack. The Shogun would not be easily put down by a measly sword user. It was only a matter of time before the other soldiers arrived. You just needed to buy enough time for the Traveler to meet up with Sangonomiya at Watatsumi Island.

She rushes you, coating her body in layers upon layers of lightning. The strike of her attack caused your foot to slide back several feet but you stood firm. Blocking her attack with your sword you pushed the weight of your body against her blade. Your hands trembled as you felt short bursts of shocks run through your body. This reverse tug of war was intense and nearly blinded your eyes with the brightness of thunder. 

She pulls back to deliver another crushing blow to your side, to which you block once more. With one hand on the hilt, you swiftly punched her in the stomach, leading to her recoiling. Such unorthodox methods of fighting, she comments to herself. For a sword wielder to use such gross techniques, brought great disgust to her stomach. Had you no shame? No honor to the blade you wield? She pities the person who even taught you in the first place.

You could care less though. For you, the battle is only won when the opponent is knocked to their feet, begging for mercy. Honor was of little value to you for your clan has long fallen and been forgotten. The only heir that exists was you, and even you couldn’t uphold the traditional needs that it desired. Your older brother, which had held high hopes for the clan was brought to his knees, shaken and sliced in half by the very woman in front of you.

Unorthodox methods were what lead you to become the Lionfish of the resistance. A carnivorous beast that yields to no one but itself. A prideful being that flaunts its colors with no shame. To survive in this brutal world meant equalizing the playing field, no matter how dirty it may seem. Your Vision was no different. Having been received at the ripe age of seven after declaring your alliance with your older brother, it called out to you with a voice unheard of. 

It was yours. A very small part of you that dares to defy the Raiden Shogun’s ruling. The kind that resisted all sorts of forces in exchange for your happiness. You dare not let a selfish woman take away that part of you. The part that burned and crackled with intense yearning. The part that would fight against a world that had no room for you. 

You let out a gasp as her sword pierces your side. She had used a feint to catch you off guard. Her skilled hands were much faster than yours, much more experienced, and you felt the burning sensation of her lightning course through your veins. It bubbled deep within you, a choked scream caught in the net of your throat. Before she could raise her sword against your neck, the air felt warm.

The wind picked up speed as a figure reaches out to you. Wrapping one arm around your waist, his blond hair fluttered amongst the clouds. A breeze that grazed your cheeks stole you away from her clutches, giving you life once more. You can only watch as the Raiden Shogun glared at you, pressing her foot against the wooden flooring with rage. 

Letting out a sigh, you allowed the maple leaf to steal you away from the battlefield. 

[angedemystere]

"The Night Shepherd": An Inklings Challenge Submission

Author's Note: Well, I did my best to follow the Team Tolkien prompts, but I definitely blurred (cheated) on the premises and genres. While I'm tagging this story as unfinished, there's an attempt to give it some temporary completeness. Thank you @inklings-challenge for setting this up!

Title: The Night Shepherd

Summary: A nun traveling with strange company finds herself thrown into an even stranger situation when her curiosity gets the better of her.

~

Sister Mor was no stranger to woodlands, but even so, having grown up near groves and, in her youth, ventured into them in the late (or early) hours, she found this forest unnerving. Was it the cawing of the nightbirds that prickled her skin? The chilly wind? The perpetual fog in the treetops? Even in the daylight, the trees wore a dreary cloak that frustrated the sun’s gleaming rays. Now, whether hidden by the branches or the haze, the moon had no chance of cutting the darkness. Only the fire of their camp could stir some comfort in her soul.

If she could but say her companions inspired comfort, too. Three of them she knew. They’d traveled together all the way from Wales. Brother Talfryn snored like a bear, and his brown cowl made it easy to mistake him for one. One clue to aid the unsuspecting intruder about the brown lump’s identity lay in the sword wedged under the brother’s arm. The weapon served to protect Sister Mor as well as its wielder, but that point didn’t please her. They labored in Christ’s name, the Prince of Peace. She had debated with Brother Talfryn many times that the Lord’s words, “I have not come to bring peace but a sword,” referred to his message about the Kingdom of Heaven rather than a literal sword. He countered that the Lord had advised his apostles to acquire literal swords shortly before his death. No matter how many times they parried over the use of violence, neither sister nor brother in Christ budged. Sister Mor trusted Brother Talfryn with her life. She wished she could entrust others’ lives to him, too.

The other two companions didn’t carry swords or daggers. Instead, Guar and her son Coch had teeth, claws, tails, and wings to defend themselves. They hunted like animals and ate raw meat. Another of their kin had met and joined them. Arculf hailed from Brittany. He wore scars from fighting other graiggwerin, a custom in their clan that was not evident among the graiggwerin living in Pembrokeshire. Perhaps Arculf had faced greater challenges to survival. But when any creature, including men, justified brutal actions with self-preservation, they became much more dangerous. If Sister Mor couldn’t caution a monk, she didn’t expect to cull the instincts of these intelligent but no less bestial beings.

And then, Lord have mercy, there remained the rest of the company. Two of them slept close to a tree at the edge of their encampment, a man and a woman. Danes, pagans. The woman, Vigdis, lay by the feet of the man, Stigandr. The man sat up against the tree with cords of thick rope holding him to the trunk. To think Vigdis, his sister, had done that to him, and with his cooperation! Sister Mor tried not to dwell on whether Stigandr might rip through those ropes, should he stir and suffer an attack of madness. Vigdis had this concern, too, hence her presence at his feet. Whether or not his madness would prompt a transformation into a wolflike monster, she could just as easily transform to stop him, and with her sanity intact. Well, so she claimed.

Sister Mor’s guts swam. Vigdis’s and Stigandr’s lupine forms loomed as a fresh memory. She prayed again that they’d sleep through another shift before it was Vigdis’s turn to keep watch.

She also offered a prayer for the thrall, the young man who slept a little further away from the Danes. He was Gwendal, a Breton. He knew the bare bones of cooking, and he could carry as well as his twiggy arms let him. Vigdis could carry more thanks to her years of training with a sword and axe alongside her brother. Gwendal looked like he’d done very little manual labor even for his own sustenance. He depended on his musical talent. Thanks to his angelic voice, all his previous masters used him primarily for this purpose. For Stigandr, Gwendal’s singing soothed his mind into sleep.

Sister Mor’s prayer for Gwendal not only entailed his freedom and safety, but that his voice might join a monk choir to praise and please the One who deserved it.

Observing these sleeping characters tempted her to shut her eyes, too, despite the harm any one of these people might do. Sister Mor bit her tongue and scribbled on her sheets of vellum. To help her focus, she wrote notes for a letter to her brother Cuan, a recent initiate to the monastery on Caldey Island. This was the same monastery where Brother Talfryn lived, and where he and specially selected monks, along with the abbot, monitored the comings and goings of the graiggwerin who sheltered among the island’s seaside cliffs. Poor Cuan became entrapped in this business because of her; the lad could only agree, being so young and already a likely candidate for monk, anyway, among the many children of Prince Ronain of Munster.

Sister Mor had preceded him in his connection with the monastery, but Cuan’s presence validated her visits to Caldey Island, which in truth centered on the purpose of composing a grammar for the graiggwer language. The graiggwerin borrowed many words from Welsh thanks to their contact with the Caldey monks, but the grammatical rules had clearly evolved from another linguistic source that Sister Mor could not decidedly trace to a human language. There must have been an old graiggwer tongue that had gradually transformed or became lost over the centuries thanks to this clan’s separation from others of their kind and more frequent human interaction.

By now, Sister Mor could converse with Guar and Coch and their clan in the Cliff Tongue. Brother Talfryn snidely called it Dragon Tongue. Sister Mor nearly pointed out that most dragons, or serpents, had either no legs or two legs, placing the graiggwerin in a unique category of super-natural creature. But the Southern Britons seemed to believe in the preeminence of four-legged dragons, as shown on their banners of red dragons. In fact, Coch’s reddish-ochre hide endeared him to most of the monks who belonged to the clandestine circle. They interpreted his birth as a sign that God was rewarding their piety and peaceable relations with the graiggwerin. The abbot believed Coch heralded the longevity of the Britons in the face of antagonism from Anglo-Saxons and Danes. But Brother Talfryn saw the graiggwerin as hardly more intelligent than wolves and just as trustworthy. (One could imagine his regard for Vigdis and Stigandr.) He agreed to come with Sister Mor to the mainland only because he didn’t believe anyone else took the peril presented by the graiggwerin seriously enough. She, despite Brother Talfryn’s anxiety, was prepared to risk her life to help the graiggwerin reunite with their kin from the north, who used a different language influenced by Danish, much like how the Cliff Tongue was influenced by Welsh. As the only fluent speaker of Danish, Welsh, and Anglo-Saxon who knew the graiggwerin, she owned the choice to embark on this journey, and here she was. Brother Talfryn called her ambition and generosity foolish both before and after agreeing to accompany her. And here he was, sleeping with his sword in the middle of a foggy forest, helping her stay awake with a probably deviated septum.

She wrote down these observations and honest thoughts to her brother (that he would likely never read—no reliable messengers here in the wilds of East Francia) until they and her stylus came to a stop thanks to one last wall of ignorance. She had many pieces of stories about her companions, all but one. This final, unaccounted-for member of the company was the only person, other than Sister Mor, who was awake. Well, she might have been awake, or she had fallen asleep while sitting up against a different tree than the one occupied by Stigandr.

The woman called herself Hulda. More accurately, she told everyone else to call her Hulda. She often wore her hood and drew it low to spare everyone the sight of her face. The hood still covered Hulda’s head while the travelers slept. If she’d left it down, maybe Sister Mor’s curiosity wouldn’t have nagged her. It knew Hulda’s face, but so much hid behind that face. Gazing directly at the split visage—half living flesh as fair as heaven, half dead and blackened like a tree charred by lightning—had convinced everyone to mind their own business about this strange woman’s origins. But by throwing a shadow over that grotesque vision with the hood, Hulda inadvertently invited Sister Mor’s attention now.

What could she tell Cuan about this woman? Only that Guar, in flight, had warned them of a tall figure approaching Sister Mor and Brother Talfryn. When Hulda had reached them, she’d said she would help them rendezvous with the northern graiggwerin (or fjallfolk, as she called them). She had the werewolf Danes and their thrall in tow and hitched them to the troupe.

Why was she helping them? “I was told to.”

By whom? “If you don’t know, you need not know at this time.”

Cajoles and demands did nothing to extract more information, nor did they drive away Hulda.

Very well. Then let her suffer a little human curiosity if she truly wanted to aid them.

Sister Mor tucked away her pages and stylus in her leather bag, shuffled to her feet, and tiptoed to Hulda’s reposing figure. Awak or asleep, Hulda looked cozy enveloped in her wool cloak. The cool air made Sister Mor’s breath puff into clouds. She quieted her exhalations and turned her ears in every direction. Memories from adolescence crept into her imagination: what creatures might be stalking them? Simple beasts? More intelligent folk like the graiggwerin, only worse? More like …

An image, a face, splashed across her mind’s eye with a mocking laugh. The cold, leering stare of a sid.

She shook her head, crossed herself, prayed for steeliness of mind against such memories. This forest was spooky enough.

An owl’s hoot made her flinch, but she kept her tread as mute as a cat’s until she reached Hulda. She drank in the slight chill, held it, and cleared her throat.

“My lady?”

Hulda sighed. “My turn already?”

Sister Mor blinked and frowned. “For what?”

“To be bombarded with questions.”

With a snort, Sister Mor came around the tree for a better angle to look at Hulda. She’d heard such tones from curmudgeons in her family’s royal court and even among the older sisters at her abbey, especially in her novice days. A few cross words wouldn’t deter her.

However, even the most wrinkled elder, man or woman, couldn’t make her shudder like the face under Hulda’s hood. A glimpse of the chin, mouth, and the tip of the nose betrayed the unnatural fissure that cut a jagged line down the center. The healthy skin turned bluish-gray before meeting the invasion of black, flaky flesh. The mouth on the dead side was little more than a crack until she opened it again to speak. White teeth blinked in the sparse light; so did gray, green, and brown teeth.

“Mind what you ask. You might wish you never learned the answer.”

Very odd to hear a pleasant voice coming out of that mouth, and speaking as though a child were pestering her.

Sister Mor straightened. She might well be a mewling child in Hulda’s eyes if the woman was as inhuman and ancient as she acted. That didn’t make Mor any less a prince’s daughter.

“I never ask a question when I fear the answer. If it disturbs me, I find a way to bear it. But I have not yet asked a question.”

“You did, and the answer is ‘no.’”

“What question?”

The living side of Hulda’s mouth smirked. “I am not your lady. Sometimes I’m granted the title, and others, but … what do you truly want to know? And why should I bother telling you?”

Sister Mor needed a moment to remember her diplomatic training to cool her tongue. “Seeing as we are traveling together, and you have volunteered your aid, a closer acquaintance can only improve cooperation. Such has been my experience as a princess of the Munster court.”

“The Munster court. Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Only that I am well acquainted with thorny characters who insist on forging their own paths and look down their noses at anyone else. These people don’t thrive in court, even if they’re part of the royal family.”

“How fortunate I am—I have no court to deal with.”

Maybe she ought to go back to Brother Talfryn and his snores, after all. Sister Mor let herself pause and think before trying another approach. “You serve someone who has an interest in our endeavor. Whoever they are, they trust you to collaborate with strangers. Why is that?”

Hulda didn’t answer right away. “That is a good question.”

Sister Mor scoffed. “You can’t be serious. You must know.”

Hulda tipped back her head. Now Sister Mor could see her eyes. One blue. One cloudy, as happens to corpses after a time before the sclera and corneas start to rot. Perhaps Hulda was blind in that eye.

“I’m not here to help you,” she said. “I’m here to help the fjallfolk. Guar, Coch, Arculf, and their kin. That’s my duty.”

Well, it was a start. Sister Mor nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. Then, your lord or lady cares about these, uh … do they care about Vigdis and Stigandr, too?”

“You presume that Vigdis and Stigandr want you to know the answer to that.” Hulda spoke dryly, but her eyes quickened like a cat’s as it torments a mouse.

Sister Mor stood even taller. “Very well, I suppose that much isn’t my business. Do you serve the fjallfolk?”

“Hardly.”

“Ah. Then … are you their steward?”

Hulda looked away, thinking. “I suppose I am.”

“Ah! Why is that? The graiggwerin strike me as an independent people, ruled only by their own tribe. But in a larger group, do they have a more sophisticated hierarchy? How do you—”

“Slow down, girl. I’m not about to give a history lesson on these people to whom you are, at best, an incidental boon. I will tell you this: while Guar and Coch might be amiable, most of their kin want nothing to do with humans, and that’s as friendly as they get.”

“For what reason?” Sister Mor took a seat beside Hulda. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I take no offense. Many humans have ample reason to detest one another.”

“Even though that’s against your creed?”

Sister Mor smiled. “‘Wide is the road that leads to destruction.’ Have humans harmed graiggwerin?”

“It goes beyond mere harm. ‘Harm’ the fjallfolk can handle. And it’s not only them.” Hulda nearly continued, but her brow creased, and she sharpened her stare.

“Not only the graiggwerin?” Sister Mor pressed. “Other races? It is … quite a vast number?”

Hulda closed her lips.

“I don’t find that shocking.” Sister Mor had made some headway, and if now she had to carry this conversation, so be it. “In my country, we have stories about the Tuatha De Danann, a mighty people of wondrous power who lived in Ireland before mankind. After a war with our people, they gave up their homes above ground to dwell in the Otherworld, Tir na nOg. If the legends are true, I can imagine it wasn’t a happy resolution for them, even if the arrangement came about by a treaty. Are the graiggwerin like the Tuatha de Danann? Or perhaps more like the Fomorians since they don’t possess the famous beauty of the Tuatha De. But these graiggwerin are good-hearted, regardless of their appearances. As you say, others of their kind might hate mankind for understandable reasons. Is this your way of warning me and Brother Talfryn that we should conclude our part Guar’s reunion with her distant kin as quickly as possible?”

“I wondered why you no longer live at your beloved royal court,” Hulda said. “I think I’ve found the answer. I know a few things about politics, and there are two useful skills to have: subtlety and brevity.”

Once again, Sister Mor joined her teeth and prayed for patience. “As you say, we’re not in court now. You could just answer my questions and be done with me sooner.”

“Oh, I fear the fount from which these questions arise gushes evermore.”

“I have good reason for it! I’m in a strange land, far from home, with only one of my own people whom I know and trust as my protector. If you wish to help, you could offer a little more information to guide us!”

“I will guide you exactly as you need to be, and no more. That is my only obligation.”

Sister Mor opened her mouth for a rebuttal. A light caught her eye. When she faced it, her retort flew away. The light came from a walking staff that leaned next to Hulda. Sister Mor had thought nothing of its presence until threads of light started climbing from base to top. They drew curves and rose in a spiral. The staff’s head was carved into a grooved, sharpened point, almost like a lance. At some angles, the white lines of light split into tiny rainbows. The streams multiplied and raced to meet each other at the pointed tip. It too glowed, and the effulgence spilled back down.

“What is that?”

Hulda jerked her head around. She gasped, then groaned as she pushed off the tree. “Now?” She looked up into the tree’s branches. “Truly? Right now? I’m already …”

A pause, then a sigh. Hulda brought her looming stature to bear. “This will be but a moment.”

“What do you—?”

Hulda touched the staff and vanished before Sister Mor could finish the question. She cried out, then clapped her mouth.

“Hnng?” Vigdis raised her head and propped herself up. “What’s happened?”

Sister Mor shuddered. It didn’t matter who had woken up. The words pushed their way out of her. “H-hulda. She … she’s gone.”

Vigdis blinked and woke a little more. “Where?”

“I don’t know. She’s disappeared.”

Vigdis blinked again. Her body sagged. “She’s a witch. She comes and goes. She’ll be back.”

“But—”

Again, Sister Mor never finished. Vigdis plopped back down into sleep.

A moment later, Hulda reappeared the way safe she’d left. Her staff no longer glowed. She placed it against the tree with slumping shoulders.

“Oh! Thank God and the saints. Where did you go?”

“Not your concern.” Hulda sounded tired. How? She’d been gone a handful of seconds.

“How does it do that? I … I mean, I know a little … that is …” Though her face burned with mounting embarrassment, Sister Mor kept watching the staff. “Are you a witch? Witchcraft is ungodly. But is it witchcraft or … Is it dangerous? Where did you get it?”

“Stop asking questions, girl. Go to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Would Hulda be able to stand guard with that weariness? Or perhaps disappointment more than fatigue.

“Hulda, what happened? Did you see something … unpleasant?”

Hulda pushed back her hood and spared Sister Mor nothing. The face broadcast a glare that was bisected by life and death and framed by brittle gray hair on one side and full, thick brown hair on the other. All of it was wild and mussed by the abrupt removal of the hood. Harsh eyes and straightened lips scolded her.  

Yes, it was disquieting, but Sister Mor had met worse in her nightmares.

“Forgive me,” she said with a slight tremor. “If something is wrong, I want to help.”

“Leave it alone,” Hulda said slowly. “Go.”

The word landed like an executioner’s blade. Sister Mor began to obey the sheer force of it. She lowered her head and stepped away.

Another flare of light ran up the staff. The command to leave vaporized from Sister Mor’s mind. She stopped, gaped, and glanced at Hulda. The half-living woman turned around, too. She saw Sister Mor, the staff, the tiny gap between them.

Sister Mor reached out to the staff and its beckoning lights.

“No!” Hulda whipped around and lunged.

They touched the staff at the same time.

A sensation most easily compared to being headbutted by a horse collided with Sister Mor before oblivion spared her from further assaults. A moment or a lifetime later, she heard Hulda’s voice, a distant wave that grows in loudness as it rolls toward the shore—

“Mor! Mor! Can you hear me?”

A frigid, bony hand slapped her cheek. Sister Mor groaned and rolled her head away from the offending touch.

"You mad creature," Hulda grumbled. "Can you feel all your limbs?"

Sister Mor managed to flex her fingers and toes. They ached. She nodded.

"Good. Stand up."

That command met momentary resistance, not all of Sister Mor's volition. She whimpered in her effort to sit up. The muscles in her back clenched, and she collapsed on the stony ground. In the haze of pain, she wondered why she couldn't feel any dead leaves or wild grass that carpeted the forest. As the pulsing in her head died down, she could open her eyes.

A light burned behind Hulda's head. Was it the moon? The sun?

Some horrible, foreign smell hit her nose. Something was burning, but not wood or incense. It was like smelting, but even more acrid. Maybe this was Hell.

“Get up.” Hulda’s hands, one cold and one warm, grabbed Sister Mor’s elbows. She danced with vertigo but landed safely on her feet. The soles of her shoes clapped and made something clack on the ground. Was that gravel? She blinked in the nighttime gloom that the ball of light above them continued to dispel as best it could. She very nearly asked what it was, but other peculiar elements caught her attention and accrued her question collection. She guessed they were standing in a cemetery; headstones and a few mauseoleums raised their gray forms above sloping earth. Gravel-covered paths wound among them. A broader view of the scene directed her attention to a piked fence at the edges of the grounds. Who guarded cemeteries so vigorously? And where was the church? And that light—no, lights. She spied a few more about twenty paces from the first one outside the fence. She began to walk toward them—

Hulda caught her arm. “Where are you off too?”

Sister Mor blinked. Goodness, what was she thinking? She ought to be the one asking the questions!

“Where are we?”

Hulda regarded the cemetery. “Let’s look at the headstones.”

A surprisingly sensible suggestion. Sister Mor grasped Hulda’s intention and hastened her to steps to the nearest grave marker. It was in fact a double marker for two people. She managed to discern the names “Samuel Weld” and “Thomas Weld.” The letters she could read, being Latin, but she didn’t know the language. No year to mark either man’s passing. The style of the headstones struck her with their refinement and morbidity. A yawning death’s head floated above both names and epitaphs, but floral and equally delicate engravings decorated the stone, too.

Sister Mor checked behind her to ask Hulda if she knew the language on the stones. The witch had already moved on. She’d ventured down the path and found a low wall of red, rectangular stones. A plaque was affixed to it.

“This one is more helpful,” Hulda said.

Sister Mor joined her. She knelt and nearly brought her nose to the stone so she could read it in the dark. The name Joseph Dudley followed a mysterious abbreviation (Gov.). But Sister Mor forgot the name as soon as she read the numbers below it.

“One-six-four-seven. That can’t be right. Six … 1647 to … to 1720?” She read it three more times before looking at Hulda. “Do the people in this country have a different calendar?”

“More likely it’s the same as yours. Whatever the year is, it’s later than 1720.”

The year of the Lord was 880. And they were supposed to be in East Francia, and this language didn’t look like any Germanic dialect she’d come across. As these facts fermented into a wild conclusion, Sister Mor struggled move or breathe. When she finally recovered enough mobility, she used it to place one hand on the ground. Her eyes sought the staff. It wasn’t glowing at all. Its body comprised of ordinary wood.

“We … we didn’t just move in space. We moved … in time.”

“Yes,” Hulda said, as if Sister Mor were describing a route to the nearest market.

“With your staff.”

“Yes.”

“… oh. Oh, Mary and Joseph.” Sister Mor gave a sound that immediately mortified her; it blended horror and ecstasy.

“You insisted on touching a glowing stick without knowing what it did.”

Another yelp, close to a shriek, leapt out of Sister Mor. Hulda grabbed her arm.

“Ow!”

“Quiet! We don’t belong here, so don’t draw any attention.”

Sister Mor started panting, but she bit her lip, whined quietly, and began to calm down. “Nnnnghthen why are we here?”

“The staff sent me here. You’re here thanks to stubbornness and stupidity. But since you’re here, and I can’t send you back, you might as well get a grip and help me.”

Sister Mor gasped. “You can’t send me back? But, but it’s your staff!”

“I don’t control it. When it fills with light, I go where it takes me and seek the one I’ve been tasked to help. I didn’t even think until a few moments ago that another person could touch it and be thrown across lands and centuries, too. Thank your god that I touched it, too, or you’d be a very lost, very dead woman.”

“How do we get back?”

“We will return to your time when the staff gives us the power to do so.”

“How long will that be?”

Hulda shrugged.

“Then, we could be wandering across the ages for years. We could die.”

“I didn’t make you touch the staff.”

Despite herself, or maybe because of the panic trying to fill her chest, Sister Mor laughed. She did sound mad.

“Are you going to lose your mind,” asked Hulda, “or are you going to keep your senses and help me? Either way, I have work to do, and you’re not my priority.”

Of all the emotions to triumph at this moment, Sister Mor marveled at the joy rising above everything else. Terror lingered beneath it, but, in a way, that buoyed her joy even more. Maybe this was the first sign of madness setting in.

Still catching her breath, she smoothed her headdress and habit. “Very well. What are you bound to do?”

“Usually, I land near the soul in need. He or she must be somewhere in this graveyard right now. The One who gave me this staff is kind enough to afford me darkness and remoteness for my work. Most of the time.”

The archness in Hulda’s voice made a smile jump to Sister Mor’s lips. She quashed it for fear of offending the grim lady. “Who is this person?”

“It’s my concern alone. Your concern is staying close to me, and staying alive if you want to see your home and family again.”

The notion that she might never see Cuan or any of her kin made her shudder not by its incomprehensibility but in familiarity. She banished the reminder of another brush with a superhuman power that had whisked her away to a land that, if legends were true, also defied the bonds of time. Sister Mor nodded, brushed herself off again, and followed Hulda in standing up.

As Hulda predicted, they wandered the graveyard for no more than a quarter of an hour, passing a few more of those balls of light. They must have been lamps on tall posts, boxed in by glass to stop the wind from blowing them out. Sister Mor heard more of the world outside the cemetery: voices in that foreign tongue, shouts of alcohol-brined opinions, dog barks, hoofbeats, clattering wheels on cobblestone streets. And yes, that horrid smell. Hulda believed, having visited this period before, that they were in the age of coal combustion.

“Are we in a city?” Sister Mor asked. “I’ve only ever visited Dublin twice. Cities promise so much, but they appear more wretched than not. Dare I hope our descendants will improve on the idea?”

Hulda looked back at her and smiled. Sister Mor didn’t take that as a happy portend.

She was grateful, in light of this conversation, to soon meet another soul. Their presence meant the end of their visit.

Gratitude would evaporate into pity, then shock and revulsion.

Both women turned a bend on one of the paths and spied a prone man in front of one of the mausoleums. Sister Mor took him to be a drunkard or homeless beggar. The warring instincts to help and to turn away shamed her; how could she hesitate, especially as a religieuse, to minister to the least, as the Lord had commanded? Her hesitation allowed Hulda to move first toward the destitute man. She followed.

“Stay back,” Hulda ordered.

“Why?”

“If you value your life.”

Was Hulda threatening her to not help after all the fuss she made about Sister Mor girding herself for this adventure?

Then the man jerked up like a puppet hoisted up by a string, and he turned his head like owl-like dexterity. His eyes glinted like those of an owl, too. He gasped and groaned.

Hulda gave a “shhhhh” that matched the wind moving through the trees. In fact, the timing was perfect. A breeze brushed the trees growing throughout the graveyard as she spoke. The coincidence changed Hulda into much greater a force. Was it just a coincidence?

The man, the creature, didn’t move any more. Hulda stretched out her mummified arm to him, beckoning. Sister Mor stepped back.

“Don’t run, either,” said Hulda. “That will provoke him. He’s hungry. Trust me.”

Sister Mor fought to control her breathing. “Might not he hurt you?”

“He won’t.” New gentleness touched Hulda’s voice. It remained even as she deepened her tone and projected in the man’s direction. “Come.”

The man’s hands started twitching. His shining eyes narrowed. Step by step, he crept toward Hulda. Sister Mor quaked all over. Oh, how she hated his look. His features were perfectly human in shape. More and more, though, the pallor and sunken cheeks, as a corpse looks before bloat sets in, reminded her of a nonhuman face that had chased and tormented her years ago. Yes, all due to her own foolishness once again. This could be divine punishment.

When the man, or creature, came within two paces of Hulda, he whimpered and dropped to its knees. Mouth open, crying, he showed his pointed canines. He spoke what sounded like a full sentence, possibly a question.

“What did he say?” whispered Sister Mor.

“I have no idea. I don’t know his language well enough.”

The man, the creature, gawked at Hulda like she’d spoken in the tongue of angels and imparted a profound message from the Almighty.

Hulda moved closer to him. Her dead hand, still outstretched, rested on his scalp. He gave a deep, shaky sigh.

“Does he know who you are?” Sister Mor asked.

The man’s posture stiffened. Sister Mor stepped back again without thinking. His head rotated so his reflective eyes tracked her.

“Don’t move,” Hulda said.

Both Sister Mor and the man kept still.

“Sister Mor, this child of the night needs food. If we leave him, he’ll attack a poor soul and taint his own even further. Where do you suggest we find human blood?”

A simple answer came to Sister Mor, and she grimaced at it. A stationary search of the cemetery yielded no other options. “I … I could give him some of mine.”

Hulda turned to Sister Mor and stared as though she’d heard a string of gibberish.

“What?” said Sister Mor. “Isn’t that what you were implying?”

“Of course not! I asked because, as a human, you have more familiarity with human settlements than I do and would know where to find fresh blood. Do you want to die?”

“No!” Sister Mor flushed at the question. Her temper cooled. She touched the silver cross hanging around her neck. “No, but … will he die if he doesn’t eat tonight?”

“It’s not his death I’m worried about.”

That helped Sister Mor breathe more steadily. “Then … I will not send him off to some ‘acceptable’ source of blood. I have some here to keep him docile.”

She pulled up her sleeve. The man-creature lunged. Hulda swung down her staff and hit him in the chest. He screeched and dropped lower. Hulda stooped, too, either to check he was all right or to keep him at bay.

“It’s not that simple!” Hulda snapped. “He has no reason to show restraint.”

“Then keep him restrained, if you please.” Sister Mor finished rolling up the sleeve. She patted the pouch hanging from her belt. “Oh. I don’t think I have a knife.”

Hulda sighed. “I do.”

Sister Mor kept Hulda between herself and the creature, rustled about Hulda’s belt as quickly as she could, and thanked God when she found the knife. The hilt bore Danish runes that read “famine.” Sister Mor almost laughed.

“Does this have magic, too?”

“No. Cut the outside of your arm if you must. That will do.”

Ideally, Sister Mor would have cleaned or cauterized the blade. She settled for a swift wipe on an inner fold of her habit. A gasp left her with the knife’s slice.

“Be quick,” she ordered the man-creature.

The cut discouraged the man-creature from biting through her skin. She still felt the fangs. They pressed insistently. She flinched at first contact, and he growled.

Hatred for this beast boiled in her throat. She gave him her arm again and shut her eyes.

“Tell me when he’s finished,” she said to Hulda.

“You had better tell me when you’re finished, unless you want me to let him continue until you faint.”

It wasn’t so much the loss of blood as the smacking and slurping and the feel of his cold tongue on her skin that made Sister Mor lightheaded and long for escape. Anxiety made her head pound like a drum.

“That’s enough!” She ripped her arm away. Rather unnecessary in hindsight. Neither the monster nor Hulda had taken hold of her arm.

Hulda had him in her complete grip, like a farmer holding a young bull to fit him with a nose ring. The beastly man left no red drop wasted. His tongue wiped away his meal from his chapped lips. The eyes, more human-like but still a little luminous, gleamed without gratitude. There was only delight from a sated appetite. It was rather childlike, the manner of which convinced Sister Mor that she did not like children.

If Hulda had given her blood, she might not have rubbed the man-creature’s back to ease him further. Still, her presence was the only reason Sister Mor had even considered sharing her blood with this thing. She did worry her that Hulda cared more for the blood-drinker than any human. At least she hadn’t let the monster kill Sister Mor. That had to carry some import.

“What now?”

Instead of answering Sister Mor, Hulda tilted the man-creature’s chin. Still lean and vicious, he trembled under her steady stare. Hulda leaned down and whispered in his ear. He didn’t seem to understand whatever she said, but that soon didn’t matter. After a sly glance at Sister Mor, he shut his eyes and leaned into Hulda as she helped him stand. He muttered something. Hulda squeezed his shoulder, the side furthest from her. Sister Mor reminded herself to squeeze her cut with her handkerchief while most of her attention remained on the strange intimacy between the creature and the tall, half-living woman keeping him steady. Hulda did not radiate much warmth, but even a stone can give its own kind of comfort.

The staff, still in Hulda’s other hand, began to send tendrils of light up to its top.

Elated and fearful, Sister Mor dashed forward and grabbed onto it. “Thank God!”

Hulda chuckled. “Hold that thought.”

This time, although blackness did briefly swipe away her consciousness, Sister Mor came back to herself while still on her feet. This time, nausea punched her gut. She doubled over and wretched. The man-creature made similar noises.

“It’s not so bad after the tenth time,” said Hulda. She raised her head and whistled: a single, long, melancholy note. Just as Sister Mor stopped gagging, something flapped out of the trees—yes, the trees were back!—and cawed right before landing on Hulda’s shoulder.

“Take this one,” she said.

Sister Mor stumbled a step or two away and checked that no one was touching her. No, Hulda was nodding at the man-creature, the blood-drinker. She brushed his face with her living hand. The bird, a crow, practically barked at him, took off, and ascended into a loop. The grace with which it dodged the branches managed to enchant Sister Mor. Words passed between Hulda and the man that she didn’t hear. The crow redirected her to the pair when it flew over their heads.

Hulda pointed at the bird and pressed the man’s back. The instruction did not require a common tongue to be understood. The man hesitated, threw a fretful look at Hulda, then at Sister Mor without the former hunger or mischief. Finally, like a frightened child eager to get home, he walked into the forest to follow the crow’s path.

Sister Mor checked her cut—still clean and only slightly bleeding. Hulda joined her.

“Where is he going?”

“My servant will find a home for him.”

“But how do you know what he needs? You couldn’t speak with him.”

“I’ve helped many of his kind over the years, from all places and ages. They have nowhere else to go. Once that happens—once their lives, in a sense, have ended—I shepherd them to a new life that will keep them and the humans they might hurt safe.”

Sister Mor peered around at the familiar trees and mists. “Here?”

Hulda gave another of her small, not very assuring smiles. “You believe I would let you come to harm here?”

“Well …”

“Remember who volunteered her blood to a draugr.”

“Draugr?”

“An undead being.”

Sister Mor shuddered. Not just a blood-drinker, but an undead one. She’d let it touch her!

A dead hand reached for her. She jolted back. Hulda stopped. She seemed surprised not by Sister Mor but by her own action. Her hand joined the living one on her staff. Brittle fingers wrapped around it more tightly than needed.

A pang plucked at something in Sister Mor’s chest. It took some time to untangle her tongue. “Are you helping the graiggwerin—I mean, the fjallfolk—for the same reason?”

“Yes. And the vargfolk. And, on occasion, a human or two. Well, not to come here permanently, but in this woodland, you are under my stewardship. If any other folk trouble you, they will answer to me.”

Sister Mor could hardly breathe. She dared not think who Hulda really was, what sort of company she and Brother Talfryn and the rest of their party were keeping. She tried very, very hard not to think of the sidhe and their rules, their sense of entitlement over anyone who crossed into their land. Already she was beginning to ache for the comfort of her abbey, the strong stone walls that kept out the monsters of the world.

Yet they didn’t keep out all monsters. They didn’t banish the ones that had slipped into her dreams. Would she dream of that blood-drinker now? Would she dream of Hulda?

The same woman was silent. Her gaze drifted between Sister Mor, the ground, and the canopy and its wispy tresses. The staff had returned to its ordinary color. Brother Talfryn and the others weren’t in sight. So many questions buzzed in Sister Mor’s skull, and she couldn’t find the courage to let them out just yet. One did persist, sitting on her tongue until, at last, she had to breathe and set it free.

“Why do you have stewardship over this place?”

Hulda opened her mouth, left it open, gave a slow sigh, and finally said, “It’s a long story, and I’m not ready to tell it. But … I will tell you that the One who placed this duty on me gave you the same duty to help the fjallfolk.”

Sister Mor didn’t bother hiding her astonishment. She found her nerve again soon enough. “And who is that?”

A raised eyebrow. “Who else could it be?”

One moment, Sister Mor was stone. The next, she bubbled with laughter. She swallowed it, feeling rude for disrupting the forest with the noise. “But you don’t know anything about Him.”

Hulda had her turn to laugh. “The things I could tell you! But not now.”

The staff seemed to agree: it began to shoot its lines of light upward.

“Either this will return us to your proper time,” said Hulda, “or to my next appointment.”

In that respect, Sister Mor had no excuse to hesitate. She steered her hand to a spot on the staff just a little below Hulda’s overlapping fingers. A few frantic heartbeats later, they entered the blackness, then reentered the forest. This time, their sleeping companions surrounded them.

“There. Off to bed with you,” said Hulda.

Almost as soon as Sister Mor took her hand off the staff, it glowed again. Her stomach flew up like water when a stone drops into it, and in the same way, it settled again. She touched the staff.

Hulda frowned. “What—?”

“Will any time be lost?” Sister Mor asked.

“… no. Not if we’re brought back to this same moment.”

Sister Mor bit her lip and nodded. Her fingers clenched around the wood.

Hulda made that same bewildered scowl as the one in the cemetery. It couldn’t stop a smile, the biggest one yet from the grim lady. “As if I don’t have enough to worry about.”

“I’ll help you,” said Sister Mor seriously. “Haven’t I already?”

An intrigued hum. “We will see.”

They vanished into the air.

[cvlutos]

(hi again! I honestly rlly loved your take on the Welcome Home reincarnation AU. I actually ended up writing a piece for it and wanted to share it w you!! I hope you like it! Def more on the romantic side cause I’m a simp lmaoo)

“Oh dearest…” Wally sighed, his grip on your waist unyielding, holding you steady against him as you swayed gently from side to side.

“You’ve been playing quite the game. So clever.”

The music stirred blissfully in the atmosphere; all around you, your neighbors chatted amongst themselves; lights scattered across the night sky, illuminating the party.

But this perfectly crafted world did nothing to ease the nerves twisting painfully inside of you.

“Let…let go—“

“No matter what I say or do,” Wally chuckled, leaning over and whispering beside your ear, “you always manage to put the pieces together and you always try to slip away from me, dearest.”

You shuddered and averted your gaze, trying to quell the pain rising in your throat.

He wasn’t wrong. Somehow, every time you returned to this world…despite being a completely different person, the memories lingered deep within.

Strands of moments in time that were once impossible to conjure forth, thinning in and out of your conscious soon emerged as bold strokes across your eyes. And the more you learned, the more you fought.

To escape this place.

“When will this little rebellion end, hmm?” Wally hummed, twirling you briefly. You were quickly returned to his embrace, his arm locked around you.

“After all I do for you…you run away every time. Don’t you grow tired of running? Trying to reach the edge the forest? You know there’s nothing out there for you.”

“It’s better than being trapped here.” You snapped.

The air grew thin and cold, and his gaze locked onto yours. You desperately tried to look away, but his eyes swallowed up your own, an infinite, inky blackness that knew no limits in its consumption.

You felt his gaze sweep across your soul—your very being. And it awoke the deep resentment that stirred quietly over the course of your many lifetimes. Knowing how many times you had been reborn, how many times you reappeared in the Neighborhood, a thread unfurled itself between you and Wally. It was a measly, thin string that braided and expanded into a thick, pulsing rope of nerves, unyielding in its bridge between your existence and his. And you hated it.

“Dearest, where would you go?” He chided and though you were rendered immobile by his gaze, everything within screamed to be free.

“Home!“ You retorted. But he was quick to cut you off again.

“And you are home. Where you belong.”

And you were reminded of that overwhelming awareness of his, the power he held over you and your neighbors, over this place.

“But you’ll learn…” He cooed, one hand reaching up to cradle the side of your face.

“To do what?” You muttered harshly. “To submit?”

“To love me.” The blackness in his eyes expanded and the memories slipped between your fingers though you desperately clung to them.

The two of you would surely return to this game. This is he knew all too well. You’d fight and run, trying to flee his world. But that was what you had failed to understand.

You could be reborn with vastly different appearances than your previous selves—hair, clothing, name, and all. Fight to salvage those memories in hopes of escaping again.

But he’d know. He’d always know.

His smile widened as your eyes glazed over.

Ah. There you were.

His dearest.

YOUR WRITING, MY GOODNESS, THIS IS AMAZING, PLEASE I LOVE THIS SO. MUCH, EATING IT, DEVOURING IT, MUNCHING, CRUNCHING, RAHHHHH

[sixminutestoriesblog]

London Bridge is Falling Down!

Today I thought it would be fun to talk about children's nursery rhymes. Since we've had language, and maybe even before, children have probably been making up rhymes to measure out beats as they play a game of repetition. Jump rope, circle dances, skipping, hand clapping. How many silver buttons does Miss Merry Mac have down her back? There's something almost sacredly human about the desire to put music to our play, to sift through words to find the ones that go well together and make up stories with them.

And the thing about children is that they often repeat, in part and only partial understanding, what they hear going on in the adult world around them.

London Bridge is falling down

falling down

falling down

Maybe you played this one as a child yourself. Two children hold hands, arms raised and everyone else must pass between them and under their arms while the song is chanted. At the last moment:

Take the keys and lock her up

lock her up

lock her up

take the keys and lock her up

my fair lady.

the two children forming the 'bridge' with their raised hands drop their arms and catch the child trying to go through. Much laughing and half struggling ensues and then the captured child either sits the game out or takes over for one of the 'bridges' and the song begins again.

London Bridge is falling down.

Perhaps we're all too well trained by horror movies but there can be a whisper of something more haunting in the simple game if you want there to be. A song about a falling bridge and a captured lady, trapped inside the supports of the human girders. Was there something darker once? Something children knew about the adult world that they filtered down into their songs and playtime, absorbing it as children will do into half truths and make-believe, until all that was left of it was a children's rhyme about captive ladies and falling bridges?

Tell me if you've heard this one.

Once upon a time, far back in our grey history but not as far back as we'd like it to be, there was a belief that human buildings of importance needed more than just human ingenuity to keep them standing against the wear and tear of use and time. Against the things that fluttered through our shadows and ran in our dark streets at the edges of our eyesight. Folklore said that the first person buried in a new churchyard didn't get into heaven. Instead, their souls had to guard the now sacred grounds until the final Trumpet, when the world ended and they would be released from their eternal vigilance. Oftentimes, a dog would be buried in the churchyard first, a canine stand-in guardian, protecting the human souls and seeing them on their way, patient in its duty until the Last Day.

According to some legends, graveyards weren't the only human creations that needed a human soul to stand guard over them.

Immurement is the practice of walling someone up inside a building while they are still alive (Cask of Amontillado style). It was used as a form of punishment for a large swath of cultures and many a folktale sprung up about it even in places where there wasn't any physical proof. Thieves, treacherous daughter, spies, star-crossed lovers and political opponents all met their ends walled up in foundations and tunnels under palaces in the stories.

So it shouldn't surprise you if I tell you that the children's skipping rhyme 'London Bridge' is rooted in the same dark practice. Take the keys and lock up the fair lady so that London Bridge will never fall...

Except - that's not really true.

It makes a good story though.

Let's start with the older version of the poem. Now its a rhyme about a bridge that's in need of repair and the higher and higher quality items that are used to build it better until we're using silver and gold to build our bridge (and hiring someone to guard all that silver and gold for the low, low price of a pipe (though one wonders what was in the pipe if it would keep him up all night?)) Also, London Bridge isn't the only bridge with a children's song about it falling down. Before London Bridge was even built there are records of the same kind of song in France, Germany, Italy and Denmark. Korea, far from London Bridge, has a similar song and game as well.

Children singing about the crumpling infrastructure apparently isn't anything new.

Don't give up yet though. London Bridge might have triggered children into singing about its dark shadow beyond the childhood need to see things fall apart around them.

In 1014 (or thereabouts) London Bridge was supposedly badly damaged in a Viking raid (at least that's what some of the texts from that time claimed). There were also several fires in the 1600s, including the Great Fire of 1666 (its gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight) which badly damaged the bridge.

London Bridge had a lot of reasons to fall down and in 1831 it finally did - though it was less a 'fall 'and more a demolition as it was considered cheaper to simply build a new one instead of repair the old.

As for the 'fair lady'? There are several theories about her, from a rich patron to the Virgin Mary. For my money? It's the River Lea, which is a tributary of the Thames and could easily be seen as being 'locked up' when the bridge closed over it.

So was it a ghost story for nothing?

Not - just yet. In 2007, just in time for Halloween, the BBC News reported excavations under London Bridge were turning up bones - and hauntings. There might not be bodies walled into the foundations to keep the bridge standing - but London Bridge saw its fair share of deaths, including the heads of criminals and those out of favor with the crown, that got stuck on spikes along its walls. The children's rhyme might not be as spooky as hoped - but London Bridge itself has no intention of slacking.

[violetmina]

Surprise! This is a random inspiration bomb! Write whatever the picture makes you think of!

Thank you so much for this kick of inspiration. And thank you for being so patient. I tried to stick to Boys TV canon. But I was watching Supernatural when I first seen this message. And despite my best efforts, it turned into this weird, long-winded blurb of what I think would happen if these two worlds crossed. Not to mention, I do adore Butcher...but I really miss my king.

Word count: 3,965

Warnings: The Boys and SPN level of violence and gore, swearing, mentions of alcohol.

"The fuck am I doin'?"

The question has rolled about in his skull many times tonight but this is the first Butcher has said it out loud. He stares down into the hole he kneels beside, oddly aware of the dirt edged under his fingernails, the gravel kissing into his knees. The little box resting at the bottom is inconspicuous but it - and its contents - leave him feeling a shade of embarrassment. He questions if he should snatch it back, go home, sleep off this drunken haze, and forget about the damn thing.

But he can't. He knows he can't. It's been itching and gnawing at the corners of his brain, latched onto his mind for weeks. Since Becca had left him standing dazed and confused on that bridge. Since he had nearly thrown in the towel thereafter, leaving his aunt's home blasted to hell and more battle scars on him, and MM, and poor lad Hughie. Since he'd shaken off the rejection and the fresh hurt and went to that bar. Fuming for a plan, craving for anyway to finally bring his girl home…and then that poncy bastard appeared…

Then, too, the idea of one of the Boys finding the box - perhaps curious Frenchie, or too-observant MM - and the line of questioning that would follow makes him scowl. He can almost hear them. The scoffing, the jibes, and that god awful look of pity they'd follow after him. Cause he'd finally lost it, hadn't he? Poor Billy Butcher at the end of his rope, stern atheist grasping at the straws of desperate superstition?

He wipes harshly at a streak of dust on his lip, then spits the taste of grit and disgust out of his mouth. He staggers to his feet, tightening his grip on the shovel, growling, "Fuck 'em!" Even if this doesn't work, at least they won't find the evidence if he leaves it buried here now, and he can forget all about it with the Boys none the wiser. He throws dirt back into the hole, and soon it devours the box with its keepsakes; the black cat bone, the graveyard dirt, and a grainy photo of him. With a churn of his boot heel to tamp down the mound, the earth swallows it whole.

And he waits.

Butcher tosses the shovel in the general direction of his beater of a Cadillac, turning about slowly. He peers down each lane of the crossroads he occupies, eyes straining in the dark for any sign of movement. He's not really sure what he's supposed to be looking for. But he sees…nothing. The seconds pass, and with each one he feels more and more that he's the only living soul out here in the middle of fuckall-nowhere for miles.

He waits a few more seconds. Two…three…four…And Butcher's eyes close with a sigh, head bowing. What did he really expect? Embarrassment morphs into shame, salty and sticky like the sweat on the back of his neck, and too familiar than he would ever like to admit. He sees Becca's face in his mind, eyes still diamond-bright with tears, slapping him with the realization that he might be wasting such fucking precious time. Knuckles still bruised from recent brawls begin to itch with the need to pummel and bloody something. Someone, and only because there is no mirror before him.

"Done playing hard to get, are we, Billy?"

Butcher spins on his heel hard enough that he almost makes himself dizzy on the spot. He's greeted by the same smug face from the bar weeks ago. He's startled and so the snark comes out of him with ease and a curled lip. "If it ain't the invisible cunt."

The man before him appears close to a regular bloke. A bit of a puffed up ego, perhaps. But Butcher, being skilled in persuasion and airs, recognizes a crafted mask when he sees one. The pressed suit, dry-cleaned over coat and well-shined shoes fit the business persona well enough. But there's something that Butcher can't quite put his finger on, something he clocked that night at the bar that he can't name that bothers him. Right now, he realizes, it's the fact that there's no vehicle but his in the vicinity, definitely no cover for the man to step out from…Where the fuck did he come from?

"It's pronounced Crowley," the bastard answers. "But I'll settle for 'King' just as well. Or 'Sir', if you can manage it in your current charming state. Shall we cut the pleasantries and get to business?"

"How'd you find me?" Butcher muses aloud, half ignoring Crowley's words.

"You rang?" When Butcher continues to look perplexed, Crowley gives an annoyed wave at the dirt beneath his feet. He glances down at the earth. Then back up at Crowley with a sneer.

"You're a fucking supe."

"Please," he drawls with a tone of amusement. "Those little narcissistic cretins couldn't dream of holding a candle to me. If you're going to insult me, Billy, surely you can do better than that."

"So what? You just a fancy business type with a couple tricks then?"

"Indeed," Crowley smirks, slowly stepping towards Butcher. "And I know quite a few swell tricks."

In his battered youth, Butcher had quickly developed a strong instinct for survival, borderline primal, for knowing when things weren't right. His SAS days had fine tuned it. And in this moment it's firing on all cylinders. He hears the accent that mirrors his own, should be damn near friendly. But it feels wrong. Instinct tells him that this is no East End boy. And while the other dark-haired man is a bit shorter and stockier, Butcher senses that he couldn't toss this one about so easily. When Crowley's steps turn to begin to circle him, Butcher turns with him and he knows now the word instinct is yelling at him. Predator.

Memory from the bar seeps from his alcohol-tinged brain as Crowley stops to smile at him. "Thought you said one of your associates would answer?"

"Actually," Crowley replies, waving a finger in the air, "I said normally one of my underlings would answer. I'm all in the business of making dreams come true. But your dream? Your little dream, Billy, has conflicting interests with some of my outstanding contracts. So I want to handle this one personally."

"Oh, so not a supe. But you still work for Vought."

"Now that is insulting," Crowley sneers. "On the contrary, I own them."

Now that piques Butcher's interest hard. It also makes him suspicious, makes him wonder if he'd be better off trying to kill this smarmy bastard than go through with this deal. "So you're old Stan Edgar now?"

"Good old Edgar and I have a different arrangement. Great for business here on top side. Although he's got quite the potential when he eventually joins us, that I'm certain. Perhaps, too much…" 

Crowley shrugs, begins to circle Butcher again as he trails off the mention of the CEO. "I know what you want. Or rather I know two things that you want. The first of which is that big, glorious, star-spangled oaf. If things were different, I would gladly get the annoying prat off my hands by serving his head to you, well-done on a silver platter. I'd even throw in a fine glass of chianti, free of charge. Or whatever swill that tacky thing you call a shirt reeks of."

"But you can't give me Homelander," Butcher cuts in, voice thick with disdain at the answer that he's so fucking tired of hearing.

"Fraid not," Crowley replies. "Unfortunately, as he is, he is one of my prime sources for crossroad deals. Can't slaughter that cash cow just yet."

"Then you're wasting my time," Butcher growls.

"I can still give you the other thing," Crowley calls as Butcher begins to turn for his car. "That one's a piece of cake."

"Well if you own the rest of those spandex wearing cunts-"

"Not that, you idiot."

Butcher glares, brow furrowing in annoyance and confusion. Crowley sighs, apparently as exasperated with the situation. He quickly strides towards Butcher, unfazed when his fists clench at Crowley's approaching. "Good God, make me spell it out for you. A little incentive then?"

Before Butcher can reply, or pull back to strike, Crowley grabs one of his elbows. There's the sick sensation of his gut dropping as if to sink into the ground, while the rest of him feels too light, too foggy. It stops just as abruptly as if he's slammed back into his body, and a wave of nausea rolls thick in his belly clear into his throat. He blinks, he's not where he was, and it's not till his boot almost slips off the edge and into the rain gutter, he realizes he's on a fucking roof.

"Mind your step," Crowley smirks, yanking on the elbow still in his grip to bring Butcher upright.

Butcher glares at him, the possibility of what the other man claims to be beginning to sober Butcher up. Before he can dwell on it, his eyes catch the color of paint framing the window before them. He knows this shade of yellow. He knows the pine tree reaching towards them.

"Wait…"

"Well, go on!" Crowley lets go of his elbow to motion at the window. "Have a peek. Don't worry, nobody is gonna detect us. Even the cameras are deaf and blind." When Butcher still hesitates, Crowley gives a condescending look. "Really, Billy? With the list of atrocities you've done, a little voyeurism making you clutch your pearls?"

Butcher contemplates only for a second of attempting to shove him off the roof before he turns and peers through the glass. His heart taps against his sternum at the sight he finds in the bedroom before him. Curled tight there against the headboard-

"Becca."

His emotions are quickly clouded and turned murky when the lamp by her bed sparkles wet in her eyes, on her cheeks. He cannot see her mouth where she presses a pillow tight to her lips, clutched painfully to her chest. But he sees the picture beside her, instantly recognizes the faded Polaroid of them together in a place he now barely remembers but of a time he'd give anything to have back.

The moment it dawns on him that she's stifling her sobs, a knock at the door jerks them both with a start. A muffled "Mom?" and Becca scrambles to tuck the picture beneath her, wipe away the smears around her eyes. The door cracks open slowly and Butcher still can't hold back the twinge of contempt that stirs at the sight of the boy who treads in, Homelander's near carbon copy.

"Hey," she croons, voice soft and still a little watery as he stands beside the bed. "You okay, Ryan?"

"I'm ok, Mom. But…I heard you crying." His little hands fiddle with the coverlet. "And the last couple nights, too. I didn't mean to listen," he presses when her face falls. "Just…" His own voice gets thick, cracks, "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no. Come here," she quickly answers, encouraging him up onto the bed for her to cradle him, run fingers through his hair. Conflict struggles in Butcher's chest, uncertain if he wishes the kid wasn't so unlike his father, so fucking sweet and sincere, or wishes that he had tried a little harder to get him the hell out of this godforsaken place.

"It's not you, sweetie. I'm just…" She takes a rattling breath, staring out the window, staring through him like he's a million miles away and not just a few feet and a bit of glass apart. "I'm missing someone. Someone very, very dear to me. Somebody I love."

"Can't they come see you? Maybe they miss you, too?" Ryan misses how her eyes screw shut and presses on, "Will I get to meet them?"

"I-" She gulps back hard. Then, "I wish you could. But I'm afraid that's not ever going to happen."

Just as Butcher thinks fuck this, fuck this place, fuck Vought, Crowley's voice reels him back to the present, mockingly sweet. "Touching. That's enough Lifetime channel for all our blood." And he ensnares Butcher's sleeve again.

"No, wait! Becca!"

It's already too late, the gut wrenching pulls at him before her name is past his lips. He stumbles on the gravel of the crossroads as Crowley releases him. He spins, murderous intent flaring in his eyes. "Take me back."

"No can do," Crowley says flatly, scratching at his beard absently. "No more free samples."

Butcher yanks out the sidearm tucked at the small of his back, aiming it square between the other man's eyes. He doesn't care how impulsive he's being, reckless.  "Wasn't fucking asking!"

"I don't bloody care!," Crowley snaps back. Before Butcher's trigger finger can even twitch, Crowley waves two fingers and the gun rips itself from his grasp, flying into the dark. Another flick and his knees slam to the earth hard enough to make his teeth click. They won't budge no matter how much he wills them to.

"So petulant. And thick headed. You damn near act like a hunter," Crowley bites out. "But you're clearly not. Otherwise you wouldn't have called without a stitch of protection. No charms, no sigil, not even a 'no demons allowed' sign on your flesh."

Crowley squats on his heels to look Butcher square in the eye as Butcher bares his teeth at him, his hands now as paralyzed as his knees. "Allow me to enlighten you, Billy. If I felt like being particularly barbaric…" Crowley snatches a handful of Butcher's hair, enough to make him growl. Crowley gives a slow, serpent smile. "...I'd hijack this rugged meatsuit of yours, go back, give your lovely wife a visit. And then make you watch as her dear husband tears her beloved son asunder with his bare hands. And that's just for starters."

A cold wave washes over Butcher. If he wasn't sober yet, he is now. He knows a bluff when he hears it. There isn't a hint of one in either Crowley's rough voice or wicked eyes.

"You think you know violence?," Crowley now beams, releasing Butcher's locks with a laugh. "Lucky for your little darling, I'm feeling more civilized. So we'll go with something a little simpler."

A flourish of Crowley's wrist and a sickening wet crunch comes from Butcher's ribcage. He wants to scream but can't. He can't breathe. All that comes forth is splashes of red, silently bubbling over his lips, on his knees, the dirt. Then just as sudden it stops. The pain subsides, he chokes down air, then gags and hacks up something thick. Viscera.

"How's your lungs taste in your teeth?," the demon asks, as nonchalant as asking the weather. "We can do this all night. Or…" Here his voice grows softer, perched there at Butcher's shoulder. "You can make it stop. You can make her tears dry up. For once in your miserable life, you can fix it. Make it all go away."

Crowley rises to his feet as the invisible hold slides away from Butcher's limbs. He raises his hands to wipe the burgundy froth from his mouth, his beard, spitting up another glob of tissue before he can choke on it.

"It's a hell of a deal, Billy," the demon continues, circling round him yet again. "You can have your wife back. No Homelander or Vought breathing down your neck. No sniveling brat in the way. Sweet Becca won't even remember he existed. And you can sweep her off her feet to whatever paradise you can find. Ten glorious years to make up for all the ones they stole from you."

Butcher manages to shift up one foot. His head is reeling at the situation he's gotten himself into. And from the honeyed promises the demon offers. "The Boys?," he mumbles distantly.

"I can make them forget, too. They'll send you and your bride off on a second honeymoon, and then go about their little lives. Who needs supe hunting anyway?"

Crowley now leans down in Butcher's other ear. "You can have it all. And all you have to give in return is that measly, tattered, blackened thing that you call a soul. You said it yourself once." Then, almost a whisper, "What have you got to lose that you ain't already lost?"

Butcher recognizes the interrogation tactic. Battery, break them down in body and spirit. Then offer something sweet, a flicker of light in the abyss. But even though he sees it for what it is, he is not immune. It's Becca. Ten years with Becca that he has wanted for so long that he fucking aches with the need of it. And what's a soul matter if he doesn't even believe in it anyway?

"You got a pen in that suit, you cunt?," he rasps.

"That's not how this transaction works. We talked about this, remember?"

Butcher blinks incredulously up at Crowley as he moves to stand in front of him. "You fucking with me?"

"Not the slightest. We can be quite a stickler for tradition in hell," Crowley leers down at him. "Deals are sealed the old Roman way." He rocks back on his heels in amusement when Butcher seems to contemplate. "Oh c'mon, Billy. Don't tell me you're getting squeamish on me over a little lip service."

"Fuck you," he snarls. Then his mouth curls, half smirk, half grimace as he slowly rises to his feet. "I'll shove my tongue down your fucking throat if I have to."

"At least buy me dinner first, tiger. Your wife know you talk to men like that?" The leer remains but the demon's tone turns serious. "Do we have a deal?"

Every fiber in his being is telling him to leave. Telling him to turn back, even though he's certain, he knows it's already too late. In his mind's eye he can see Becca, he can see him wiping away the tears. Just the two of them. He can see her smile…

"We have a deal."

The demon grins. He's unsure but Butcher thinks that for a split second, as Crowley grabs the back of his neck, that he sees a flash of smoke, redder than blood in his eyes. Then he purrs, "Atta boy, William."

~~~

In the polished, marble calm of his office on eighty-two, Stan Edgar traces his eyes over the New York skyline. His hands are folded neatly behind his back, face as stoic as ever. He doesn't move when he hears the crystal decanter behind him clink, or the swirl of alcohol into fine cut glass. Merely inquires to the dim in the room, "I take it that it's done?"

When he finally turns, the King of Hell smacks his lips with appreciation for the unoffered beverage. Crowley saunters towards the CEO, smirking, "Done. And done."

"So Butcher…?"

"Off to begin his tawdry happy-ever-after with his missus."

"And the boy?"

"In the tender, loving care of some of my nanny demons, stowed away in one of my personal hideaways. Until you provide him a new mother, of course. Do take care to keep your little insurance policy against Homelander better hidden this time. That's what he is, isn't he?"

"Of sorts," Edgar replies cooly. He moves past Crowley to pour a drink of his own. "I trust you wouldn't have been so naive as to undo all the work we've done for Ryan to have a mother by wiping his memory."

"Merely rearranged," the demon says between sips. "For the next ten years, he'll be of the belief that mummy dearest died in a tragic accident. The kinda spiel you and your marketing team will have Hallmark eating out of your hands."

"Only ten years. Not permanently?," Edgar asks with an arched brow.

"Up until the moment my hounds rip Butcher's bloody soul out of his chest. By then Ryan will be a strapping young man, all groomed and molded, rearing to take his father's place. As planned. And the true memory of Becca will matter little to him at that point." He smiles over the rim of his glass. "Consider it my own insurance policy. Of sorts."

Edgar stares. Crowley stares back, unfazed. After a beat Edgar nods. "And what of Rebecca's memory on that day?"

"You mean her psychosis? When she raves to the world of hellhounds, demons? Accusing the golden man himself of being an unspeakable brute? Poor, poor, mad woman."

The corner of Edgar's mouth tilts lightly upward. "It's certainly not my style. But you demons always did have a flair for the dramatic." He takes a long draw on his glass. He stops when Crowley stands toe to toe with him, the demon's expression humorless. Unreadable. "Don't tell me that you found that offensive? 'Sensitive' is not a word I associate with you or your ilk."

"More like…irked. Irritable. And up until recently, I found you to be a respectable business partner. But now? I find you particularly offensive, Stan."

"Me?," Edgar drawls. "Offensive to the King of Hell?"

"I gave you the opportunity of a lifetime," Crowley cuts quickly, voice low and sharp. "A bargain not entailing your soul. Because you're ruthless, smart. More far-sighted than I can say for most. And you're just damn good for business. But…" He points an accusative finger at Edgar. "...This bumbling incompetence from you and your half-wits has cost me."

"You dare accuse me of incompetence?"

"This mess, all this bullocks that your flying circus monkey started, should have been dealt with years ago. You, Vogelbaum, and that slag Stillwell had one simple job the moment Becca Butcher showed up on your doorstep; hide the kid with his mother, and deal with the husband."

Crowley shakes his head with a sneer. "But you couldn't handle even that, could you? Instead, for nearly a decade, a bloody, raging bootneck formed a vigilante crew, undermined this company, fed intel to the CIA by the ton, and took out several supes, including one of the Seven. And in so doing, like a trail of breadcrumbs, he led Homelander right to his bastard child."

Crowley leans in, shoulder to shoulder now with the CEO as he glares at the demon over his glasses. "Now here I am," he continues in a low snarl, "per your plea to wheel and deal with said bootneck. Doing collateral damage. All because you and your jackasses couldn't keep him from getting his murderous fingers on my fucking assets!"

The demon pins him with a pointed look, tone now dangerously calm. "You've got less than five years before the end of our contract. But if I have to come back in again and clean up your mess like I'm your daddy? Well…then you will find yourself in desperate measures when I renegotiate our terms. Strictly business, you understand."

Crowley drops his now empty glass on its display with a sharp clatter. Stan Edgar stands rigid, staring down the King of Hell in suffocating silence. Then, after a slow blink, he states, "The boy will not be found again. As well as the foster mother we hire. Immediately, of course. I have a list of candidates I prepared in the case of Rebecca's untimely death."

"Damn right you did," Crowley mutters. "Just remember. You keep your dogs on a leash, I won't have to unleash mine. Yet."

And Edgar is left staring into the empty space where Crowley had stood. He thumbs the glass in his hand pensively, spidery fingers tense from his ruminations. He raises it to his lips for a heavy swig, wondering which are worse; the petulant, obnoxious supes under him, or the demons that breathe down his neck?