#kyle meager

[shotmrmiller]

wait though because seriously. the boys share everything with each other.

(smut, be warned. this turned way too long thank @waves-against-a-cliff for this)

they share bedrolls and tents when they're stuck in the freezing cold during a mission.

they share canteens, mre's, cigarettes. (price is smoke snob so simon always carries a cigar or two for him)

they'll share a room in base when simon's not sleeping again due to his ptsd, or johnny's gone and gotten injured again. john slips into kyle's room sometimes just to remind himself that he didn't lose kyle when he fell out of the helo.

they share showers, too. sometimes in a safe house there's not enough hot water to go around 4 individuals, and other times they just need a hand that isn't their own wrapped around their neglected cocks. (simon mewls like a kitten when john fists him from behind, beard scraping on the junction of his shoulder as john gives him a peck or two on the neck)

they go on leave and stay together, too. simon and john are the ones who keep a home-- johnny and kyle sleep at whoever's they please; essentially living there as well.

then john gets a little bird, a sweet (much younger, simon notices) thing who's far too gentle and soft for gruff men like themselves, just a doting, kind girlfriend.

they share you too.

it hadn't really been hard to nudge you their direction, either. john's only ever sung praise of his crew, his boys.

johnny and kyle are the pretty ones-- it's completely normal that your eyes wandered from john to them when they visited. johnny's hand lingered a little too long on the small of your back when he needed to get past, the touch scalding even through your shirt, and kyle's gentle demeanor and warm smiles toward you never failed to get your heart racing. they were easily game.

simon had been a bit more of a challenge.

he'd been jealous of you, at first. of course someone full of life such as yourself would capture his captain's heart. a bright, burning star in comparison to him, a stellar remnant. he'd seethed when johnny had taken a picture of the both you and john asleep on the couch, him partially lying atop of you with his head firmly on your chest. simon can't even have light weight on him as he sleeps, lest he dreams that he's underground again, dirt clogging his mouth and nose as he claws himself back to the world of the living.

but john knows him better than he knows himself, and he'd nipped that issue in the bud-- slinked into simon's room in base and reassured him with a hand curled under his jaw that there is enough of him for everyone, and now you, too.

"what's mine is yours, simon. and that little morsel back home is mine."

john only brought it up the once, and how eager you'd been. so receptive to the idea of treating his boys the way they deserve. they haven't had much good in their life, he'd purred, but you'll be good, won't you?

yes, you'd jerkily nodded, so good, i swear.

they had you watch them first, just to not overwhelm you. meager handjobs and suggestive kisses to flushed skin. whispered promises of what's to come, playful nips to the ear. it went well enough, john observing how you rubbed your thighs together whenever one of them finally peaked over their own stomach.

then you interrupted their session, one day, asking if you could try to give one of them a hand (ha). the last time he came that hard, kyle had touched him under the table in a restaurant, in front of decent company.

he'd even spurted cum all the way up to his collarbone.

it upgraded quickly after that, any self doubt all but gone under their touch. fingers sunk and curled inside your throbbing cunt, squelching with each movement. john sat behind you, keeping you somewhat upright so you could just focus on their attention. johnny's warm mouth laved at your stiff nipple and kyle swallowed all of your moans.

johnny went first, rambunctious man that he was. he flipped you onto your knees and hilted in one smooth stroke. john stood by your side the entire time, his hands brushing away the damp hair that stuck to your forehead. "doin' so good, love." johnny's grip around your waist had been the only thing that kept you from sprawling forward with each heavy thrust.

kyle had gone next, and what you'd thought would've been a sensual missionary ended up being a devastating missionary press. he pushed your knees to your chest, feeling the air rush out of your lungs. when he bottomed out, john had hissed above you. "made a proper mess there, johnny. there's not enough room for kyle when she's stuffed full of you."

"i'm not sorry, sir," was his cheeky reply.

johnny's spend had been forcibly pushed out when kyle pushed in.

his length was in your throat as he took you and he gave you no respite, just a constant drag of his cock along your sensitive nerves. your mind was scrambled, unable to form a single coherent thought. his fingers dug into the soft meat of your thighs when he came.

simon chose to be last, because you'd be warmed up and slick enough to take him without much discomfort.

wrong.

even with him on his back, you choosing how fast or slow the coupling went, it'd stung. it was an invasion, a searing ache in between your legs, inside your core once you sat flush on his thighs.

simon's hands tightened around your hips, and grunted. "alrigh' getter off. she's clearly in pain--"

"no! i'm just sensitive, is all. i just need a little time to get accustomed."

his face showed disbelief, brows furrowed and lips slightly pursed but john was quick to assuage the situation. "you heard her, simon. she can take it." john turned to you and cradled your face in his hands. "can't you, love?"

'course you could. you promised to be good, after all.

kyle came from behind and wrapped his own hands around your waist, canting them forward, simon's length going so much deeper, and a sharp breath escaped you.

"there ya go, doll. much better now, yeah?"

you rolled your hips slowly, testing the waters. underneath the pulse of pain, was pleasure, crawling up your spine, dripping slick down the base of simon's cock.

finally.

leaning forward, you placed your palms on his sweat-slick barrel chest and began to ride him with fervor. john threaded his fingers through simon's hair and tugged harshly, a ragged moan falling from his lips. it hadn't been much longer after, which you are grateful for because you were about to pray to the gods that your hips hold out with how fiercely they burned with effort.

john had kissed your temple in the end, praising how well you did and to not worry about him, this was more than enough.

aftercare had been a long, drawn out process that had your eyes heavy with sleep, and chest warm with affection.

they left you asleep, exhausted, curled up in john's oversized bed and simon was the one to drag them all into the guest bedroom because john hadn't come once tonight.

when he tried to protest, kyle huffed and cut him off with a wave of his hand. "we take care of each other, captain, and now it's your turn."

[swordsandholly]

Fancy

Ch 3: The Wheels of Fate Started to Turn

Previous | Next | Ao3

MDNI

Vampire!Poly 141 x Fem!Plus Size!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: A permanent darkness rests over the city. You’ve lived here your whole life - in the slums, just another human to be pushed and pulled at the whims of the vampires that run it. Another human made to bleed and crawl their way through a meager life.

Maybe, just maybe, a meeting by happenstance will change your fate for the better.

You feel sick when you wake. Muscles weak and body shaky. It takes more effort than you would like to peel your eyes open. You haven’t sat under a UV lamp in a while and it’s starting to show. The cocoon of sheets feels so good you don’t want to get up, to peel yourself away from them.

You realize Johnny and Kyle are gone as you sit up, all alone in the center of the massive bed. The room feels darker without them, somehow. Emptier. You roll over to climb off the bed, interrupted by the sound of paper crinkling under you. You feel around the mattress only to find a thick envelope with ‘Fancy’ neatly written across the front. As you open it, your breath catches in your throat at the contents. It’s nearly double what they said they’d pay. More than you could have ever hoped for. It makes your hands shake to hold that much money all at once. Once the shock wears off, a folded up piece of paper catches your eye.

Hey lovie,

Sorry to take off without saying goodbye. Had some business to attend to. Figured we should let you sleep. Hope you won’t be too mad ;)

We left a little extra for spending the night. Nothing like cuddling up next to a soft, warm lady.

Let’s do it again soon.

Kyle + Johnny

The handwriting changes to a messy scrawl that you have to squint to make out.

P.S. You look bonnie in my shirt. Gonnae be thinking about that all day. Feel free to take it with you.

P.S.S. I want it back unwashed.

You can’t help but snicker to yourself. Damn dirty dog.

You have no reason to deny him, though. So you slip the t-shirt on over your dress as you get ready to leave. The dress feels far too constrictive for the early morning. This is why you don’t do nights - walking out looking like a mess in the itchy day old clothes. You give up looking for your panties which seem to have evaporated, not too keen on putting them back on anyway.

Before you can tip-toe your way out to the front door, you find yourself pausing. The kitchen light is on, illuminating a figure working over the stove. Curiosity gets the better of you and you circle around the counter to see John sorting ingredients in nothing but a loose pair of sweatpants. Strong, nicely hairy chest on full display.

And they call you and slut.

“Good morning.” He flashes you a bright smile. Of course he noticed you. He probably smelled you before he even heard you leave the bedroom.

“Sorry… I, uh, didn’t mean to intrude.” You mumble awkwardly.

“No, no. I was hoping you’d stop f’me. My boys treat you alright?” He eyes your shirt.

Being asked that a second time throws you off. Why the hell do they care so much? “They did.”

“Good. Good.” He smiles warmly. “I’ll make you some breakfast.”

You scoff. “You? No offense but I’d rather take my chances with the nearest dumpster.”

“Contrary to popular belief, some of us remember how to cook.”

You glance at the half-dozen cart of eggs and perfectly fresh vegetables neatly arranged across the counter. “And you just happened to have human food on hand?”

He pauses. “…I may have had some delivered.”

John turns back to the stove, muttering something under his breath about ‘too smart for her own damn good.’

You pad over beside him to look down at the food, staring at the spread. You point at some red thing you don’t recognize. “What is that?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “The tomato?”

“Tomatoes are purple.” You poke it. “And more squishy.”

You meet his eye and for a brief moment, you think you see pity. Something sad swirling in the blue of his irises. He schools his face back to neutral before you can be sure you saw anything at all.

“Well, hopefully you trust an old codger like me to make you a half-decent omelette.”

You snort, leaning back on the kitchen island. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

You both lapse into silence. He does seem to know what he’s doing - carefully chopping the vegetables and carefully folding the omelette in the pan. Maybe he had a human wife at some point or something. Most likely. That’s not uncommon, especially back in the 21st century. Practically a trend. You tilt your head as you watch him move, brow furrowed. He’s so weird.

What could you have said to them to make them treat you like this? You’re almost afraid to know - that block of time so buried in the recesses of your mind there’s no hope of ever recovering it. That doesn’t mean you haven’t tried since that day, but you know we’ll enough that it never works. You don’t have a single guess as to what it could have been.

Maybe you didn’t say anything. Maybe they’re just weirdly tunnel visioned. Vamps do that often enough - hone in on a target of affection. For any reason from looking like a dead loved one or they just have an enticing scent. Except they’re not usually this… nice. Normally they’d just drain the object of their affection and be done with it. Not ask them to sleep over for the night and cook them breakfast in the morning.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when a plate is set in front of you. It looks… perfect. At least you assume that’s what a good omelette looks like. Nicely golden. It looks alien. Food from another world - another time. You glance up at John as he watches you expectantly. It won’t hurt to entertain him, you suppose. Even if it does end up being shit. You cut a small bite, tentatively bringing it to you your lips. You brace for something awful.

Except it’s incredible. Perfectly cooked and seasoned. You can’t help but let out a content little hum before practically scarfing it down. You haven’t had food like this in… ever, actually. Neither this fresh or well made.

“So you like it?” John smiles.

You nod happily with a mouth full of food before remembering where you are. Steeling yourself and slowing down, returning to the more reserved persona. “It’s good.”

John huffs out a laugh, turning his back to you to clean up. “I’ll drive you home when you’re finished.”

You pause mid bite. “Oh, no, I can take the train-“

“Do you really want t’walk all the way to the depot in those heels?” John cocks an brow, blue eyes dragging from your face, over your body and down your legs. There’s a slow burning intensity in the movement that sends a shiver down your spine.

You stare at him for a moment, uncertain of what to do. The last thing you need is to owe a vampire for anything. They’ll take your debts to the grave. It happened with your neighbor once - you learned early on to be wary of any offer made by one of them. Never make a deal with one of the devils.

“You won’t be indebted for it.” John chuckles as if he can read your damn mind. Maybe he can.

You chew your lip. It’s at least an hour walk to the metro station from here. You don’t want him to see where you live, though. It will ruin the illusion. Images flash through your mind of the craggily walls of your apartment building. The syringes that line the sidewalk. There’s that massive blood stain on the front steps they still haven’t cleaned up after five years.

But then you meet his eyes. They’re so sincere. So bright. Whatever that tug is in your chest that keeps giving into them pulls again. It’s unraveling you, making you insane. Surely that’s it, you’re finally going insane.

“Okay.” It comes out weaker than you’d like.

John grins a though you gave him the greatest gift in history. It makes your face hot - leaves you shifting awkwardly. You’re not used to that much emotion carved into their marble features. This coven is too expressive. It’s putting you on edge, leaving you with your guard up. Against what, though? What’s the point? Shouldn’t you be happy and play into their more excitable nature?

It’s too unfamiliar. Too otherworldly to see human emotion on their god like features.

A cool finger hooks under your chin, lifting your face to meet John’s gaze. “You think too much.”

You scoff and tear your face away from his hand. Thinking keeps you alive. The girls that don’t think don’t survive past their teens. You have to be smart to stay alive here. To even have a hope of keeping up with creatures who contain centuries of knowledge and experience. Who are so far ahead in the race the best you can do is limp along in the dust.

A valet pulls the car around. John changed into jeans and half zip sweater. You would die before admitting to the small bit of disappointment at him donning a shirt. You expect the black SUV from the night before to pull up. Instead, you’re met with a basic sedan. It’s still nice - obviously new. The seats are a soft, well cared for leather.

“So is this what you do? Invite prostitutes over for omlettes and tea and then drive them home?” You blurt as John starts the car. That itch to dissect their thought processes continues to plague the back of your mind.

“Tea?” He repeats, a brow raised.

“Simon made me tea last night.”

John laughs. “Kyle really did fuck your throat raw, then?”

You whirl on him, eyes wide.

“Don’t act so surprised. Johnny can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life. Said you took it beautifully.” John sighs. “Bit jealous I didn’t get to watch the show. A good cigar and whiskey in hand? The perfect night, I think. Might have to recreate it…”

That last bit sounds more for him than for you.

You shouldn’t blush. You’ve been doing this long enough that there’s no reason to blush anymore. You have no right to be flustered over something as simple as sex. It’s the way he says it, you think. The way desire drips from every syllable as though he’s never said anything more true in his immortal life.

You just hide behind a huff and look out the window. “You’re all very weird, you know that?”

“Are we, now?” John rests his elbow on the door and his head on his hand. He weaves through the chaotic city roads expertly.

“You’re too…” You wrinkle your nose, pausing. The word gets lost on your tongue.

“Human?”

“If you say so.”

John chuckles. “You’re just as weird, you know that?”

“I am not weird!” You snap indignantly.

“If you say so.”

You have to do a double take when he pulls up to your apartment. Is it really that fast by car? What was that, ten minutes? The train is a nearly twenty minute ride with two fifteen minute walks. The walk is nearly three hours - two if you take the back way.

“Everythin’ alright?” He asks, voice dropping to a low drawl. You shake your head to clear it, pulling your respirator out of your coat.

“Don’t you need a-“ You stop when you meet John’s deadpan expression. “Oh, right.”

“Appreciate the concern, love.” He chuckles. It’s a surprisingly warm sound.

You reach for the door, respirator in hand and at the ready. You pause when John lays a hand lightly on your shoulder. Turning back, your eyes meeting his. There’s that storm again. The one he looked at you with before. Something roiling underneath the surface.

“Fancy?”

“Yes?”

“Before you go.” John leans forward. “C’mere.”

You assume he wants a kiss. It wouldn’t surprise you - a little thank you for the ride. Frankly, you should have thought of it first. Instead, he ducks his head to the side at the last moment. His hand tangles gently but firmly in your hair to pull your head to the side, leaving your neck craned and exposed. You freeze. Fear takes over - your heart rate immediately spiking. Your hands fist his coat, pushing as hard as you can against the unmoving mountain that is his body.

“John-“ Your voice cracks. “Please don’t-“

“Need t’ make sure you’re safe…” He mumbles.

A fang catches your skin. You freeze.

It drags across your neck, down the arch of your artery. You suck in a hear breath, the skin not quite breaking under the touch. Before you can speak or begin pushing again or even try to get out of the car, he bites down. A yelp escapes you as his teeth slowly sink in - only through the top most layer of skin. Not enough to puncture the artery or even for his other teeth to bite into your skin.

Your whole body shakes. “What’re you-“

John shushes you as he pulls away, eyes locked on the cut he made on your neck. You can feel the wet blood beginning to drip down your neck. His hand stays in your hair, holding you in place. The blue of his irises seems somehow brighter, pupils so narrowed they don’t look to be more than pinpricks. After a few beats he seems satisfied, letting your hair go and sitting back in his seat.

“Just a precaution, love.”The vampire looks you over, eyes suddenly painfully soft again. “Take care of yourself.”

Your eyes flick between his. A cold, rushing fear pumps through your veins. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish before you finally come to your senses, taking the chance to dash out of the car and toward your apartment. Fight or flight pushing away any ability to ask what the fuck that was. By the time you turn around to check behind you, John is far down the street.

You rush to your bathroom mirror, tossing your respirator to the ground as soon as you’re in your front door. It’s not deep. He didn’t even lick up after himself - a thin trail of blood pooling around your clavicle before continuing down. It wasn’t about drinking. You hiss as your fingers lightly test the tender skin.

What the fuck?

He’s a vampire. At the end of the day that’s all he is. No facial expressions or ability to cook will undo that he’s a different creature entirely. Was that what this is about? Reminding you what they are? The power they have? You wouldn’t put it past one of them, the sick fucks. What kind of fool were you to think they’re at all different.

After a shower and finally changing into some pajamas (minus a certain vampire’s tshirt that he will not be getting back) you go to grab your lamp. It doesn’t take long to set up the UV light, just dragging it out of storage and setting up the shade above it so that the rays concentrate downward onto your skin. You slowly sink to the ground. Exhaustion clings to your bones. They feel brittle and heavy simultaneously.

You sigh, curling up under the warm light like a cat. You have to be smart about how long you stay under it - the damn thing runs up the electricity bill like nothing else. Plus, too long under it can cause serious skin damage. As much as you’d rather go without, you’ve seen what happens to those that do.

You half heartedly re-count out the envelope of money, still feeling overwhelmed at the sheer amount of it. At the whole situation at hand. You realize quickly enough that despite having the money to do almost anything you don’t actually… know what to do. Despite the plan being to save up and get out of the slums you never really planned for what to do once you were out of the slums.

The realization that you never truly believed you could do it, even unconsciously, is a little heartbreaking.

Do you keep working at the club? Hope that these clients like you enough to keep up with your new lifestyle? Pray that they enjoy fucking you for long enough to save up? Do you even want to see them after what John just did? Do you look for another job? There isn’t much you can get when the whole of your resume is stamped with WHORE in bright red letters.

With a low groan you slump back on the floor and throw your arm over your eyes. Everything is so fucked. You’re lost in it and it’s all fucked.

Normally, you would avoid information about the people that come in and out of your club. They’re looking for discretion, after all. A place to hide away from the dealings of life. A fantasy. If you were smart, you’d stick with that habit. Especially when it comes to the ones that literally compel you to forget their business.

John just lost the right to any discretion after that stunt in the car.

You open up your shitty laptop that requires five hail mary’s to start. It greets you with the top headlines of the day, all just as enjoyable as you’d expect.

UNKNOWN SUBSTANCE FOUND IN FOUR MORE JANE DOES

NEW DRUG CYTH TAKING THE UNDERGROUND MARKETS BY STORM

CORPSE FOUND WITH BLOOD LEAKING FROM PORES

You close them out, for your own sanity, and type John’s name into the search bar. A few things come up - some company called One-Four-One with the most nothing description about what kind of company they are. They “develop products and services” - aka they’re a shell for shady bullshit. They’re listed as the benefactor for some lower city charities and given responsibility for several mergers and buy-outs in the upper city. All the things you’d expect from a corporation.

It’s too clean, though. You’ve been living in the underbelly long enough to know what a front looks like. Not that you’re surprised. Every vampire corporation is a cover for a million other little inner workings you will never be privy to.

The only pictures of John are a few from press reports. His imposing figure standing behind some ugly podium with a logo hastily plastered across the front. He has a commanding air about him behind all those microphones - like a preacher or a politician. Fitting.

Johnny and Kyle have a far more risqué library. Images with models and other beautiful women. The kinds of things you’d expect from young, playboy vampires stretching over the past century at least, according to the archive dates. The boys aren’t the focus of the images - it’s all paparazzi for the women - but they’re in them nonetheless. How the hell did Johnny manage to squeeze into a pair of leather pants like that?

Simon doesn’t even seem to exist. A total ghost. No matter how deep you go you can’t find a trace of him. You manage to get all the way back to the 1990s in the archive and still come up with jack shit.

You’re left with more questions than answers and a distinct understanding that you shouldn’t ask any of them. You knew that already, though, and you have no plans to let John Price close enough to speak to you anytime soon.

You didn’t realize you fell asleep up until you wake, alarm blaring in your ear that it’s time to get up and go to work. It never ends. You still feel so fucking tired, body heavy and eyes stinging. A haze settles over your mind as you fall into your constant routine. Makeup, hair, dress, respirator on, walk, train, respirator off, walk.

Your locker in the back room fights you, forcing you to practically break it open. Just another thing to leave you feeling angry and useless.

“I heard they got Red.” The girl beside you whispers. She’s mousy, new. A gossiper. She even tried to talk to you, at least before she found out that you apparently steal clients.

The girl she’s speaking to side eyes her. “What do you mean got ‘er?”

“With that new drug - Cyth or whatever.”

“Cyth isn’t real. It’s just people making up shit to cover up what the vamps are doing. As if we don’t already know.”

“But what about-“ You don’t hear the rest of what she says, her voice drowning out as you leave the back room.

Time seems to crawl by at the club without the men. You hate it. Not just the slowness of the day but the fact that they’ve had that effect on you. That these creatures you barley know have invaded your thoughts. Wormed themselves into the nooks and crannies of your psyche. Marked you - however temporarily that may be.

The patrons avoid your eyes. You serve their drinks, and where they would normally make a salacious remark or grab onto you they just offer a huffy thanks and ignore you. The tips are garbage, even the other serving girls notice and begin to basically steal your tables. It has to be the bite.

Why, though? Plenty of serving girls have fresh bite marks and they aren’t getting reactions like that. You can count four on the main floor right now.

At least once the day is over, it’s over. You can go home and hide away. Be angry in peace. Maybe make a plan for what to do. Maybe you can leave the city you and your friends talked about as teens. Except they’re all dead now and you’re pretty sure there isn’t anything outside of the dome anymore. At least not anything you could get to.

The other girls don’t walk with you to the metro anymore. The streets are never truly empty in the main city. There’s no real day or night. It’s only the places humans inhabit that become abandoned during the “night.” As you exit the lower city station, the streets empty out. It’s just you, footsteps echoing off buildings. The smog in the air only makes it darker - even harder to navigate.

Until a second pair of footsteps appears, fast and growing louder by the second. Before you can even begin to run or check behind you a force slams into you, sending you tumbling down onto harsh concrete and into an alley.

You’re cornered. There’s nowhere to go. Before you can grapple for your garlic spray the vampire has your wrists in his hand, pulling you up to dangle in front of him. The backs of your hands and arms scrape against the rough brick of the building he’s pinned you too. It hurts, cutting deep into your skin under the pressure of his strength.

The thing hisses, ripping off the neck guard attached to your respirator. The whole thing goes clattering to the ground. You choke on the poison air, lungs immediately rejecting it.

You tip your eyes to the obstructed sky. Of course it would end this way. It’s the end for you all, isn’t it? Just another body in an alley. Another free apartment for people to fight over. Another headline for people to frown at on the train. You wonder if they would use your name or just leave you as another Jane Doe.

What do the real stars look like, anyway?

He takes a long inhale and freezes in place. You can barely make out wide, frenzied eyes. A hood blocks any of his other features. His breath hastens, chest heaving against yours. What the hell is he waiting for?

Suddenly he reels backward, hissing and spitting. Muttering words you don’t understand. It drops you so suddenly that you collapse to the ground. Unable to gain any footing, still coughing and choking.

“What-“ You’re not even sure why you want to ask it a question. Before you can at all the thing runs away down the alley. Your hand travels up to your neck.

The bite.

A coughing fit sends you doubling over and you blearing grope around the ground for your respirator. At least it didn’t get smashed, you sigh in relief - clipping it back around your face and neck.

Your hands shake and you turn, staring up at that massive skyscraper hanging above the city. It’s taunting you. You feel like you can almost see John staring down at you, toying with you. An anger flares in your body so hot you almost feel as thought you’ve caught fire. He wants to fuck with you? To make you feel weak? To try to lay some sort of claim?

Fine. You can play ball.

A/N: John “you don’t need to know what’s going on, love, just do what I say” Price and Miss “don’t fuck with my independence” Fancy

I don’t love this chapter but I gotta get plot moving and grooving.

[cuubism]

I've written something very silly. Dating apps, texting fic, crack, smut. desire messing with dream. onlyfans creator hob. trans dream. Enjoy.

--

U up?

The notification from an unfamiliar app stared up at Dream from his locked phone screen. He frowned, perplexed. Nobody texted him. Certainly not with such vernacular.

Dream opened the notification. It pulled up the messaging page of a dating app, one he himself had certainly not installed—

Desire. He grit his teeth. Unfortunately, they weren’t nearby to receive his ire.

Dream looked again at U up? on the message interface. He clicked on the profile of the man who’d sent it, a “Kyle” who would not have looked out of place shotgunning a beer at a rager. Of course, Desire had not only gone to great lengths to establish him on this insipid app, but had also spent time matching him with the exact opposite of his type, presumably to cause him never-ending grief and annoyance. As usual.

Dream should probably have just deleted the app. Instead he responded, For?

What he received in response, a few minutes later, was a poorly-lit photograph of Kyle’s penis. Dream pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger with a sigh. He should have known.

I have seen better, he replied, and closed out of the app.

He had been back at his writing for ten minutes or so when his phone buzzed again. He checked the notification.

Brad: you could be MY good boy, kitty cat 😽

Dream gagged, but opened the man’s profile out of perilous, morbid curiosity.

Brad, 28, Hedge Fund Manager, “Looking for something casual on the DL”, likes golf and cryptocurrency— oh, dear. Somehow, Dream doubted this Brad truly wanted Dream to become a part of his life. Nor did Dream want to be his ‘kitty cat’.

He was going to have words with Desire.

You strike me as a man who brings choking into the bedroom without knowing what a safe word is, he wrote. Am I accurate?

I can choke you if you want, baby 😜, wrote Brad. Which may as well have been a yes.

Dream did not think that Brad was the person he wanted that from. Not to mention that his utter lack of kink safety knowledge would probably land Dream in hospital, and there were more interesting ways for that to happen than mediocre sex in a finance associate’s penthouse.

I would prefer to keep my brain cells, he wrote, and closed the app.

Over the next few days, Dream fielded many strange, annoying, and obscene messages from people on this app. He certainly had not “swiped right” on anybody himself, so he could only assumed Desire had done so on his behalf and had now left him to suffer the consequences of “matching.” By all rights, he should have just deleted the app off his phone. But Dream rarely communicated with anyone, certainly not strangers, and there was something a little bit entertaining about seeing what kind of drivel was being thrown his way. Was this how people attempted to court over the internet? Or perhaps Desire had merely “matched” him with the dregs of humanity.

By the end of the week, Dream had received seven “dick pics”, four offers to share one or more of his body parts in exchange for cash, and a request to become a seventy-five year-old man’s “sugar baby.” He was uncertain precisely what that entailed, but he was fairly certain he would not like it.

He had also received a text from Desire that read, enjoying yourself? ;) to which he did not respond.

His meager entertainment expended, Dream was on the verge of finally deleting the app when he received a different message:

Hob: Do you think it’s possible to cheat death by force of will, or are you too busy craving its sweet release to consider it?

Dream frowned, perplexed by the specificity of the message. Finally it occurred to him to actually look at the profile Desire had made. He swiped over to said screen, and sighed in aggravation.

Desire had, at least, chosen flattering photos of him. He supposed if the goal was to have Dream sexually harassed over the internet, this would have been a requirement. The photos definitely suggested something other than “serious, committed relationship”, but they weren’t terrible, at least.

As for the text—well, Dream finally understood where some of the more unhinged messages he had received had come from. He read through the given prompts, and Desire’s answers to them:

Dating me is like: You found a stray cat and brought it home and fed it and you were going to take it to the animal shelter but now it won't leave. It’s pretty cute if a bit mangy but it won’t stop biting your hand and mewing pathetically. The sex is pretty good tho.

“Pretty good.” Desire had written all this and couldn’t even manage to make Dream sound like a satisfying hookup. Typical.

He read on:

I’ll fall for you if: You tell me I’m a good boy 😳

Things were falling into place in Dream’s mind now.

Hob’s strange message seemed to arise from the main part of Dream’s profile, where Desire had listed his “religion” as “worshipping l’appel du vide.” An interesting element for this “Hob” to focus on. Dream did not think it was typical for messages on these apps to open with a discussion of death.

He switched back over to the messaging page of the app, and replied: I consider death often. As to your query, it depends: are you thinking of death as an entity one could escape, or a force like gravity? Or perhaps a place one must go?

Hmm, Hob responded, good question. I think it’s like a state. But a state of nothingness. See, if I thought it was a *place*, might be willing to go, see something new and all. But what’s the point of nothingness?

Nothingness is its own satisfaction, wrote Dream. It seemed peaceful, to him. Quiet. The lack of need for satisfaction in the first place.

But you won’t be there, so you won’t get to experience it, said Hob.

Precisely.

Huh. The void really is calling to you. You don’t like experience, then?

Is that innuendo? Dream asked.

Could be. If it is, do I get to be part of the toxic codependent relationship that ends horribly for everyone?

Another reference to Desire’s profile choices. What Dream was apparently “looking for in a relationship.”

That depends on the quality of your experience, he wrote.

I’ve received good reviews, said Hob.

You’ve yet to call me “kitten,” so I suppose I must concur on that front, replied Dream.

You started that one, little stray cat, said Hob.

Technically Desire had started it, but Dream had to grudgingly admit that his profile did invite such comments.

Having a smashing time in your dm’s, then? Hob continued.

I have received several unsolicited pictures of genitalia, wrote Dream.

Oh yeah? said Hob. Anything good?

Random strangers’ genitals did not interest Dream. There was a reason he did not watch porn. Mediocre at best, Dream said.

There was a long pause, and Dream hastily added, Do not send me a picture of your dick as comparison.

My dick is already all over the internet, you don’t need to get it here 😛, said Hob.

Dream blinked several times at his phone screen, as if to clear away a fog before a message that might make more sense.

What, he wrote.

Before Hob could reply, it occurred to Dream that perhaps he should actually look at Hob’s own profile. He had gotten too caught up in the strange conversation to remember to do so.

He opened it and— froze.

Dream had already deduced that Desire had intentionally matched him with whoever they thought Dream would be least interested in. He could see why they had thought the same of Hob, primarily because he was very different from Dream. In the past, Dream had tended to have flings with people who were rather like him, in some respects. “Tortured artists,” Death would say.

This was not Hob. For one, unlike Dream’s pouty and morose profile photo, Hob was actually smiling in the first picture on his page. And what a smile.

He was handsome, too. At least, Dream thought so. Handsome in a homey, comfortable way, the type of handsome that suggested really good hugs, and coffee in the mornings, and someone to come home to. Dream scrolled through more photos, and caught the spark of mischief in his eyes that belied his easy nature. This best matched the way Hob spoke in his messages, he thought.

It was not so much that Hob was his usual type, and more that Desire had unintentionally uncovered a type Dream had not known he had. He swallowed hard. Scrolled back up to read the details of Hob’s bio, in search of answers to the strangeness of Hob’s response.

Ah. His profession was listed as “OnlyFans creator.” That would explain it. He supposed he could track down Hob’s profile on said app. Dream was historically not very interested in porn, however. But he was finding himself interested in Hob.

He moved back to the messaging page, and wrote, before Hob could question why Dream was confused about information that was clearly stated in his profile, Ah. I see. I’m afraid I don’t watch porn.

That a moral stance? Bcuz I get enough of that already, trust me.

Personal taste, said Dream.

Prefer to get it in person, eh? said Hob.

Yes.

You’d do numbers on OnlyFans just fyi, Hob wrote. If u ever wanted more cash. Or does Poetry & Malaise pay better than I thought?

Dream’s “career,” according to Desire.

He supposed Hob's comment was flattering, in a way. Is that your own bias, Hob? Or your considered opinion as a professional?

Both ;), said Hob.

If that is your situation, then why are you on this app, dare I ask? Most people I have encountered seem to just be interested in sex but I doubt you are suffering from a dearth of it.

What, porn stars can’t want to get married? :(

Dream could imagine his pout. It was surprisingly endearing.

THAT is why you are here?

Sure, be judgmental about it, mister “I want to get consumed.” Or was that about vore and I misread it as metaphorical?

Dream spluttered, though Hob was not physically present to see it. Indeed, Desire had written that Dream wanted “someone he could consume and be consumed by in turn,” which was surprisingly accurate considering its intention had been to mess with him.

It is not VORE, he wrote. Then followed it up with, I have frequently been accused of being intense, possessive, and overbearing.

Well then we have that in common, Hob replied. By the way, sex for work is not the same as sex with someone you really care about. Or would you feel emotionally fulfilled after fucking your colleagues?

I don’t have colleagues, said Dream.

Right, right. Poetry and malaise.

And have you achieved much emotionally fulfilling sex from this app?

No :(, said Hob.

You are too handsome for that to be the case, wrote Dream, and realized what he had said a moment after he’d hit send.

He panicked internally until Hob replied, And here I thought I was just annoying you 🥰.

I might be having a crisis over your photos myself, Hob added, but let’s not discuss it or I’ll embarrass myself.

We could discuss it in a different venue, Dream wrote, heart in his throat. I am interested also in hearing your plans to thwart death. Perhaps over drinks?

Thought you’d never ask :)

So they set a time.

--

Drinks turned quickly into tumbling into Hob’s flat turned quickly into Hob pushing Dream up against the door and kissing him senseless turned quickly into falling into Hob’s bed. Dream was feeling quite happy about his decision to go on a date with this weird, death-obsessed OnlyFans creator. He had been right about Hob giving good hugs, he had learned that when Hob had greeted him at the bar. He had also learned that Hob really knew how to use his tongue.

“Fuck, Dream,” Hob said, looking up at him, lips wet. He had his hands wrapped around Dream’s thighs and his face between Dream’s legs, and yes, Dream was feeling very satisfied with his decision, indeed. He might even have to send Desire a gift basket. “You taste so good.”

“Your mouth is ungodly,” said Dream, tipping his head back against the pillow with a groan as Hob continued teasing him with that mouth, swiping his tongue through Dream’s folds and sucking on his clit.

“Converted you to a new religion? You’re done with the void, then?”

Dream twisted his hands in Hob’s hair, holding on tight, thighs trembling, heartbeat racing in his throat. “Perhaps.”

“Is Dream your real name, by the way?” Hob asked, pushing one finger into Dream, and then quickly two, as Dream moaned and clenched down on him. “I kind of thought it was fake.”

“No,” said Dream, though it came out as another moan. “It is real.”

“Fascinating.” And he went back to torturing Dream with his mouth, fucking him deep on his fingers, until Dream was squirming and writhing under him, trying to get away from Hob’s relentlessness even as he wanted to throw himself into its fire. He felt hot, feverish, taut all over, Hob’s hands were so good, and his mouth—

“Hob,” he whined, “please.”

Hob paused, looked up at him, lips and nose wet with Dream’s fluids. Then grinned cheekily. “Yes, kitten?”

And why did something that had sounded so revolting coming from anonymous strangers only make Dream laugh when Hob said it? He laughed, a horrible, choking laugh, and Hob laughed too, incredulously. Dream could not remember ever laughing during sex, it had always been a torrid and serious affair. But Hob was so charming and handsome and Dream wanted to kiss him.

“Come,” he commanded, drawing Hob up towards him by his hair, and Hob went, and Dream brought their lips together. Hob’s mouth was slick and tasted of Dream. It was heady.

Dream wrapped a leg around his waist and pulled him closer until their bodies were pressed together, and Hob ground his cock between Dream’s legs, between his folds and against his clit. He didn’t try to actually fuck Dream, though, which Dream figured was Hob’s professional good sense considering they hadn’t discussed birth control or anything in that vein in their haste. He imagined what might have happened if he had instead gone home with Brad of the un-negotiated choking kink, and laughed despite himself.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Hob, lifting his head to look at him. He really was so appealing, with his dark eyes, hair falling long over his forehead, his voice that was much more honey-warm than Dream could have imagined over text.

“I was thinking of the catastrophe that would have resulted had I slept with one of the questionable individuals I’ve encountered on that app, and my good fortune in finding you instead.”

Hob smiled, and kissed him, a proper first date type kiss, sweet and kind. Then he said, dragging his hand through Dream’s hair, tugging on it, “Don’t think about anyone else.” He kissed Dream’s jaw, then down his neck, nipping at his skin.

Dream dug his nails into Hob’s back, into his strong shoulders as Hob ground against him. He wished Hob was fucking him. His cock felt so good even just moving between Dream’s legs, and the weight of his body over Dream’s was so grounding. Next time, maybe.

He shivered as Hob moved faster over him, claimed his mouth with a hard kiss. “Come on me,” Dream urged, pulling Hob in tighter again with his leg wrapped around his waist. He reached between them and got his hand around Hob, and Hob groaned.

“Dream—”

Dream pulled him off in time with Hob’s own thrusts, and soon felt Hob’s hips stuttering, his grip tightening in Dream’s hair. He came over Dream’s hand and stomach, breathing hard against Dream’s throat. But he didn’t pause very long to recover himself, instead slipping three fingers back into Dream, making Dream arch against him with a shout.

“Hob!”

Hob worked him mercilessly until Dream was clenching around him with a gasp, body shaking as his orgasm ramped back up and hit him, fast and hard. Hob grinned against his throat as Dream panted, then gently pulled his fingers free and raised his head to look Dream in the eye as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean of Dream’s spend. Fucking. Hell. And this man couldn’t find someone to marry him?

Hob kissed him again, and again it was sweet, and firm, like his hugs. Dream kissed him back, petting Hob’s hair. Pleased with the position he’d found himself in. Pleased with Hob.

“Good?” Hob asked, stroking a hand up and down his side.

“Very,” Dream sighed.

“Good,” said Hob. “For me, too.”

He kissed Dream’s cheek, and then went and got a soft wet cloth to clean them both up, and even brought Dream a glass of water. Truly Dream’s good fortune was unparalleled on this day.

Hob slipped back into bed beside him, and Dream laid on his side, head pillowed on his arm, gazing at him. Tucked an errant strand of Hob’s hair behind his ear. Ran his fingers over the stubble on Hob’s cheek. He really was quite handsome, especially mussed from sex, in the low bedroom light. Perhaps Dream was going to have to find his OnlyFans. Just so he could… take this home with him.

“You really are even prettier in person,” Hob murmured, studying him. “Although I don’t think the rest of your profile was really doing you justice.”

“That is because my sibling initially created it to annoy me,” Dream admitted. “However, I think I am the one who’s come out on top in the end.”

“That does explain some things,” Hob said with a chuckle. He took Dream’s hand and kissed his fingertips, met his eyes again. “I promise I won’t break your heart. If you stay.”

My BFF’s take on why you should date me, Desire’s profile fills had read: With luck you can be the next person to break his heart <3

Once again, it had not been entirely inaccurate. But perhaps it would be this time.

“I think I am inclined to,” he said quietly, and Hob smiled, that warm, endearing smile.

So Dream did stay that night, cuddled up in Hob’s arms. Feeling all warm inside, even when Hob had fallen asleep, and Dream was still awake, lying beside him. He often had a hard time sleeping, but he didn’t mind so much, right now. Hob was pleasant to cuddle up to, even if Dream couldn’t sleep. Hob was pleasant all around, in fact. Dream tended to fall fast and hard and he could already feel it hovering over him like a cresting wave. Fortunately, Hob didn’t seem inclined to be any more casual about him than Dream was feeling about him.

Dream thought he could get used to this.

With Hob’s arm still wrapped around his waist, Dream swiped his phone off the nightstand and opened his text thread with Desire, which still had enjoying yourself? ;) as the last message, as yet not responded to.

Having made Desire wait for several days already, Dream wrote, with a little smile, I think I am going to get married, and turned off his phone.

[perotovar]

ásjá - a winter solstice story

Ásjá by Heilung (i highly recommend listening to this while reading)

Our second single release is a love song. Maria sings to the listener of love, recovery and prosperity, chasing away evil and welcoming love. The piece contains a quotation of some lines of “Hávamál”, combined with a selection of blessing words meant to provide help to the listener in a troubled time. Kai brought his vocal part of 'Asja' back to us after a month of isolation, fasting and meditation in nature. Only the spirits know the full meaning, but we do know that the context is love, prosperity and protection.

pairing: pero tovar/ofc!helga (but this is mostly a character study) rating: T word count: 7.4k (idk what happened here) warnings: minor swearing, google translated spanish (sorry), historical inaccuracies in favor of fantasy/magic, my american norse pagan perspective of these practices, if i missed anything else lemme know! dividers by @saradika-graphics beta and norwegian translations by the lovely @chloeangelic thank you, honey ♥

summary: Pero picks up a contract that leads him "somewhere up North", but what he finds instead is unlike anything he imagined for himself. Or, what would happen if Pero encountered the Vikings during their winter celebration?

this is apart of @hellishjoel's 12 days of pedro. thank you for including me, kylee, and make sure you all read the other presents!

god jól, everyone🌲❄️🌙🐺

It was fucking cold.

With shaking hands and numb limbs, Pero made his way further up the hill. The wind picked up the further he went into the trees. 

The contract he’d taken up was for a man by the name of Ingvar. A strange name to Pero’s ears, but that hardly mattered to him. This Ingvar was to be taken care of, and Pero had to show proof. 

Not a problem.

The problem, at least for the moment, was the fucking weather and his own lack of foresight. He was told that Ingvar was “somewhere up North”, and that was it. He didn’t exactly plan for just how cold it would be. His fingers were going numb and red, and he saw every breath that left his lungs. If William were here, he’d tell Pero to quit his “bitching” and to make camp.

The camp, he could do. The bitching? Unlikely. 

Pero and William separated after the… events in China. They stayed together to do a few jobs together, but William decided to make his way back to China and meet up with Lin Mae again, possibly even settle down. Pero didn’t fancy seeing the people that had arrested and almost killed him, and black powder wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. At least not to him. He rather liked the uncertainty of his job. Found comfort in it, in fact. His future was set for him in this line of work. He would live doing the things he loved most; fighting, fucking, and drinking. And the ending was always the same. At least, that’s what he told himself.

A low whisper brought Pero out of his thoughts. He snapped his head towards the direction of the sound and furrowed his already heavy brow. The sound of a raven cawing caught his attention, making him hum skeptically to himself before deciding this was as good a spot as any for a fire. 

Once settled on a fallen tree and attempting to warm his hands with his meager fire, Pero dug into his travel pack. He grumbled at the pitiful excuse for food he had left. He grabbed a piece of thick, dry bread and started ripping off chunks and eating that. Perhaps he could hunt? Find a rabbit, or something a little bigger. He remembered to make a bow this time. Swallowing the last chunk of the bread, he picked up his bow and arrows, and threw his cloak-slash-blanket over his shoulders. It was going to be dark soon, and he didn’t like the idea of starving his first night in this frozen Northern hell.

Another whisper.

Pero’s body went taut. He looked between the tall trees and the endless sea of white ahead of him. Nothing. A rabbit hopped by, distracting him. Before he could think too hard, he knocked an arrow and let fly. The arrow landed in the snow just after the rabbit hopped away.

“Mierda,” he grumbled. (Shit.)

He crouched low and slowly followed after the rabbit. He made his way toward a small clearing, which seemed to be in the center of the forest, if his tracking skills were getting any better.

There was a large stone in the middle, towards the top of the clearing. There looked to be a large blood stain in the center of it. Pero raised a brow and grunted quietly. This was none of his business, clearly.

Suddenly, the rabbit made its way to the middle of the clearing, next to the large stone. Pero sighed and lined up a shot, hoping for the best. He released a breath at the same time that the arrow left his fingers, and another whisper passed through his ears.

He gasped quietly and time seemed to stop as the arrow traveled through the cold air. A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. He closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath, trying to make himself as still as possible. 

The sound of the arrow piercing the rabbit startled him out of his frozen state. He blinked a few times, the white forest coming back into view as he looked down at the dead rabbit in the clearing. He exhaled and slowly stood, settling his bow on his shoulder. He looked around again, and when he saw nothing, slowly made his way down the hill and towards the center of the clearing.

He picked up the dead rabbit and removed the arrow, tucking it into his belt to clean and use again later. Standing in the center of the clearing, he looked over at the bloodstained stone and felt that shiver go down his spine again. He looked up at the gray sky and decided it was time to go back to his camp. He hooked the rabbit’s carcass onto his belt, pulled the cloak over his shoulders tighter, and shoved his hands inside the fabric.

“Maldita nieve,” he grumbled to himself. (Fucking snow.) As he climbed back up the hill, he felt a sharp pain in his foot and lost his balance, catching himself with his hands in the snow. He hissed loudly and looked down at his boot. A small spike was poking out through the top, meaning the sharp rock was piercing through his foot. He groaned and leaned against the hill, steadying his breathing. He counted to three in his head and yanked the rock from his foot. “Fuck,” he exhaled loudly, a few drops of his own blood covering his palm as he looked at the rock. A small symbol was carved into it, making him squint his eyes, trying to decipher what it was. Pero shook his head and sighed, pocketing the strange rock to inspect later.

On his way back to his little camp, limping the whole way to not put too much pressure on his foot, he grabbed some branches to make the fire last a little longer. Once the meager fire came into view, he swore he saw someone sitting on the log he was using before. He froze in place, heavy boots landing in the snow abruptly. He squinted his eyes and grew confused. An old man? What would he be doing out here? 

Pero looked around the frozen forest to see if there was anyone that could be with the old man. When he didn’t see anyone, he looked back at the campfire, and the old man was gone. He’d completely vanished. Pero grunted quietly and rubbed his eyes with frozen fingers. He shook his head to snap himself out of it and made his way over to the campfire.

After putting the rabbit on the spit and it started to cook, Pero made his bed for the night. He’d do his best to sleep, but didn’t have high hopes. Once the rabbit was cooked, he stabbed it with his knife and started eating it messily. He groaned at the taste of fresh, hot, cooked meat and enjoyed it, even if it was pretty bland. It warmed his bones a little and made him more comfortable, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders.

The sound of a branch snapping behind him went unnoticed by Pero’s ears, too focused on the food. He hadn’t eaten in days. The second snap, however, was heard, and it made him drop the rabbit onto the ground and grab his sword, brandishing it in front of him as he stood.

“¿Dónde estás, bastardo?” He grumbled under his breath, his heavy breaths puffing out into smoke. (Where are you, bastard?)

He sighed in frustration when he didn’t see anything. He was seriously starting to consider if this contract was even worth it. And if it wasn’t, would he be able to make it back without dying? Either from the cold, or whatever it was that was playing with him. He mumbled obscenities to himself and sat back down on his fallen tree.

He picked up the rabbit and groaned at the dirt now covering it. He blew off what he could and decided to continue eating it, dirt be damned. He was hungry.

Once full, he looked up at the moon in the sky, trying to figure out how late it was. He rubbed his hands over his arms to keep warm and added a branch or two to his fire. He grabbed a piece of spare cloth from his travel pack and quickly wrapped his foot. He laid down next to the fire and pulled the cloak up over his shoulders and shut his eyes. He didn’t feel tired, but he couldn’t help closing his eyes. He tried to fight it, to keep his guard up, but it was useless. 

He started to feel lightheaded and turned onto his back, looking up at the moon again. The moon and the stars, so bright he almost didn’t need the campfire, were swirling around and moving in close and further away. The trees surrounding him looked to be moving side to side. 

What was happening? Did the old man poison him somehow? Who was that old man?

His vision went blurry and he felt like he was spinning in place despite laying on the ground, completely still. He let out a weak groan and tried to move, reaching for his sword. 

The last thing he saw before his vision went black, was the silhouette of a large dog, or perhaps a wolf, in the distance hidden behind the trees.

Warmth. He felt warm. And a pounding headache.

Pero slowly blinked awake and groaned at the light that hit his eyes. The smell of cooked meat and root vegetables hit his nostrils. His stomach whined in protest. 

“For en merkelig fyr…” An older male voice said, somewhere behind him. (He is a strange one…)

“Kjekk, da,” A younger, female voice replied. (Handsome, though.)

He didn’t understand any of it. It wasn’t a language he’d heard before. Eyelids fluttering, he slowly opened his eyes to a small gathering of people all looking down at him. He startled and reached for his knife, and grunted when he didn’t feel it.

“Vi har våpnene dine. De er trygge.” (We have your weapons. They’re safe.)

Pero turned his head in the direction of the voice and squinted his eyes at the woman. She looked to be in her 30s, with a baby attached to her breast and drinking.

“No entiendo,” he grumbled, voice hoarse from lack of use. “¿Dónde estoy?” (I do not understand. Where am I?)

He took in his surroundings, now sitting up, and saw that he looked to be in a small room cut off from a much larger group of people. He heard laughter and song outside the cloth separating the, assumed, larger hall from where he was now. He furrowed his brows. A celebration? What for?

“¿Dónde estoy?” He repeated, voice slightly harsher. (Where am I?)

“Har ikke hørt det språket før,” one of the men said. (Haven’t heard that tongue before.) Pero looked up at him and squinted his eyes slightly. The man was large, with a full beard, and an even fuller middle. But there was no denying his strength; age hadn’t stopped this man from doing well in a fight, Pero assumed. Not that he couldn’t take him, of course. He looked at the man’s belt and saw a one-handed axe attached to his belt and thought better of it, especially without his own weapons. 

Suddenly a small sting came from his foot and he snapped his head down at the young woman tending to the wound he’d gotten on his way back from the clearing. He’d almost completely forgotten about it, too cold to even really feel it. The young woman startled and blushed, keeping her head down as she cleaned the cut. 

“Det er et vakkert språk, da, er det ikke?” The first younger woman’s voice came through, a slightly entranced tone to it. (It is a beautiful tongue, though, no?) He looked to his left and saw her batting her eyelashes at him. He huffed a breath in amusement. He’d had his fair share of women giving him looks like that, almost always with a payment in mind, but his thoughts were elsewhere, even if it did feel nice. And she was a tad too skinny for his own tastes.

Pero exhaled. This was clearly getting nowhere. Fine. “Where am I? You know English, yes?” He asked, exasperated, in the general direction of anyone who might be able to answer him. 

The shy girl cleaning his wound lifted her head and smiled softly at him. “I know a little,” she said quietly, her voice heavily accented.

“Finally,” he sighed. “What is going on?”

“A few of our men found you in the forest, passed out. Your lips were blue.” She won’t make eye contact with him, bur her brows furrowed like she was worried for him. “We have lost some of our own men in a similar way before. It is not pretty.”

Pero hummed softly and nodded his thanks. “Did any of them see an old man? In the woods?”

The girl tilted her head and asked the man next to him, the one with the axe in his belt, if any of them had seen such a man. The man raised a brow and shook his head, looking at Pero skeptically. 

“Ingvar says–”

“Yes, I understood, thank you–” Pero cut himself off and looked back at the man with the axe. This was Ingvar? Pero looked back at the girl and nodded his head as she bandaged his wound, his own cloth wrapped around his ankle. He would have to be careful if he was to carry out this contract. “Thank you,” he repeated, the words foreign on his tongue.

The girl nodded, cheeks pink, and stood to leave. As she left, the cloth covering them moved to show a large fire in the middle of the hall with an even larger feast around it. The girl came back with a tankard of something for him and he took it gratefully. As the sweet liquid hit his tongue, he coughed slightly.

“What is this?” He wheezed a little, looking at the cup like it slapped his mother.

The girl giggled before saying, “Mead. It is honey wine.”

Pero rolled the words around his tongue for a moment. “Interesante,” he hummed to himself. (Interesting.)

“Vel, han er våken. Tilby ham noe å spise, men hold øye på ham. Han ser ut som en leiesoldat, og jeg stoler ikke på ham,” Ingvar grunted, leaving the room and rejoining the festivities. (Well, he is up. Invite him to eat, but keep an eye on him. He looks like a mercenary and I do not trust him.)

Pero watched him closely as he left, and took another drink of his mead, eyes hard. 

“Would you like some food, mister-”

“Tovar,” Pero grunted. “Yes. I am very hungry.” He turned on the cot and got to his feet quickly, but quickly lost his balance, a couple of the women catching him as he stood on shaky legs. He sighed in frustration and stood on his own, shrugging off their help. The girl held her arm out to him, and didn’t seem too offended when he just stared at it.

“Tovar. This way,” she smiled, her face a little pinched. 

“What are you celebrating?” He asked, looking around at all the food. His stomach roared at the smells.

“It is the third night of Jól. You have heard of Jól?” She asked excitedly, turning to him as she found a place for him to sit. He slowly made his way down at a long table nearby where Ingvar sat at the head of the table. A leader. This contract was getting more difficult by the second.

“I have not,” he grumbled. “What is this… Yool?” 

The girl giggled again, this time at his attempt at the word. “Jól is the celebration that welcomes back the sun from the harsh Winter. Our crops start growing as the sun comes back, and the snow melts away.”

Pero hummed as he listened, nodding his thanks when she handed him a full plate of different meats, root vegetables, bread, and cheese. “You are farmers?”

The girl nods. “Most of us. Some are warriors.”

Pero hummed again, chewing on a piece of meat. “How did you learn English?”

The girl turned a little sad, but smiled anyway. “We used to have a man that came from… Eng-land? He died last year,” she sighed. “He taught me and a few of the children how to read and speak English. How did you learn?”

Pero frowned around his food and sighed.

“I am sorry, forget–” Pero held up a hand to stop her. “Apologies. I am… unused to kindness from strangers,” he grunted, not meeting her eyes. “A dear friend of mine is from Scotland. We have separated so he could be with his woman. He taught me.”

“Scotland?”

“It is near England.”

She nodded, slowly picking at her own food. The two of them grew quiet and just ate for a while. The celebrations continued around them, and it gave Pero a chance to take it all in.

In the center of the hall was a large hearth, with an even larger tree in the middle, lighting up the hall. It looked like the one he was using earlier as a bench, so they must have gotten it from the same forest. He can’t be too far from there, then. There were candles and flames everywhere, lighting up the hall brightly, but warmly.

He looked back at the girl and found her already staring at him. She startled, cheeks going pink again, and looked down at her food. He smirked a little, but hid it well. She was amusing.

“What is your name?” He asked.

“Sigrid,” she said softly.

“It sounds strong.”

“Yes. I am more drawn to medicine, so I suppose the name is ironic.”

Pero chuckled. “Hardly.”

Sigrid smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

A comfortable silence fell over the two of them again before Pero asked, “Who is Ingvar? He seems like a powerful man.”

“He is our Jarl. Our leader.”

“Is this like a king?” Pero furrowed his brows. He didn’t think this contract would be finished.

“Not exactly. But no less powerful.”

“I see,” Pero grunted. As if on cue, Ingvar stood from his seat at the head of the table, a large grin on his bearded face.

“Venner! Kvelden er ung, og festen er rik. Vær så snill, nyt, for mine gamle beindekk. Jeg ser dere alle i morgen tidlig.” Everyone raised their drinks and shouted… something, but Pero didn’t catch it. Sigrid leaned over and translated what Ingvar said for him. He nodded his thanks, but he was skeptical at best. Ingvar left through a door behind the throne that sat in the center of the hall. (Friends! The night is young, and the feast bountiful. Please, enjoy, for my old bones tire. I will see you all in the morning.)

“He cannot be that old, no?”

“He has been around much longer than I,” Sigrid shrugged. Pero laughed softly, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You are a child, of course he has.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. “If seventeen winters makes me a child, then yes.”

Pero choked on his mead and hit his chest to keep from coughing too hard. “Yes, it does,” he wheezed, laughing quietly. Sigrid laughed, too, eating some bread and cheese. A small child ran up to Sigrid and asked her a question as he tugged on her dress. Sigrid looked back at Pero apologetically and he waved her off, eating some more meat.

This was hardly the setting he expected for himself when he took the contract, but he couldn’t deny it, it was a pleasant one. The food was good, and the people seemed friendly enough. He couldn’t help but be confused by the contract; who was dumb enough to put a hit out on a powerful leader like Ingvar?

Sigrid mentioned that some of them were warriors. That didn’t surprise him at all. Just by looking at the people around the table, men and women alike, he could’ve figured that out on his own.

He sighed to himself and chewed thoughtfully. Suddenly, he remembered the small stone that pierced his foot. He looked around at the people around him to be sure no one was watching before he felt around his pocket for the stone. When he didn’t feel anything, his body went taut and he froze. Shit. They probably found it when they grabbed his weapons. Where were his weapons?

Sigrid came up to his side with the small child from before holding her hand and looking at him from behind her. “Tovar?” She asked softly. He looked up at her, heavy brow still pulled down. She gave him a quick once-over before clearing her throat. “We have sleeping quarters for you, but Lord Ingvar wishes to speak with you first.”

Pero chuckled humorlessly around his food before putting it down on his plate. He grabbed the mead and took a drink, making a face at the taste. He wasn’t sure he’d get used to that anytime soon. “Of course he does,” he sighed. “You will translate for me?”

Sigrid nodded, braided blonde hair swinging with the movement, and looked like she was trying to steel herself. He admired her mettle.

Pero followed after her, keeping light pressure on his foot as they went through that door Ingvar went through before. It led down a short hallway and ended up in a large bedroom. Ingvar was sitting on the edge of the bed before standing tall and fixing Pero with a hard look. Pero grunted and rested a hand on his hip as he leaned on the uninjured foot, waiting to get this over with.

“Hva heter du?” Ingvar grunted. (What is your name?)

“He asked your name,” Sigrid said softly.

“Tovar,” Pero narrowed his eyes. 

“Hvorfor er du her?” (Why are you here?)

Sigrid translated quietly.

“Your people brought me here. I was wondering the same thing,” Pero shrugged with an attitude. Ingvar gave him a look, clearly unimpressed. Pero rolled his eyes.

Ingvar looked at Sigrid and she blushed, nodding. “He didn’t mean–”

“Yes, I know what he meant,” Pero sighed. “I had a contract. I came to fulfill that contract.”

Sigrid spoke quietly and Ingvar seemed tired as he nodded.

“Var navnet mitt på denne kontrakten?” Ingvar sighed. Pero gave Sigrid a look as she quickly translated. (Did this contract have my name on it?)

“It did…” Pero raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. Ingvar nodded again, but Pero spoke up before he could say anything. “I decided not to complete the contract when I saw your celebration and… status. I may be a mercenary, but I am no fool. I do not go after lords or kings.”

Ingvar raised a brow and chuckled quietly before letting out a loud, hearty laugh. “Jeg vet ikke om du er smart eller dum,” Ingvar smiled, cheeks flushed with mirth. “Jeg takker deg, men tilgi meg for at jeg ikke stoler på deg helt, Tovar.” (I do not know if you are smart or stupid. I thank you. But you will forgive me for not completely trusting you, Tovar.)

Pero nodded and shrugged. “I understand.”

Sigrid looked between the two of them, looking much less nervous. She quickly spoke to Ingvar quietly, asking him a question. Ingvar nodded, a small smile on his lips.

“Nyt festen, Tovar. Vi diskuterer hva vi skal gjøre med deg om morgenen.” (Enjoy the festivities, Tovar. We will discuss what to do with you in the morning.)

“I wish to leave,” Pero grunted, looking between Sigrid and the Jarl. Sigrid looked a little crestfallen, but took one more look at Ingvar before he waved them off. She pushed Pero out of the Jarl’s quarters and back out into the celebration. “Sigrid?” Pero asked, confused.

She sighed before looking up at him. “The Jarl wishes to keep you here until Jól ends. To keep an eye on you, make sure you keep your word.” She started wringing her hands together and bit her lip.

“How much longer is Yool?”

Sigrid went quiet.

“Sigrid.”

“Nine more days,” she sighed, looking down.

Pero’s eyes went wide before he shut them and sighed heavily. He looked up at the ceiling and mumbled, “Joder yo,” under his breath. (Fuck me.) “Fine. Nine more days and I will leave.”

Over the course of the first four days, Pero was treated like he belonged with these people. He still didn’t quite know where he was. If someone were to give him a map, he couldn’t tell them, but he knew he was probably at the top somewhere. He was shocked at how much he liked it there despite the bitter cold.

He felt eyes on him the whole time and he didn’t like the feeling, but he understood it. 

He taught Sigrid and some of the children some Spanish words and in turn he was taught some words in their tongue. Norse, he was told.

Pero also found himself helping the warriors Sigrid mentioned before, called Vikingr. Their job was to sail to faraway lands, raid strangers of their belongings, and bring it back home. He didn’t judge. He’d done worse, and frankly, it sounded like something right up his alley. He mostly helped with keeping their longships cleaned for their next raid when the snow thawed.

And he ate. He ate a lot. There was so much food at the feasts in the evenings. He tried to eat as much as he could in the hopes that it would carry him on his journey home. Wherever that was. Every feast started with a chant and “offerings” to their Gods. Some of these “offerings” came in the form of the mead Pero had - reluctantly - grown to like, and other times it came in the form of one of the farmer’s poor goats. 

While he didn’t understand a lot of these people’s customs, he couldn’t deny it, they were a hearty people. 

He’d also caught the eye of some of the women there, too, but he mostly ignored them. They were all too young for him, and he was too busy not getting killed. He still wasn’t given back his weapons. Or the strange stone. His wound would take a while to heal yet, but he could put pressure on it again.

On the fifth day, he was helping chop wood for people’s homes. During the feast, everyone in the village congregated in the Jarl’s home to be surrounded by the fire given by the Jól Log and enjoy the food, but they all needed wood for their own homes as well.

He stopped to take a break and wiped the sweat from his brow as a cool chill blew past him. Pero looked to his left, the feeling of someone looking at him catching his attention. When he saw it wasn’t one of Ingvar’s men, he startled a little. It was a woman. Older than the ones that mostly watched him, and far more… Interesting. To him, at least. He raised a brow as she turned and left, clutching her basket closer to her body. He’d seen her around during his time there and she seemed to keep mostly to herself. She was unattached from what he could tell, and wondered why. She was beautiful. 

Pero snapped himself out of it and shook his head, going back to chopping the wood.

On the sixth day, he saw her again. He’d asked Sigrid what her name was as he saw her making her way through the market, and she said it was Helga. 

Helga.

He liked the name.

Helga was a thread-weaver. She made blankets, scarves, anything to keep one warm and covered. Pero was given clothing that suited the temperature better, and he felt strange without his armor, but he was never given a scarf. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted one before now.

He asked Sigrid if she could ask Helga for him for a scarf, and the girl giggled, pushing him toward the woman. He sighed and walked over to her, looking at the weapons and tools surrounding them at the market. He tried not to make himself too obvious, and it mostly worked, he thought. He was genuinely impressed with the craftsmanship of the weapons.

Pero sidled up to Helga’s side, but before he could say anything, she stepped away from the stand and walked back to her house. He watched her go and frowned.

This was going to be tougher than he thought.

The seventh day was much like the day before, but instead of chopping wood, Pero was asked to help around the Jarl’s home. He noticed a lot of the young women that stared at him worked there, so he tried to keep mostly to himself. He’d never cleaned linens or blankets before, but found it to be quite relaxing. There was a rhythm to it, and he could do it without much help.

“Tovar,” a young voice asked from his left. He looked up, finishing the fold of the blanket he was holding. He grunted in acknowledgement. “Jeg og noen av kvinnene har lurt på noe,” the girl was blushing hard up to her ears and biting her lip. (Some of the women and I have been wondering something.)

Pero smirked a little and nodded for her to continue. He picked up on the gist of what she was saying, thanks to Sigrid’s teachings of Norse.

“Hvor fikk du arret fra?” she asked meekly. (Where did you get your scar?)

Pero’s face pinched slightly and he shook his head. “I do not wish to talk about it.” The girl’s eyes went wide and she started scrambling out apologies, her hand pressed to her chest. A sad smile crossed his features before he shook his head. “It is okay,” he said quietly.

The girl frowned, cheeks bright red, but nodded as she turned and left. Pero exhaled quietly and looked down at the linens he was folding. 

“I do not believe she meant any harm,” a low, feminine voice said to his left. He hummed in acknowledgement before he froze, realizing that she spoke perfect English. He turned his head and nearly jumped out of his boots when he saw Helga standing there. She smiled and started helping him with the linens. “Tovar, yes?”

Pero huffed a laugh and nodded. 

“I have noticed you watching me.” She had a soft smile on her lips, brown hair pulled away from her face in a braid. She turned to look at him, blue eyes full of heat as she looked over his face and chest. 

Pero blinked, eyes slightly wider. He went to speak, but all that came out was a croak, making him cough. “Apologies,” he wheezed, the side of his fist pressed to his chest. “I am sorry for staring,” he mumbled, turning back to his own linens as his cheeks flushed. “I am still getting used to the customs here. There are two days left of your celebration, and I will be gone.”

Helga hummed noncommittally and pushed her small stack of folded linens toward him to add to his pile. “That would be a shame.”

Pero furrowed his brows and added her stack to his. He looked at her incredulously, but her head was faced down as she continued folding. He didn’t say anything and continued as well, his thoughts running a mile a minute.

“I thought only Sigrid and a few of the children spoke English,” he said after a few moments of silence.

“They are not the only ones.”

Pero snorted and shook his head. “Clearly not,” he hummed to himself. He cleared his throat and glanced at her before continuing. “When I arrived at this place, I was in the forest. I am not sure how far it is from here, but I saw an old man,” he started, keeping his eyes downward. “I was hoping I would see him here in the village, but I have not.”

Helga hummed a noise for him to continue. 

“He wore a cloak, the hood covering his head. He sat in front of my campfire, but I only saw one of his eyes,” Pero’s brows furrowed further, confusion filling his head. “I am not sure if he was missing one or if it was covered.”

Helga stopped folding and looked at him, a small smirk on her lips. “Did he have a long beard?”

Pero looked up and blinked. “Y-yes. You have seen this man?”

“Once or twice,” she said. “He is a wanderer. He does not stay in one place for very long.”

“Who is he?”

Helga bit her lip and shrugged. “He has many names. We cannot be certain which he likes best.”

Pero sighed in frustration. “Why was he at my camp?”

Helga smirked again and finished folding her linens. “Perhaps he was looking out for you,” she shrugged again, leaning over to pick up her basket of fabrics. “Enjoy the feast tonight.” She grinned and left the Jarl’s home, leaving Pero quiet and watching her retreating form.

Pero exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. When he looked down, there was a scarf folded on top of her pile of linens. 

“Du får tingene dine i morgen, etter den siste festen,” Ingvar grumbled. (You will receive your belongings after tomorrow’s final feast.)

“Must I stay the whole time? I wish to return home,” Pero growled, crossing his arms over his chest. Not that he had a home to return to.

Ingvar rolled his eyes and waved him off. Sigrid grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of the Jarl’s bedroom. Pero grumbled obscenities in Spanish to himself until he was sat at a table in the hall. It was the eighth night, and he was getting tired of being watched constantly. He had no intention of hurting anyone here. He might if they didn’t give him his things, though. The people around him continued to have the same energy this night that they always seemed to. He supposed that came from actually understanding what you were celebrating, and not having to worry about death or arrest at every corner.

“You leave tomorrow evening, yes?”

Pero startled and looked to his right. Helga sat next to him, a plate of food in front of her. She smiled warmly at him and he softened. “How do you do that?” He huffed a laugh and shook his head before grabbing a piece of meat and eating it.

“You do not pay attention,” she said simply.

He squinted his eyes at her and grumbled around his food that he did too pay attention, thank you very much. She laughed softly and it made him bite his tongue. She had been nothing but kind to him while he was there and she didn’t deserve the frustration he felt to be forced on her.

“Where do you live?” Helga asked softly. “Where will you go?”

Pero bit his lip as he tore a piece of bread in two. “Nowhere. I am a mercenary. I go where the work is,” he shrugged, shoving the bread in his mouth. 

“You enjoy this?”

Pero raised a brow as he chewed. 

“You like not having anywhere to call home? You do not have to leave,” she hummed around her own food, taking a drink of some mead.

“What do you mean? Of course I do,” he scoffed. “Ingvar wants me dead. His men are constantly watching me.”

Helga rolled her eyes. “You really do not pay attention,” she sighed, setting down her cup and turning to face him. “You have not heard how people talk about you?”

“I am still learning the language,” he frowned, chewing messily and lips greasy.

“Why are you learning the language if you want to leave?”

Pero blinked and looked down at his plate. He frowned, thinking about it. Why was he learning the language? 

“Because you like it here, Tovar,” she said softly. “We like you.” It went unsaid, but he got the feeling that she liked him, too.

“Pero.”

“What?”

“My name is Pero.”

Helga smiled, pink dusting her cheeks. “I do not think you will have many people protesting if you stay. The children love you. And I think you would make an excellent Viking.”

Pero raised a brow and exhaled, thinking about it. Having a place to call his own would be nice. And he was familiar with the kind of work the warriors did, from what he’d heard. 

“You do not have long to think about it, Pero,” Helga hummed. She picked up her plate and stood before leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “I would like it if you stayed,” she whispered into his ear. He looked up at her with soft eyes and she smiled down at him with her hand on his shoulder before turning and leaving.

Pero shut his eyes and exhaled once again, then looked in the direction of the Jarl’s personal quarters. 

Would it be such a terrible thing to stay?

On the ninth day, Pero woke with a startle. He thought he’d heard a whisper next to his ear again. He’d been mostly dreamless while he was in the village. Last night, after his talk with Helga, he dreamt about the old man and the wolf in the woods. He didn’t understand any of it, and he barely remembered what the dream actually entailed, but he remembered the feeling. He felt… odd. Not bad or wrong. Just… different. Comforting. 

As he got dressed in the clothes that were given to him, he looked over at the scarf Helga gave him. It was a brown color and the material was rough, but also thick and soft. It kept his ears warm. He wrapped it around his neck before slipping his feet into his boots, making sure to be careful of his injured one. He made his way over to the Jarl’s quarters and knocked on the door.

“Er du sikker?” (Are you sure?)

Pero nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “Yes.”

Ingvar sighed and crossed his arms, too. “Du forvirrer meg, Tovar. Men hvis dette virkelig er det du vil, tror jeg ikke at jeg ser noe problem med det.” He shrugged and looked at Sigrid’s smiling face. “Gå og hent tingene hans.” (You confuse me, Tovar. But if this is truly what you want, I don’t suppose I see a problem with it. Go get his things.)

Sigrid nodded happily and ran from the room. Pero and Ingvar awkwardly avoided eye contact. Even if neither of them were enemies, the circumstances of their acquaintanceship were less than ideal. When Sigrid returned, she was carrying Pero’s weapons in both arms and looked to be struggling to do so.

Pero furrowed his brows and gently took the weapons from her. She sighed in relief, but smiled shyly up at him. “I am happy you decided to stay,” she giggled.

Pero smiled down at her, then gave a grateful nod to Ingvar before leaving the room. Sigrid walked next to him while he attached his sword and hunting knife to his belt. He carried the armor under his left arm. “Me too,” he grunted awkwardly. “I am unsure how I will fit in, but…” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck.

“I think you will be fine,” she nodded, sure of herself. One of the small children, a younger brother of hers he found out, came up to her and tugged on her dress. He mumbled something Pero didn’t quite catch. Sigrid tapped on his shoulder to get Pero’s attention, making him look down at the two of them, dark eyes intimidating, but soft. “She lives at the end of the village,” Sigrid winked, then took off with her younger brother.

Pero’s cheeks flushed, but he chuckled to himself. He made his way through the village, waving or nodding to people as he saw them. It was strange, being accepted as he was. He wasn’t the only gruff and hardened warrior here, and no one seemed scared of him for his scars or his accent. The feeling was so foreign to him.

As he walked up a small hill toward the end of the village, he heard a quiet thud against the grass. He looked down and saw the strange stone from the forest laying there. Right, he’d completely forgotten. It must’ve fallen from his belongings. He picked it up and looked at it, thumbs running over the strange markings. It was almost shaped like a fork, but with three prongs. Maybe Helga would know what it meant.

When he made his way in front of the door of the last house in the village, he hesitated before knocking. The sun was slowly setting and it was getting a tad colder, so he eventually knocked. 

“Et øyeblikk!” (One moment!)

Pero smiled to himself as he heard her voice behind the door. Once the door opened, he raised his head and smiled sheepishly, the shape on his face still foreign to him.

Helga’s face softened as she saw him and rested a hand on her hip. “Well, come on in, then,” she grinned, opening the door wider for him. He nodded gratefully and stepped inside her home, the smells of burnt leaves and the feeling of a warm fire engulfing his body. 

“I will find my own home, you need not keep me here if–”

“Hush,” she chuckled softly, taking his armor from his arms and putting it in her bedroom for cleaning later. “You are more than welcome to stay here,” she looked up at him with a bit of shyness. The first time she’d ever looked at him like that. “If you want to, that is.”

Pero took two steps closer to her until his face was mere inches from her own. “I want nothing more,” he said softly, rubbing the knuckle of his index finger against her cheek. She shut her eyes and exhaled softly, nodding. 

“I was just getting ready to go to the feast,” Helga smiled, looking up at him. “Would you like to join me?”

Pero’s lips quirked up into a soft smile of his own before he remembered the stone he was holding. “Yes, but first,” his brows furrowed in thought. “It is silly, but… I found this strange stone while I was in the forest.”

Helga hummed and tilted her head to the side, letting him continue.

“It has a marking I have never seen before. Do you know what it means?” He asked, showing her the stone lying in the palm of his hand. She picked it up and rubbed her thumb over the marking like he had before.

“Where did you find this?” Helga asked, face pinched in confusion.

“In the forest. There was a small clearing with a bloodstained stone, and–”

“The ritual site,” she smiled up at him, clutching the stone in her hand. “We sacrificed one of the cows on the first day of Jól there.”

Pero blinked down at her, hands holding her arms and rubbing softly. “I see…”

Helga laughed softly. “You’ll get used to it,” she winked. “This is one of the runes. It seems we forgot one.”

“What does it mean?” He hummed, cupping her face in his large hand. He rubbed his thumb against her cheek.

“Protection,” she said softly. She looked at his lips, then looked back up at his eyes. He did the same and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. They stayed there for a few moments before he released her and pressed his forehead against hers. 

“Surely the feast can wait a few moments,” he growled into her neck, kissing against the soft skin there. Helga bit her lip and smiled, fingers tangling into the thick curls at the back of his head.

“It can,” she gasped, startled by the small nip he left against her shoulder. Pero slowly walked them toward her bedroom and laid her on top of the bed. The curtains in front of the window were drawn. Something caught his eye in the window and he looked out, hovering over Helga’s body. 

In the distance, on top of a hill, was a large black wolf. It seemed to make eye contact with him before it turned and left.

A chill ran down Pero’s spine.

a/n: if you're at all curious, here's a decent idea of what i imagined the stone to look like 🥰

[mouschiwrites]

Can I get some headcanons for kyle and/or butters with a reader that is accidentally intimidating. Like they're very tall and seem stoic and threatening but in reality they're just bad at talking to people lol

Yep! I did both, I hope this turned out to your liking!! <3

South Park - Kyle and Butters With a Tall and Intimidating Reader

Kyle

He’s very much allured by your intimidating aura

He’s usually perceived as pretty intimidating himself, so of course he’s interested

At first it’s just curiosity, so he just inserts himself beside you every now and again

Your quiet demeanor further intrigues him

In reality, you’re just not sure what to say to this boy that’s suddenly around you half the time

One day he asks for your name

You give it to him, and he tries to advance the conversation, but your meager responses aren’t exactly encouraging

But the interest that shines in your eyes clues him in

With a realization like a slap in the face, he determines at last that you just suck at socializing

A grin curves his lips, and it only grows wider when you smile back

You reach a silent understanding in that moment, one that you’re both grateful to finally have established

You exchange numbers, and the rest is history

Kyle isn’t exactly a socialite, but when you do go in public, you’re the scary couple

If people aren’t deterred by your towering heights, or your solemn faces, Kyle’s blunt attitude usually does the trick

But when you apologize for his rude remarks, sometimes people are charmed just enough to stick around a little longer

Then they’re pleasantly surprised (by you at least; in comparison to Kyle, you’re much nicer, if not a little awkward)

Kyle might get a little jealous if they end up getting a little too fond of you

Then he’ll crank up the crankiness to scare them off for good

You guys are essentially like that one alignment chart: “looks like they could kill you/looks really nice” and “is actually really nice/would kill you”

You’re “looks like they could kill you” and “is actually really nice”

Kyle is “looks like they could kill you” and “would kill you”

Butters

Butters was first compelled to introduce himself when he noticed you sitting alone

Being an unwilling loner himself, he sympathized

He didn’t even notice your scary demeanor

He just approached you one day as if you were as harmless as a bunny

Which you are, but most people don’t seem to think so

He’s so confused when you tell him that

“Why would they be afraid of you..? You’re so nice!”

He also doesn’t notice your social awkwardness

If there’s silence, he’s going to fill it; it’s just natural for him

He doesn’t mind at all, as long as you don’t mind either

He actually really likes having a listening ear

That’s why he loves being around you—he thinks you’re the best “conversation” partner

And eventually romantic partner :D

When you’re in social situations he’s usually the one to insert you both into a conversation, or otherwise find someone to talk to

He does get a little suspicious when people avoid you; he still doesn’t grasp that people are intimidated

Luckily this effect fades the longer you’re with him

He helps people realize that you’re actually really nice, and soon more people feel comfortable approaching you

Referring back to the alignment chart, Butters is “looks really nice” and “is actually really nice”

Despite people being less afraid of you, you’re still “looks like they could kill you”

That’s okay though; you’ve learned to use your scary demeanor to fend off bullies from your boyfriend 💪

Thank you for this request!! And thanks for reading, take care guys :]

(divider by saradika)

[victimized-martyr]

to what degree do you think Cartman will grow to be a better person?

According to Trey’s commentary in Tsst, it doesn’t take much: Discipline, a firm male figure in his life. And now, implied by the end of Pandemic Special and towards the end of P.C, time away from friends who enable him are the ingredients for a better Cartman.

As little as it takes for him to be grow, it’s also just as easy for him to regress. Liane giving in on one occasion reverted what was months of firm parenting. A stagnant Kyle in P.C spurred Cartman’s paranoia, and reverted him back to his scheming 10 year old ways. He thinks he’s being talked down to and self sabotages out of spite at the end of Future Me. I think also a contributor to his Cartman-ness is how South Park itself doesn’t let him stay good for long, meager as his attempts may be on occasion. He’s the adults’s scapegoat (Bass to Mouth) as well as the Kids’s (Good Times With Weapons). the kids encourage Cartman to retaliate against Pc principal instead of letting him accept detention, and they smash his things while he was sincerely attempting to be PC.

Anyways, Cartman’s demonstrated he can be good in PC— he’s the father he never had, a loving (perhaps overzealous) husband, embracing the religion he’s constantly belittled.

While it was one off gag in Future Me, Cartman was inspired by end of the episode to study and work at his appearance. His future-self was proof that if he really wanted to, he can turn his life around.

He has the capacity to come to to right conclusions, (“should I just apologize to my friends and ask them to take me back, and tell them I was being a selfish jerk? Admit I was wrong and ask for forgiveness?”) He just… doesn’t have the discipline nor the humility to do so. (“Nah, screw that! I’m just gonna keep being a fucking dick!”)

At this point, we’ve experienced both extremes of the spectrum of goodness Cartman lies— his worst as a homeless drunk, the bastard boob-job narcissist he is now, and his best as a self made millionaire, or a family man devoted to his faith, or the obedient little boy who does his homework before school and eats a gay ass grapefruit for breakfast.

It isn’t a question to what degree Cartman can be good, because he’s shown to be good in various ways. The question is whether Mattrey/ the town of South Park will allow him to realize his potential. Given the very recent circumstances of The Hot Dog… well, it remains to be seen.

[matchheadz]

I would like to thank whoever made the fic about Mama Vergil giving adult Nero her happy meal toy for the following brain rot:

When Nero and Vergil get closer, it’s in a very mute and limited capacity. Dante and the rest of the DMC crew have sort of resigned to the fact that they won’t ever be buddy-buddy. What they don’t know, however, is they only see what father and son allow them to see.

They’re both, underneath the façade of sarcasm and the extravagant displays of power and pride, actually sort of quiet people. Nero’s boisterousness is a learned behavior, a one born out of rebellion from his assassin days at the Order. Vergil, underneath the ambition and devilishly cold stares, is a romantic and a bookworm.

So when they start seeing eye to eye a little, it’s quiet. Private. Nero, ever the more communicative, will tell Vergil stories that he missed out on while he was absent. Of the odd treatment he received while in the orphanage, of his late brother, how he found his children etc. Vergil, if nothing else, is a good listener. He will nod and hum his acknowledgments, stay silent and thoughtful at Nero’s revelations. Sometimes, mostly when recounting stories of him as Credo, the corner of his mouth will twitch in what Nero *thinks* must be a smile.

Then one day around their first December, Nero starts picking up more and more jobs. He’s insistent to do them on his own, and the shit twins are more or less respectful of his wishes. But the three of them had fallen into a habit of picking up jobs together. Not all the time; nobody could afford that. But enough to feel his absence. Like a party member not showing up for Sunday brunch.

Vergil, still hesitant on reaching out, defers to Dante, who scoops his nephew’s job right from under him. It was a rough one. Probably should have included all three of them, and maybe Lady as a backup. Nero’s furious. He’s absolutely filthy, the van is likely to need hundreds in repairs and he’s tired. Tired enough to snap at Dante in early morning the last of the demons die, but not rev Red Queen’s engine. There’s an awkward silence between the two. Dante, ever the attention hog, doesn’t understand what he’s done but clearly feels bad. Vergil, on the other hand, is completely aware and turns around to walk into the only open “restaurant.”

You see, last month, while Dante had been entertaining Nero’s children during a birthday party, the both of them had coincidentally stepped outside for air at the same time. Nero had a constitution for gatherings built up over time, but he had never “become a people person.” And Vergil? Well, Vergil was Vergil. So Nero had gone on a small tirade. Sat at the stoop of his front porch, he had rubbed a tired hand over his eyes and complained about money.

They were strapped for cash as it was, with three kids, a niche freelance job and an orphanage sparing a meager wage. It was even worse that two of their foster kid’s birthdays were in November AND Christmas was coming up. He was adamant “that those kids got it better than he did.” Vergil did as he always did and merely nodded and hummed his acknowledgments until Nero had sufficiently relieved the weight in his chest to go give Kyle his proper, happy birthday.

so Vergil walked into this “restaurant” and bought the most nasty, disgusting double bacon cheese burgers for the three of them. Still covered in blood and dirt, and Nero still seething, they scared the absolute shit out of the opening manager by eating inside. The Snickers Effect took hold of Nero and he eventually mellowed out. In a small moment of silence, Vergil pulled out those fucking Shrek toys, one for each of their meals, and handed them to Nero while he chowed down. Dante fucking snorted the coke out of nose while Nero just stared at the damn thing in his hand with a sort of defeated look.

The job may have taken him two steps back, but it was nice, admittedly. Nice to have somebody there when shit got hard. To have family around. When Christmas came around, Nero sort’ve squirmed alot when the kids unwrapped their presents. It wasn’t alot, but it was enough for them. (At least that’s what Julio said after he gave his foster papa a big hug (Nero did NOT cry))

And those little McDonald’s toys sat well loved in the trio’s fairly bare bedrooms.

[shirtlesssammy]

The Winchesters 1x11: You’ve Got a Friend

“Being a hunter means always being on the move. No matter how hard you plan, no matter how hard you work, at a certain point, we all run out of road. It’s what we do with those crossroads that defines us.” 

After the show left us with a thrilling cliffhanger of Kyle getting Akrida-killed, and John getting framed for it, we start this week at the clubhouse. Mary, Carlos, and Lata are cleaning up after the Wilcox invasion (who left behind all his Akrida research). 

They hear a noise and find John, bloody and zombie-like, in the hallway. 

He later fills them in on his escape and the Akridas’ plans. The gang concludes that John and Mary need to get the hell out of Dodge. They can’t trust anyone since the Akrida are everywhere. Lata has a sudden inspiration for figuring out who’s an Akrida. Apparently Maggie had a bracelet that could “pinpoint anyone harboring a dark secret.” They can use it to suss out the Akrida! Lata and Carlos head back to Mary’s house to find the bracelet. 

While hunting for the bracelet, a sweet story of Lata and Maggie seeing Alice Cooper in concert reminds Lata that Maggie loved Toastettes, and she knows where to find the bracelet!

Meanwhile, Mary and John head out to stay at Samuel’s hunting cabin, but get as far as the car’s trunk before Betty finds them. Betty is HALF John’s size, but somehow he doesn’t fight the arrest and she takes him into custody. 

Back on the bracelet hunt, Lata finds a rat poison container (because everyone in the house loved Toastettes so Maggie had to hide them) and the bracelet is inside! 

Lata lets Carlos (and the audience) know that the bracelet was supposedly a creation of Erebus, the god of secrets and shadows, for his followers to discover the hidden secrets of their enemies. Lata makes a move towards the bracelet and then it snaps onto her wrist. WHERPS! The bracelet also comes with its own handy-dandy terror shadow! It locks the duo in the house and takes out all the lights.

Mille and Mary rehash what happened the prior night. Millie thinks they can trust Betty with their hunter/Men of Letters secrets. Listen Millie, the first rule of Hunter Club, is DON’T talk about Hunter Club. She argues they need a cop on the inside. 

At the police station, Betty brings John a coffee in the interrogation room and checks to see how he’s doing. A hold-over from the mid-century good-old-boy detective club, Detective Klett, arrives to bust John down a notch or two. He gives him grief about his ex arresting him, but then plays good cop and tells John he knows he didn’t kill Kyle. He did. HE’S AN AKRIDA, Y’ALL. He pulls out the photo of Dean and demands an answer to who he is. 

Back at the house, Lata reads that if whoever wears the bracelet has a dark secret, they will have to confess or the shadows will consume them. Carlos can’t quite process that his ray of sunshine has a dark secret. The shadow snatches him before they can talk more!

Carlos finds himself stuck in a dark, cold, sparsely decorated room. Lata can hear him calling, and he can hear her back. They call for each other until the shadow manifests itself as Maggie! 

At the clubhouse, Betty gets her first glimpse into all the studying John’s been doing in school. It’s a lot, folks, and Betty’s not having it. 

Before Betty completely storms off, Mary pleads with her to check for the three marks on Kyle’s neck.

Lata confronts the specter masquerading as Maggie, even as Maggie pulls her into soft reminiscing about the time they used to spend together. Maggie tells Lata that she’s harboring a dark secret - and that secret is the key to finding Carlos. Shadow!Maggie smokes out and hauls Lata into the cold room with Carlos. She finds him half frozen on the bed and barely responsive. She lights an oil lamp for some meager warmth - the same one Carlos failed to light. She claims that knowing the knack of lighting the lamp was “muscle memory” and as Carlos watches, Lata reveals that the creepy room was once a part of her home.

At the Clubhouse, Millie tries to talk Mary out of her jailbreak plans. “I was young and dumb once, too.” Lol. Convincing Mary is like talking to a wall. Millie ends up with an assignment to call for backup from Lata and Carlos, while Mary heads out to stake out the precinct. 

At the precinct, Klett, the Akrida detective, smirks. John’s cracked already - he promises to reveal all about Dean Bean. Instead of the man’s identity, John spills out a handful of rock aliases (sooooo accurate though) until Klett catches on. Klett reacts…poorly. But John’s confident that this Akrida framing push reveals something important: Dean Winchester, the man of mystery of the hour, is a threat to the Akrida. “Nothing of this earth can harm you, so if he’s a threat to you and nothing of this earth can harm you… Well. That would mean he’s not of this earth.” We all stroke our chins sagely over this. 

The Akrida cop declares that John’s now of little use to them. He threatens a staged car crash during the transport to state prison, which will kill everybody involved. John’s bravado deflates at that, and he’s left once again to stew in regret and other fun human emotions. 

Back with Lata and Carlos, we get the dime recap. Lata’s dark secret + bracelet = creepy cold room. Soooo the fix is easy! Carlos presses her to drop her secret. “Lata, you know I am prone to long, slow-build, catharsis-driven theater, but I don’t think we have time for a one-act play here.” 

She brings up her origin story as told in episode 6 “Art of dying.” There was something she didn’t say - someONE she didn’t bring up. Lata tells Carlos about Sania, her family’s housekeeper. Sania was like a parent to her, and one day Lata took some leftover food to share with her. When her father found out, he tried to beat Sania. That’s when Lata hit her father with the oil lamp. Carlos tried to declare catharsis between them, but the room holds fast.

We have to wait for the rest of story-time, because Millie is trying to call Carlos and Lata. They won’t pick up, though! It’s still forced-sharing hour.

Lata was dragged back to the house by her father, and her mother sided with him. Lata, angry, packed up her things and ran away. But Lata’s leaving only protected herself. Her father blamed Sania for what happened and locked her in the cold room one very cold night. Sania froze to death. Lata looks around the room and sees only the terrible ordeal that Sania went through. Carlos pulls her into an embrace and lets her cry. The dark room lifts from them like light and they’re back in the kitchen once more. The bracelet falls off of Lata’s wrist. 

They have barely a moment of breathing time before Millie bursts in. She finds them on the floor looking shocked but apparently being part of Monster Club means that some questions are just exhausting to pursue. Millie shrugs it off. They’ve got bigger fish to fry. After all, “Mary’s gonna need [the bracelet] if she’s gonna bust John out of jail.”

At the precinct, Mary is a COILED TIGER READY TO POUNCE, while the police prepare to move John. Betty confronts her and they fight. It looks like Mary’s doing her early season lone wolf routine, but she announces that she was just playing the role of Betty bait. Uh, Betty distraction? Carlos runs up, announces that “drugs should be legalized,” and helps hold Betty while Lata gives Betty the slap bracelet of doom. Fortunately for everyone present, Betty doesn’t harbor any dark secrets. Instead, she looks around and sees traces of magic everywhere. Green light streams up from every Akrida nearby. Betty’s disbelief falls in one giant domino. I’m impressed at her capitulation, but all she can think of is how to save John. 

As John gets hauled out, Mary holds Betty at gunpoint and orders the cops to let John go. While the cops are distracted, Carlos comes in swinging with the lead pipe. They quickly overpower the cops and activate part two of the plan: RUN! Betty promises John that they’ll catch up later. Before they all go, she asks Carlos to deliver a hit so they believe she was unwilling…and the cop-on-the-inside story is laid. (I switch from side-eyeing the ex-fiance dynamic to wondering if Betty’s going to fall prey to the Supernatural blood cannon someday. Hopefully not!)

Betty and Mary connect outside the Clubhouse as Betty returns the bracelet. She’s not too thrilled to learn the truth of the hidden perils in her world. But she’s adjusted remarkably well. She wishes John and Mary well on their second attempt to flee town. John gives her instructions for the magical anti-Akrida tattoo.

Inside, Lata tells Carlos that she wants to be more open. She tells him that she’s holding one more secret: her parents aren’t dead. Carlos says that Lata’s parents are dead to HIM. We agree! And he ALSO tells her that Mary and John will love her, just like he does. Lata’s story is hers to keep or to tell, and they’re ready to back her no matter what. 

For Snuggly Hug Science:

John and Mary drive out of town and reflect on Kyle’s demise. They vow to find DEAN WINCHESTER ALIVEGIRL EXTRAORDINAIRE!

__

Quotes Quotes are No Fun, Quotes Quotes Hurt Someone:

Your past does not define you

People conceal things for all sorts of reasons, logical or not

Stubborness in the face of oblivion. Honestly, that’s one of the few traits I respect about humans

I guess the truth really does set you free

Sometimes doing the right thing means doing the wrong thing

__

 Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

[godihatethiswebsite]

Last Line Challenge

Tagged by @dragonnarrative-writes

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like).

Here I was just minding my own business half paying attention to the Bruins game and half working on part six of my Mummy AU when suddenly dragon decided to call me out and hammer the final nail in the lurker coffin: being tagged in my first writing challenge 🤣 you're really giving me no room for argument now, huh bish?

Kyle was a decorated war veteran and a man you could implicitly trust to your protection, his comrade just as fearsome if the stories weren't grossly overembellished. That didn't mean the three of you were invincible...

Since I'm so new at this I'm afraid of being perceived with my meager offerings by others on the internet. That being said, @alwaysshallow, @cordeliawhohung, and @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world

[hold-him-down]

I don't know how this would work in Leo's story or if you could even use it, and if not feel free to disregard, but I have seen a couple of posts recently about whumpers betting their whumpees during card games and I don't know that just sounds neat.

Nothing Permanent

TW: Implied noncon, mentions of nudity, institutionalized slavery, blood mention, betting a whole ass person in a poker game, fear of noncon, discussions of noncon, references to noncon touch, fucky headspace, references to conditioning... the usual suspects.

Notes: Early in Kylie Smith’s contract. Leo’s first buyer out of training. Not really a linear plot happening but it's words and i wrote em so as promised, they are now everyone else's problem :)

Table of Contents

 ✥ ✥ ✥ 

He’s bleeding, he thinks. He’s blindfolded, so he isn’t completely sure if the blood has stopped, but every hand that’s been dealt and won, Leo is forced to take a shot, or lose a piece of clothing, or he’s been touched or he’s forced to touch or he’s… or he’s hurt. There’s no pattern to it. 

This… woman, Mrs. Smith, loves his suffering. In a way he wasn’t prepared to handle, she longs for true, genuine agony. And tonight, she’s chased it.

He feels something slice into him and every muscle in Leo’s body locks as he swallows back a scream. “Not too deep,” she says. “The director said no scars.” 

“Jesus,” one of the men say. Kyle, Leo thinks. He’s outspoken, he’s handsy. He’s drunk and he’s dangerous and if he wins this game, Leo goes home with– 

Liquid is poured along the new cut and Leo wails in spite of his training, curling up as tight as he can on the chair they’ve tied him to, willing the meager contents of his stomach to stay put.

He’s gasping in short, ragged breaths when he feels cool hands come around his neck, pulling his head up. 

Her lips are cool against his jaw and he hears himself struggling over each breath as her tongue grazes his neck. Distantly, he knows his arm is being wrapped up, and that they’ll soon start another round. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful for the moment unattended, or dread what follows it.

The blindfold that collects his tears is soaked by now. He’s body is covered in bruises and sweat and blood and he just… he just wants to go home. He just wants–

“He’s okay,” Mrs. Smith says, her teeth grazing his skin as she backs away from him.

“He doesn’t exactly look it,” says another woman.

It earns a laugh from all around him, and then a sort of silence grows, and Leo knows their attention has returned to their game.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

“Are you going to be a good boy?”

Covered in sweat, still trying to catch his breath, Leo can only nod and hope it’s enough. Mrs. Smith runs her fingers through his hair, letting her nails lightly graze his neck and she pulls him into a hug. His head drops against her shoulder. It’s what she wants, and he thinks if he can delay this next part, for as long as possible, if he can save himself a single moment of misery, it’s worth it.

“See? He’s sweet,” she says to someone that he can’t see. He closes his eyes, pulling in long breaths through his nose. Leo doesn’t think he can stop this from happening, but if he can earn Mrs. Smith’s favor back, maybe she’ll… make him take it easy. 

She abruptly breaks the hug, her grip tight on his shoulders as she pushes him back, meeting his eyes.

“Have fun tonight,” she says, and Leo nods, swallowing. 

The man, the one who so gleefully tormented him for the past three hours, inclines his head toward the door with a smile.

“Nothing permanent,” she reminds him.

“Nothing permanent.” His voice is thick with desire, Leo thinks. And in an instant, there’s a palm on the small of his back, guiding him out the door and toward the last remaining car in the driveway.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

The first sign that the night isn’t going to go as expected is when they get to the car. The man, Kyle Montgomery, clears his throat and utters a muffled, “Sit wherever you’re comfortable.” 

Leo tenses.

“Sir?” he asks, hand hovering over the rear door handle. He half expected to be folded into the trunk, and he doesn’t want to misstep this early in the evening.

Kyle nods his approval. “That’s fine. I don’t care where you sit.” Kyle’s eyes move to the window, where Mrs. Smith watches them with a smile. “Just get in the fucking car,” he says tersely.

Leo does, stiff, unsure of whether he actually did what he was supposed to do. He would find out soon enough. The next ten minutes are spent in silence, and when Kyle pulls into a drive-up take-out window, Leo finds himself once again taken aback.

“What do you want?” the man asks, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“I–” shouldn’t eat, is what Leo wants to say. But, as if the response has been coded into him, he finds himself saying, “I’d like whatever you’re having.” He hates himself for it. He hates every piece of himself that been broken down by the training. And still, once the words have left his mouth, he can breathe a little easier. It hasn’t stopped freaking him out. That his brain was rewired to do this. That his body seems to act on its own accord.

Kyle orders, and they sit in silence as his card is scanned, as the woman hands him the bag, as he drives away. The bag is placed on the passenger seat, the smell hitting Leo in waves, and he wonders idly if it was bought for him as a reward for later. Or to build motivation. It doesn’t matter. He’ll do whatever he’s supposed to do.

The silence lingers, save for the soft humming along to the radio. It makes the hairs on Leo’s arms stick up.

They pull into a gated driveway and make their way toward a looming brick townhome, and Leo is suddenly grateful the food hasn’t been offered to him yet. He doesn’t love the way his stomach is knotting up, or the way his throat is running dry. 

He’s led in through the back, but Kyle doesn’t touch him. The moment they enter the main room, the lights turn themselves on, and Leo’s… He’s there, in this man’s house, to do… whatever this man wants him to do. Will he ever get used to the unease?  

“Have a seat,” Kyle says, gesturing to the sofa. Leo does, carefully, keeping his eyes down. He wants to see. To see if there are things in this room that will hurt him. To see what kind of man he’s got for company tonight. His heart pounds against his ribcage and he swallows as the weight of the other person falls next to him. “Don’t do that,” Kyle says. 

Leo nods. “I’m sorry.”  

The man hands him a burger from the bag and Leo regards it carefully. “Are you hurt badly?” he asks.

The confusion must be evident on Leo’s face, because Kyle clarifies, “Your… Your head. And your… arm. Your stomach. Everything, I guess.” 

“I’m okay.” Leo takes a deep breath and tries a bite of the sandwich, the smallest bit, just to distract himself. He’s rewarded with a smile, and he smiles back, a little bit. He’s proud of himself, for making this man smile. 

“I don’t know if I believe that,” Kyle says quietly, but he smiles again.

After every bite, Leo looks up at the man who watches him, thumb gliding across the rim of his glass, to make sure he’s doing okay.

He chews slowly, and he counts his breaths, and he waits for the other shoe to drop. He’s heard stories of men like this. Of men who pretend to be your friend, who let workers get their guard down. Of men who feed off of their hope, and once they have it, they strike. Of how much worse that feels. But every time Kyle smiles, Leo can’t stop the wave of fucking pride that surges through him. 

As midnight rolls around, and Leo is still unscathed, he decides to try to push things along. Kyle sits quietly on the opposite side of the couch, his eyes burning into Leo’s body through every second.

“I’m terribly sorry that I’m such poor company,” he says abruptly. It’s his seventh pass at making conversation, and Leo has done his best to enthusiastically participate, but it keeps faltering. “Truth be told, I– I’m not really interested in this type of thing.” 

Leo wants to ask why he fought so hard for it, if he’s not interested in it. He wants to ask why he was so aggressive at Mrs. Smith’s house, if he’s not interested in it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes a little bit of the distance between him.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I– Whatever you want, is fine.” When Kyle doesn’t back away, Leo inches closer still.

Kyle’s eyes pinch shut in an instant and he stands, just as Leo sinks into the sofa next to him. “I don’t want this,” he says. 

The sudden change in the atmosphere rattles Leo, but he stands, too. His jaw locks, but he doesn’t bite back. He’s practiced this. All of this, so many times. He can do this.

“What do you want?” he says, keeping his tone very carefully neutral. 

Kyle glances around his room. “What can you do? That isn’t–” he gestures vaguely toward Leo’s middle “–aggressively nonconsensual.”

And for a moment, Leo feels something close to anger bubbling inside of him. He thought that had been beaten out of him by now, but it’s there, just under the surface. Nothing. The answer, he thinks, is nothing. The word he says though, the picture perfect textbook word, is, “Anything.” 

He can almost feel the whisper of a hand on the back of his neck, of a bottle of water being tipped up against his dry lips, a Good, Leo, spoken from just outside of his line of sight. He swallows, and the dopamine surging through him at the absolute rightness of his answer relaxes him. He glances around the room, trying to get an idea of how this temporary pseudo-buyer might like to spend the evening, or at least the warm up. 

“I can… draw,” he says softly. “I can… I can play the piano, I can read to you? If you’d like, we can… um, we can just talk, or watch a movie, I’m a good–”

“The piano sounds nice,” Kyle interrupts tersely. He sits back down, gesturing toward the Grand Piano in the corner. “If you’re okay with it, the piano sounds nice.” His voice is less aggressive on the second pass, and Leo nods. 

“Of course,” he says. 

And that’s how he spends the evening with Kyle Montgomery. Playing the piano, and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

The first thing Mrs. Smith asked him to do when he arrived back at her apartment as the sun rose was to strip. 

He did, without a word, folding his clothing and setting it on the entry table. She examines every inch of him, checking for damage. She pushes into the bruises and cuts, all reminders of an evening spent suffering before leaving with Kyle, just to watch him tense. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction, but when she digs her nail into his arm, he hisses in a breath.

“There you are,” she whispers. She gets a towel from the kitchen and holds if over the newly bleeding wound, then covers it with his free hand. He hates her. He hates this. Every second of it. He longs for the moment that it gets easier, but isn’t sure it ever will.

“Did he hurt you?” Mrs. Smith asks, using the tip of her forefinger to tilt Leo’s chin upward. 

“Yes,” Leo whispers. 

“Did he fuck you?” 

Leo nods. The lie slides easily off of his tongue, with her fingers now lingering on the back of his neck.

“Yes.”

She nods and stands, smiling as she does. “I hope you were good for him, my angel.”

She leans down and plants a kiss against his forehead. And then she leaves, and he leans back on his heels. Leo has been here for just two weeks. If he’s learned anything at all, it’s not to move unless he’s asked to. And so, as the minutes bleed into hours, Leo sits there, waiting for whatever comes next.

tag list: @peachy-panic, @whump-cravings @afabulousmrtake @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @pumpkin-spice-whump @distinctlywhumpthing @thecyrulik @highwaywhump @batfacedliar-yetagain @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup @skyhawkwolf @suspicious-whumping-egg @also-finder-of-rings @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @prodigal-zoe @melancholy-in-the-morning @urban-dark @nicolepascaline @quietly-by-myself @seasaltandcopper @angstyaches @i-msonotcreative @mylifeisonthebookshelf @anonintrovert @whump-world @bite-down-on-this

[thewarriorspecial]

(WIP) I'm Not Calling You A Liar

Rating: Teen

Additional Tags: Angst, Historical Fiction (the fun is in the details, the era will reveal itself), Age Gap (the ring has de-aged Hal but he's in his 60s and Kyle's in his early 30s.), secrets, pilot Hal

Kyle digs a little too deep into Hal's fascinating past.

(I LIVE for pilot Hal. his age in comics changes a lot so with this one I wanted to really get into the historical part of the fiction and dig a new facet or two into Hal's massive character. I feel like that two-sides-of-the-same-coin vibe he has with Kyle was the right kind of tension to wheedle this one out.)

Hal walks with a limp when his ring isn’t charged. He should’ve received a meager $3500 in compensation for the damage to his body but they had thrown him out long before Monsanto got caught with their pants down.

The money doesn’t make much difference when you can’t keep a job.

So Hal kept doing the only thing he’s known how to do; he sells his body for warmth, comfort, something to eat. He doesn’t need a place to sleep as long as his survival skills hold out.

Relationships are as much a game of cat and mouse as any mission he’s ever flown. He circles bars and campuses looking for fun or trouble or both. Men and women flock to him in groups of no less than three. He’s more than used to defending a cluster attack, teased from the underbrush with a waggle of hips or wings.

Hal never stays because Hal never sleeps through the night.

He watches his company for the evening, asleep on their side. He listens for their breathing to even out. He likes to watch them sleep, the satisfied look on their face gives him peace. He feels like he’s at least been good for something. The closest he knows how to get to another person is by getting under their skin, knuckles or fingertips or teeth on skin, but never really breaking beneath the surface, never being anything more than a passing ghost. A specter.

The wind howls outside and Hal can still hear the rocket motor overhead of the cockpit—a ticking time bomb that doesn’t have to hit to explode. He chest feels like it's in a vice. His body tells him to climb, eject, break but there’s no real threat. It’s just the wind.

Hal pulls the sheet over the sleeping person’s body, looks at them longingly one last time. Maybe he imagines what it would be like to wake up next to someone. Do people really go out for breakfast after? Is that a second date? He’ll never know.

The door clicks softly when he leaves.

————

Kyle shoves his feet into Hal’s threadbare slippers and drops himself heavily onto the bed—merely a mattress, sheet, and pillow on the floor. Hal’s barely any taller but his feet are way bigger. The soles of the slippers are pressed completely flat by Hal’s fallen arches. Years of wearing those godawful combat boots, Hal had said while Kyle was rubbing his feet.

Hal would lean back, close his eyes and sigh as Kyle gently massaged him, tempting him to rest but he never fell asleep and couldn’t bear to stay still for long.

Kyle gets up and paces the small section of the efficiency deemed “bedroom” by the mattress and hamper full of dirty clothes. There’s a footlocker at the end of the bed that looks like it could survive a nuclear explosion. An olive green backpack with tarnished bronze buttons rests against the footlocker, sunken like a dead body placed after a mob hit. It’s held together with careful stitches and heavily wrapped duct tape.

Hal is still in the shower. Kyle’s getting bored. The contents of the footlocker is unknown and astonishingly tempting. Unfortunately for Kyle, the only way he’s ever been able to get to know much about Hal is if he pries, either with words or with hands.

So, he pries. The ancient, two-ton box creaks open and smells like an old library case. Everything inside is carefully sorted in little square cutouts in larger and larger wooden trays, folded into each other like little Russian dolls.

Kyle pulls one tray out at a time, examining their contents and then gently setting them on the floor. In the open space beneath, several articles of clothing are perfectly folded, each filling up exactly the right amount of space like they were made to be there—as if they were lain together and the box had been built around them. Hal always was annoyingly organized. Kyle couldn’t even imagine spending that kind of time folding underwear and socks.

There’s a large canvas patch in one of the trays. It looks like the kind of thing a metal-head would sew into their battle jacket for a concert. It depicts a yellow, cartoon…fox or something wearing goggles and riding skis. The bottom of the patch is emblazoned with the letters ‘YGBSM’. It’s got Velcro on the back so Kyle sticks it to the robe, over his heart. He’ll have to look that up later. He’s always wondered what kind of music Hal liked.

A silver sparkle catches his eye. He reaches into the corner of the box and unearths half of a pair of pilot wings. Immediately he wonders if there’s an amazing story. How did they break? Did they stop a bullet?

The shirt that the piece of silver had been folded into catches and unfolds, revealing the edge of a photo—a hand, an arm, two men in flight suits in an embrace—

“Put it back, please,” Hal says softly, in the same tone he uses when he’s insisting he’s fine and obviously wounded and in great pain.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I—“

“It’s fine,” Hal’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes and Kyle knows it’s not fine.

“I shouldn’t have—“

“I see you found my robe and slippers,” Hal’s voice takes on a tone of amusement as he interrupts Kyle’s stammering apology. He’s got a small, white towel wrapped around his tapered waist. His hair is dripping all over the floor.

“Right! Here you go,” Kyle jumps to his feet, whipping the robe off of himself and helps Hal ease it over his broad shoulders. Kyle kicks the slippers off and scoots them towards Hal’s damp feet, leaving Kyle in just his cartoon print boxers but much warmer nonetheless.

Kyle still has the broken wing half in his hands, and he turns the piece of metal over and over between his fingers.

“An old tradition,” Hal answers his unasked question. “We never wear the first set. We break them and give half to someone important. Like a relative.”

“Is this from Carol?” Kyle asks excitedly, remembering that she was a pilot as well.

Hal turns his gaze to the room’s single window and swallows. The rest of his body is eerily still. He breathes slowly in, and slowly out once. After a moment he looks at Kyle again and answers simply, “No.”

“Oh,” Kyle says softly. He doesn’t want to ask anymore questions all of a sudden. He gently returns the broken wing to its secret corner and slides the photo back into its hiding place. The temptation to pull the rest of it out, to see who was in it, and if it was Hal, is overwhelming.

He wonders if either of the people in the photo are “Banger Three” who Hal sometimes calls out for in the night.

Kyle doesn’t want to ask anymore questions. Hal’s never lied to him, no matter how much he obfuscates and this time Kyle doesn’t want to reach any further into the fog.

[gaymortagokat]

I got a new fic posted. I hadn't looked at it in a few weeks at least and figured that I might as well post it because if I kept editing it was never going to get posted. No I haven't forgotten about my character analysis. I'll get to posting the rest of it eventually promise.

It's a bit of an AU that sticks close to canon and is Reyna's trip from the end of HoH through BoO. Next chapter posts next week.

I do have my works marked for users only still, but I'll put some of the fic in this post. Also please let me know if the link doesn't work.

Reyna found Scipio buried amongst a small crowd of small people. He had only moved a few feet from where she left him trying to stay out of the mortal’s way but they must have migrated seeing him as one of the fortress’s many statues and interactive attractions. 

The mortals were the least of Reyna’s concerns. Unlike all the venti her and Scipio fought and the ghosts in the palace, many of the mortals were simply fascinated by her probably because unlike the role players that were around dressed as legionnaires Reyna was 1) a girl and 2) not white. A few had tried to take photos with her for- well Reyna wasn’t really sure what for. She feigned excuses, “Picking up something for the Emperor,” “Relieving a guard from duty,” anything they would believe. She wove her way between them and slipped right past some children standing around her friend.

“Alright, get down,” She told the ten-year-old sitting on Scipio’s back. 

“I just got here. There’s a line.” 

Scipio stayed still. Reyna felt bad leaving him outside with all the tourists. He wasn’t really a people pegasus and they were both so tired after three days of non-stop flight. She knew Scipio’s wings and back were incredibly sore. Dealing with mortals without harming them was a challenge to say the least.

Reyna looked around for clues as to what they saw Scipio as. There were pieces of trash and food at her feet. “Who gave you permission to get on my horse?”

The kid shifted in her saddle. Reyna had dealt with kids like him before. Often young legionnaires who were residents of New Rome who believed that gave them the authority to tell her what to do. Like the others, upon being questioned about something that should have been common courtesy, he grew uncomfortable. “Well?”

“Kyle! There you are.” A woman rushed up to the boy and hugged him. Kyle didn’t seem to like the woman touching him and tried to shrink away. “I told you to stay close. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Now let's go to the market then meet up with your cousin for photos. Then we have to leave. It closes soon.”

When Kyle slid off, Reyna readjusted the saddle. She patted Scipio’s neck and a faint puff of ash came out of his hair. Standing was probably a good break for him, but he would need a break from wearing the saddle at some point too. Luckily if they could catch up with the seven in time, he would get his break soon. 

“My turn!” A tiny voice yelled. 

At Reyna’s leg was a kid who couldn’t have been older and three or four. 

“Sorry, I got to get him back to his house for a nap.”

The kid held up the apple they were holding. “Please.”

“Very well,” Reyna turned, gesturing towards the front of Scipio’s body and letting the kid pass.

They held up the apple to Scipio who looked uncertain and almost disgusted by the toddler’s meager offering. Reyna straightened up his reins, “It’s alright. I’ll get you more later. A whole pail full.”

“Are you sure that’s safe for her?” A man, probably the girl's father, asked.

“Scipio is gentle with children.” 

Scipio made a noise in protest. Reyna elbowed him.

As the toddler fed Scipio, Reyna looked around. That feeling was back. More angry ghosts were around and they had begun to watch her. The palace was full of them. She had fought a few on the way in. Her body warned her of incoming danger. She needed to leave before they got any closer and before it was completely dark. There was no way she was sticking around to find out what the ghosts wanted with her. 

“Pretty pegasus,” The child told Scipio, petting his neck.

“It’s a horse, baby.”

“No. Twilight Sparkle.”

Why that name was familiar, Reyna had no idea. She wasn’t in New Rome and she didn’t have time to ask. She got on the saddle and took hold of the reins.

“Thank you,”

“Our pleasure.” Reyna turned her heels into Scipio’s sides. 

They left walking around the complex until they found a place with minimal mortals and took off.

[casspurrjoybell-17]

Heart’s Choice - Chapter 1

*Warning Adult Content*

- Carlos -    

The behemoth looms over me. 

I lie on my back, knees drawn up as my eyes roam a body built for hard work and showing the signs of it. 

Hard, dirty, strong and big — just the way I like it. 

I spot what I'm really after and adjust my position a little.

"Oh, yeah. There you are. Now, come to Papi."

I bite back a groan as I reach for the thick, well-oiled shaft and slide my hand along its length.

It's larger than I anticipated.

"Fuck. Hang on baby. I gotta grab a bigger..."

With a pop and a screech of metal, the gigantic pickup truck I'm working on slips off the jack and drops a foot, bouncing on its tires. 

The axle I'd been feeling up for damage comes to rest a finger's width above the bridge of my nose.

I stare at it without breathing for what feels like a tiny eternity and then, discovering that I'm still alive, I scramble from beneath the vehicle and let loose.

"Puta Madre. Mother-fuck. Kyle. I thought I told you to check the fucking jacks, you dumb-fuck shit-head."

My hapless assistant comes flying in from the work yard, his pale face shiny with sweat and his blue eyes wide and stares at the slipped jack as if it's the most horrific thing he's ever seen.

"Holy shit. Oh, shit, Mr. Martinez. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, no thanks to you."

"I swear I checked them, Mr. Martinez. Just like you showed me. I swear I did." 

He twists his hands in the dirty rag he holds and shifts from side to side, miserable with anxiety and my anger fades.

I rake a hand through my long hair, then remember my hands are covered in axle grease and swear. 

"Chinga..."

"What?"

"Fuck," I say. "Chinga means fuck."

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Martinez."

"How many times I gotta tell you? It's Carlos, Kyle. Carlos. Señor Martinez was my grandpa."

"Sorry, Mr. Martinez," Kyle whispers, eyes on the floor. "I'll try harder. I swear. Please don't tell my aunt."

I cast my own eyes heaven-ward and pray for patience. 

"Why would I tell your aunt?"

"'Cause she made you hire me. I mean, that's the only reason I'm here, right?"

I rub the back of my neck and sigh. Kyle isn't wrong. 

His aunt, Lucille, is my landlady and neighbor and she asked me to give him a job. 

Kyle is, as my own aunt would say, a sandwich short of a picnic and a magnet for trouble. 

A foster kid raised by his aunt, he dropped out of high school, fell in with the wrong crowd, spent some time in juvie, got out, got in trouble again, got out again and now he's twenty two and his prospects are dim. 

Life handed Kyle lemons and he can't afford the sugar to make lemonade.

I sympathize. I really do. 

I had my own troubles growing up, different troubles but no less damaging and I want to give Kyle every chance I can. 

The problem is, I can barely afford the sugar myself, much less Kyle's meager pay.

His aunt isn't even asking for much. 

In exchange for reduced rent, Lucille proposed I hire him as my assistant, teach him the mechanic's trade and keep him on the payroll for at least a year. 

She just wants him to have a chance; to have something, anything, legitimate to put on a resume.

I wouldn't complain if not for the fact he's almost killed me three times already and he's only been working here two weeks.

"Kyle," I say, rubbing my brow. "Look. Why don't you go get us some lunch, okay? Rexi's burgers, down the street. Here..." I pull out my wallet, remove a twenty I can ill-afford to spend and hand it over. "I'll have the classic with fries. Get yourself what you want."

He takes the bill, stuffs it in his pocket and leaves, shoulders hunched and shoes scuffing the concrete floor.

When he's gone, I crack my neck and take a closer look at the truck.

"Fuck," I hiss. 

There's a small dent and scrape in the paint I'll have to fix. 

Fortunately, the truck's owner is a friend.

When I moved to Spring Lakes and opened my own garage, it felt like the world was my oyster. 

I had new friends, a new home and thanks to a certain demon, I was finally free of the possessions that had plagued me since childhood.

That's right, I got possessed. A lot. 

Ghosts, demons, I don't even know what, sometimes. 

All I know is my aunt, Toni, was the only person who could keep me safe. 

She raised me, fed me, clothed me, gave me a home and taught me everything I know about cars. 

She happened to be an exorcist, too, one of a long line in our family and she used me as a tool of her trade. 

I didn't mind, usually but I also didn't have a choice. 

How do you say 'no' to your only caregiver, when they're the only person in the world who gives a shit about you?

Then I met a man who can turn into a bear and a boy who's part demon and in a moment of pure desperation I got in the back of this very truck and left my old life in the dust.

I haven't looked back but the truth is, my aunt did a good job. 

She sheltered me from a lot of shit but in the process she left me a little unprepared for 'real life.'

On the one hand, things are good. 

I've got my own business and my own place. 

I got friends and I'll be twenty-seven in two weeks.

On the other hand, there are things that cost me sleep. 

My business is struggling and my place is a rental held together with duct tape and prayers. 

My friends are amazing but they got their own lives and I'm still single, not for lack of trying, unfortunately.

Rising, I catch sight of myself in the cab window's reflection and sigh.

I used to think I was hot stuff. 

Dark eyes under expressive brows, olive-toned skin and a mouth that drew the eye. 

I had young Johnny Depp or Antonio Banderas vibes or so I imagined and I wore my chestnut brown hair long and lush. 

I wasn't just pretty; I was masculine, too, trim and toned from real, hard work, with grease under my nails and dirt on my skin. 

Who wouldn't wanna call that his own? Everyone, apparently.

Before I left Toni and my old life behind, I blamed it on the possessions. 

Can't fault a date for dipping after some hell-spawn takes you for spin. 

But once I was free of that, I thought things would change. 

I thought, finally, I'd have them all swiping right, calling me back or better yet, asking for my number.

No such luck.

I run my hand along the side of the truck. 

The weeks I spent on the road with Ian and Sam were, while harrowing, the best of my life. 

I guess I thought if I followed them here, the good times would roll.

They haven't. 

And now I can't help wondering, if the possessions weren't the problem, then maybe the problem is me. 

Or maybe, if I can't find what I'm looking for, then what I'm looking for isn't here.

I've decided I'll give it my all, throw my heart and soul into my business but if it fails, then I'm out. 

I'll be like Jack, hit the road and never come back no more.

~ ★ ~

By seven o'clock, I'm pissed. 

Kyle seems to have done a Jack, too and used my twenty to buy a ticket to fuck-knows-where. 

He never came back with my lunch, anyway and I figured he got distracted by something and decided to fuck off for the rest of the day. 

He plays the innocent card well but he's not as dumb as he pretends to be. 

He knows I can't fire him.

Hell, for all I know he set the jack up wrong on purpose to play a prank on me. 

A potentially murderous prank that could have crushed my skull but a prank, nonetheless.

At any rate, I'm in a foul mood by the time Ian Foley comes to pick up his truck at the end of the day.

"I'm sorry," I say, indicating the dent and scratch. "I won't charge you for the repairs and I'll do the body work free, too."

Ian rubs his short red beard and blows a breath through his nose. 

"I'm not worried for the truck," he says. "I'm more concerned you're still using this crap equipment, Carlos. You know old shit like this is a hazard."

I bite back a rude reply. 

Of course I know it, I was raised to know it. 

I grew up in a fucking garage for fuck's sake.

"I'm still saving for the upgrade," I say. "It was my mistake. As the mechanic, it's my responsibility to do the safety check. I shouldn't have relied on Kyle."

“Hmm.”

Ian's noncommittal grunt says more than he knows, that if I need an assistant, I should hire one I can trust and if I can't trust Kyle, then he shouldn't be working here.

"What do you I owe you?" he asks and I frown. 

"I told you. Nothing."

He shakes his head. 

"Nah. You musta spent eight hours on this. Parts an' labor... I'm guessing four hundred."

He pulls out his wallet, counts the bills,and holds them out to me.

I shake my head. 

"I can't. I damaged your vehicle and took twice as long as promised. The Martinez Motors guarantee is 'on time or no charge.' So it's no charge."

Rather than argue, Ian grabs my hand and presses the wad of bills into my palm.

"Take it, Carlos. You earned it. My business is doing well right now and I can spare it. Someday, that might not be the case. Someday I might be the one who needs help. That's what friends are for. This isn't charity. It's support. And you can put yourself first sometimes. You're worth it. Understand?"

I nod and accept the money.

"Thanks, Ian. You let me know if you're not satisfied, though, right?"

I hand him his keys and he winks. 

"You bet your ass. My truck is my baby. Well, other than Sam."

He gets in his truck and leaves,and I let my shoulders slump as I fall into one of the stained waiting area chairs and bury my face in my hands.

I remember the first time I saw Ian Foley, in a little pub where I was waiting tables. 

He was just my type, big and rough, with red hair and a pair of startlingly blue eyes. 

He had one eye now but he was no less handsome for the loss. 

Sometimes, I wondered what might have happened if he'd met me first, instead of Sam but the reality was he'd never shown a hint of interest.

I was lucky he considered me a friend. 

Still, someday I want someone to put me first.

My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket. 

It's a text and my heart leaps at the name attached to it. 

Alejo, a guy I hooked up with the week before at a bar. 

He'd seemed pretty into me, at least until he got what he wanted. 

Then he'd basically told me to fuck off. 

But maybe I'd misinterpreted things. 

I'd had a few drinks and my head wasn't totally clear at the time.

Alejo: Hey I'm. bored Wanna hang out? 

I start to type and then my head catches up to my eager heart 'and hormones' and I read the text again.

He's bored and too lazy for punctuation and I'm a distraction.

One of many, no doubt. Still...

I bite my bottom lip, finger hovering above the screen. 

Then, with an exhalation, I silence my phone and pocket it again.

‘Not tonight, Alejo. Not ever again, actually.’

Ian's right. 

Maybe if I stop acting so desperate, something better than guys who prey on desperate guys will come my way.

Maybe.

Exhausted, I drag myself up to the little apartment above the garage, take a shower and flop into bed. 

Kyle's going to get an earful tomorrow and I'm taking that twenty out of his pay.

~ ★ ~

Bright and early, I'm roused by a persistent and obnoxious sound. 

Not my alarm but the buzz of the bell on the shop door below. 

Blearily, I roll into a sitting position and rub my hands over my face before jolting unsteadily to my feet. 

Dressed in my boxers and sleeveless nightshirt, I lean on the wall for support as I descend the stairs to the floor below, my brain struggling to catch up to my body and understand who would be at the door this early and why.

It must be a customer with a scheduled drop off, which Kyle must have forgotten to put in my calendar.

When I open the door, however, I discover not a customer, but a pair of officers in uniform. 

I blink at them and they stare at me. 

One is male and one is female. 

The female officer speaks first.

"Mr... Martinez?"

I nod, suddenly much more awake and much more conscious of my attire or lack thereof. 

"Yeah. Um... I mean, Yes, that's me. Carlos Martinez. How can I help you, officers?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind."

"What about?"

"You know a Kyle Peters?"

"Yeah. Yes. He's my... he's my assistant," I clear my throat.

The male officer speaks. 

"In what capacity?"

I turn towards him and frown. 

He has short brown hair and green eyes and he looks about ten years older, eight inches taller and fifty pounds more muscular than me.

He's also hot. And straight. Definitely straight.

"In the garage," I say. "I'm a... I'm a mechanic."

"So I gathered," the officer's tone is dry and I flush, embarrassed.

"Um... So what's this about Kyle?" I ask, running a hand through my hair. "What's the little shit gone and done now?"

"That's what we're here to find out," the female officer says and I groan. 

"Don't tell me. He stole some shit, again."

"No, Mr. Martinez," the male officer drawls, drawing my attention back to him. "He's dead."

[fictional-men-have-my-heart]

Day 13

Day 13’s “write a day”

This was started at 1:30ish this morning as I was waiting for pie filling I made to cool. Finals were over last week, and I have already completely whacked my usual sleep schedule. I chose to look at a list of possible prompts to bring in so I can hopefully give better quality, since most of the day I will waste thinking about what to write instead of actually writing.

So, today’s is: Dealing with a heatwave.

You were no stranger to heat, but it didn’t make it any less miserable for you. The sun absolutely baked everything it touched, and you already had a solid sunburn going on the back of your neck. The days dragged on, and it seemed like an eternity before the sun finally began sinking below the horizon. A breeze was currently blowing through the camp, and you were grateful.

Price: Despite the heat, you saw him with a hot cup of coffee multiple times. You and the rest of the crew asked him how he could stand to drink anything room temperature right now, let alone a hot coffee. He simply chuckled.

             “I don’t think you’d want me to go without my coffee in any weather. You’d be even more miserable than you are now.”

Ghost: How that man survived days like these under that balaclava and mask you had no idea. He had to be feeling the heat, there was absolutely no way he wasn’t. You kept an eye on him whenever possible, sure he’d keel over from heatstroke at this rate.

             “Lt, are you not dyin’ under all that?” You asked Ghost looked over to him, mask pulled up to drink from a water bottle.

“Even if I was, the mask stays on.” Your Lt responded flatly.

             “You’re outta your mind Lt…” Soap mutters, shaking his head.

Soap: He was more like you, trying to hide away from the sun in the shade whenever possible. He donned a cut off he’d made plus cargo shorts, but kept his boots on. As funny as the sight was, the heat was too smothering to laugh at him… much.

             “What are you laughin’ at eh?”  He asked, arms crossed over his chest. You chuck a damp washcloth at him.

             “You, traipsing around in shorts for once.” You snort.

             “You’re one to talk. You’ve got a sunburn brewing and I can smack it before you know I’m there.” He warns.

             “Try it, and you die sergeant.”

Gaz: He was trying to dodge duties outside whenever possible. He kept trying to offer you increasingly interesting things until you finally considered taking a watch he desperately did not want to do.

             “C’mon, I’ll do your laundry?” He queries.

             “As if I want you doing my laundry Kyle.”

             “Suit yourself, I know how to iron quite well.”

             “I’m sure you can, but I don’t want anyone messing about with my undergarments, thank you.”

             “I’ll take night shifts clearing the creepy stairs on the west end.”

             “…keep talking…”

Alejandro: He kind of laughed at how the rest of you fared honestly. He was running around as if it was any other Tuesday for him, and he kept cracking off one liners with Rudy about the “poor souls stuck in the heat.” You were on watch that afternoon, hiding out as best you could under a meager shade producing canopy.

             “I think they’re gonna melt into a puddle if they’re out here much longer Rudy.”

“I think you’re right Alejandro, want to get a drink?”

             “Sure thing.”

However, when they swung back by Alejandro held out a cool bottle of water to you.

             “Keep hydrated or you’ll end up sicker than a dog, I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Rudy: The heat hadn’t been kind the last few days. It baked the base all day long, temperatures rising as early as 10 am.

After a couple times of bringing water to the watch stations around base, he got an idea. You quickly found out this idea when he crept up to you on watch, noticing him when it was too late.

             “Rudy! What in the world!” You yelled, covering your face in a moot attempt to keep your face from being sprayed. He laughed, spraying you further with a long-range water rifle.

             “Gotta keep morale up somehow in this weather! You’ll dry out soon enough.” He grins, turning to go off and get the next poor soul stuck on watch.

You could radio ahead and warn them, but you opt not to, listening to the surprised yelp of another soldier getting hosed down.

König: As someone who was used to wearing a lot of gear, he was used to heat. However, when he was out on watch with you once he did opt to remove one of his masks. You had offered him a wet rag to wipe his face, dutifully turning away as he removed his other mask and wiped his face and neck down.

             “Thank you.”

“No problem, I figure you’ve gotta be sweating buckets under all those layers. How you’re surviving is beyond me.” You smiled, tossing a water bottle over next. The cool water was a relief for the time being.

He offered you some sun balm for your neck, which helped take the heat out of it that night.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 6 PROOF OF LIFE

Ransom Video | “I’ve got a pulse” | Screams from Across the Hall

It’s quiet, too quiet, and Kyle hates it. He has no idea how long it’s been, no way to tell the time, not from how exhausted and out of the loop his internal clock is nor with the meager sunrays filtering from the windows, he doesn’t know the rotation speed of this planet. It could be hours, it could be minutes. All he knows is that they took Guy, and when the guard came in he wore what could only look like a mean smirk on his alien features.

Kyle is pacing in the cell, staring at his ringless hand, the bare walls and the bench guy had chosen to lounge on. He kept babbling about how they’d get out of here easy, that once the confusion was clear they’d be free to go, and if not could just hit their way out. He looked at ease, not bothered in the slightest by their predicament. He even grinned at the general who put them here in the first place, told him to keep their rings warm for them.

When they took him, Kyle tried listening to the noise beyond his door, ears on the cold metal of the cell’s door, he tried hammering his fists on it and yelling himself hoarse, getting nothing out of it, not even someone coming to tell him to shut up. He tried picking and hitting at the lock and handle, he tried to get out with the window, but nothing. He’s stuck here, watching the hours go by as they’re doing god knows what to Guy. Maybe they’ve already done it, this planet is not known for their kindness.

When he finally gets an answer to his questions, it makes him wish he didn’t. A scream pierces the air of his cold, rancid cell. It’s Guy. Pained and agonizing, but it’s him. Kyle is on his feet in seconds, fists banging on the door again. There’s a brief second of silence before the scream starts again, and Guy doesn’t do that, he doesn’t scream. He grunts and yells but he always hides when he’s in pain, when he’s suffering. The sound of his voice going into shrills, being thorn out of his throat is enough to send Kyle panicking.

“Hey!” He yells, kicks the door. “Stop! Stop it!” A loud scream, again, followed by a sobbing one cuts through this hall and the latch on the door opens to show another guard, this one holding a translator in their hand.

‘Don’t worry,’ the mechanical voice says, ‘it will be over soon.’ Before Kyle can say anything, the latch is closed again.

He’s left stunned, powerless as Guy’s screams petter off in cries and then silence. He cannot decide if he wants to hear him again or have this silence lingers around him.

[ogradyfilm]

Skinamarink: Alone in the Dark

Under certain circumstances, even the most familiar of spaces can seem utterly terrifying. When you’re trapped in your own home for weeks at a time, when you're isolated from friends and family, when the rhythms of daily life deteriorate in the absence of a normal routine, the psyche projects fragmented nightmares and distorted memories into reality; every bump in the night becomes ominous, every creaky floorboard foreboding, every environment haunted. What malevolent specters might lurk in the hallway just outside your door? Or inside your closet? Or behind the shower curtain? These fears are completely irrational, of course… but that doesn’t make them feel any less substantial.

Kyle Edward Ball’s Skinamarink—an immaculately crafted exercise in suspense and atmosphere currently screening at IFC Center ahead of its streaming debut on Shudder—perfectly conveys this unconventional flavor of horror. The cinematography frequently obscures the action, emphasizing mundane objects—furniture, photographs, discarded toys—and relegating the characters to the periphery of the frame. The minimalistic lighting—the majority of which is provided by the meager, flickering illumination of a television screen—further obfuscates the visuals, creating shadows so deep and rich that they appear almost tangible. The artificial film grain and scratches added to the image in postproduction only enhance the surreal effect, causing the darkness to writhe and undulate like a living organism.

In addition to immersing the audience in the young, frightened, vulnerable protagonist’s point-of-view, this stylized presentation evokes the sensation of hovering in that nebulous realm between consciousness and sleep, wherein dreams begin to manifest in the waking world. Did you really glimpse a spectral figure scurrying across your ceiling? Did you actually hear a voice call your name from underneath your bed? Or were these supernatural experiences merely figments of your imagination—hallucinations conjured by a combination of fatigue and anxiety?

If your mind can’t tell the difference, do such distinctions truly matter?