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hussyknee · 1 year

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Red, White & Royal Blue: Collector's Edition Henry PoV bonus chapter by Casey Mcquiston.

(transcribed from the page pictures posted)

This is the coda to the end of the book, so don't read it if you haven't read the book first. Sadly, the Collector's Edition doesn't seem to be available on Kindle so. Arrrr matey.

Download link for file at the end.

....

HENRY

“I am not asking you to believe in it, or even to like it,” Henry says stonily. It’s been a long morning already. He is beginning to perspire. “I am simply asking you to show a modicum of respect.”

“To–to your quiche?”

“Yes. To my quiche.”

Bea puts down her tape gun and wipes her eyes. “Pez!”

“Yes?”

“Henry says he’s going to make us a quiche!”

Pez’s squawk of a laugh bounces down the stairs. “Pull the other one!”

“I make them all the time for Alex,” Henry insists. “They are perfectly edible.”

“So, when you promised us breakfast if we got up early to help you.” Bea says, “you meant that you were going to make us breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry says hotly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” Bea says. “It’s only that...well, Henry, the last time you cooked breakfast for me, you were twelve and you put a sausage in the microwave until it exploded.”

“That was your idea! And it’s been ages since then! I’ve studied, all right? I’m quite good now. Those pictures I send the group chat aren’t just for show.”

“Oh, aren’t they?” Bea says rudely, as if his incredibly generous offer to cook her a shallot-and-thyme quiche with mushrooms from the farmer’s market means nothing at all. As if he’s lived in this house for five entire years without learning to use its kitchen.

Perhaps if their lives weren’t so chaotic, if Henry weren’t flying out of New York every time Bea had a spare moment to fly in, he could have proven this to her earlier. But Pez, who lives mostly in the city now and visits so frequently he’s earned his own Secret Service code name (Cardinal, since Henry is Bishop), should know better.

“Percy Okonjo,” Henry says as Pez joins them, “you were here last weekend when I made mince pie. You loved it.”

“Did I?” Pez wonders aloud, with an annoyingly Bea-like lilt.

“Look at this apron!” Henry gestures to himself and the navy blue apron he’s wearing. Alex gave it to him for his birthday last year. “Would a man who can’t make a quiche have an apron like this? It’s monogrammed.”

“You’re royalty, babes,” Pez points out. “Everything you own is monogrammed.”

From the pocket of his serious-home-cook apron, his phone buzzes. Reinforcements. The FaceTime connects, and Alex says, “Good morning, love of my li–”

“Alex,” Henry interrupts, “tell them about my quiches.”

Alex pushes up his sunglasses and frowns into the camera. He looks so lovely with his faded T-shirt and jean jacket and shaggy hair. Pure American heartthrob, might as well have a cowboy hat on. Henry never does tire of it.

“Sorry?”

“Bea and Pez don’t believe I can make a quiche.”

“What? Have they seen your apron?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Henry’s quiches are great!” Alex says loudly, to the kitchen at large. “I almost never find shells in them!”

That sets Bea and Pez off again. On the screen, Alex’s face crinkles into laughter.

“Thank you very much, Alex, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Henry groans. “How are things? Florist this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Just finishing up.” Alex says with a grin. “Final approvals done. Everything looks great.”

With only one week until moving day and two until the wedding, it made sense to divide and conquer. Henry agreed to stay in New York and finish packing up the brownstone with help from Bea and Pez, while Alex, June, and Nora are ticking off the last of their checklists in Texas.

“Of all the surprises that wedding planning has brought us,” Henry says, “your ability to micromanage floral arrangements has certainly been...one of them.”

“You know I love to curate a vibe,” Alex says.

“That you do,” Henry agrees. “Where are the girls?”

“Getting donuts,” Pez answers before Alex can. He holds up his phone, open to a photo of June blowing a kiss while Nora fellates an éclair.

“Donuts!” Bea says. “Now there’s an idea!”

They spend the rest of the day drowning in cardboard boxes and bin liners, packing everything but the furniture and the downstairs television. Pez reminds him once an hour that they could pay someone to do this, but Bea is stubborn, and Henry is reluctant to let anyone else wade into all the intimate trappings of his and Alex’s life. It was bad enough explaining the contents of the trick drawer in their dresser to Pez, much less some mover he’s never met.

When it’s done, Bea puts A Knight’s Tale on in the living room and promptly falls asleep on Pez’s lap. Pez passes out too, but Henry stays awake, because Heath Ledger deserves an audience. And because he knows if he doesn't wake Bea and move her to the guest bedroom, he'll have to hear about her back spasms in the morning.

David hops up beside him on the loveseat, and Henry strokes the top of his snout until his little body relaxes into Henry's side.

"Nervous old boy," Henry hums. It still does seem like the ultimate irony that the dog he adopted for emotional support has anxiety. David has grown more and more worried all week, as more and more of his home disappeared into boxes. "We won't leave you, I promise."

The brownstone has been a good house for them. Sturdy brick walls, neighbors that actually let them be. Henry has loved it more than he ever loved Kensington, or at least as much as he loved Kensington when his parents both lived there too. Some mornings, when he comes downstairs to find Alex with the coffeepot and the kettle already on, he feels the way he did when his family all slept under one roof. This roof is quite a bit smaller than that one, but the feeling isn't.

So, perhaps David hasn't got entirely the wrong idea. It is hard to let the place go. For the past month, Alex has kept asking Henry why he's staring, and the truth is that he's been committing to memory exactly how Alex looks in every room. How the bannister fits in his hand, the place on the foyer wall where he always braces himself to pull on his shoes.

Everything that's happened in the past five years has happened, at least in part, inside this house.

…

It's seven months after Alex's mother's second inauguration, and Henry is wishing he had never even heard the word "credenza." Then he wouldn't have to decide where to put one. Alex is arriving in half an hour to help him move it, but Henry still doesn't know where. Across from the fireplace, perhaps? But what if he wants to put a sofa there? Does he want a regular sofa, or a sectional? Should it go upstairs, in his study? Or should he leave room for bookcases?

He longs to be back on a beach, sipping something from a pineapple.

It’s been a long, glorious summer since Alex packed up his White House bedroom, called Henry, and asked, "Do you want to get the fuck off the continent?" They did Dubai first, then Lagos. Rio, for old time's sake. Buenos Aires, paper lanterns in moonlight and Alex flirting with the bartender for free drinks. June through August became a lovely blur: Alex asleep against his shoulder on the plane, Alex throwing his Portuguese phrase book out the window of a speeding car, sand in unmentionable places, Alex Alex Alex. Endless runways and half-arsed disguises, swimsuits that got smaller and smaller until they simply didn't wear them anymore. Falling in love, the sequel, with fresh suntans and all the time in the world.

And now here they are in Park Slope, where Alex is renting the second floor of a brownstone two blocks from Henry's.

It's practical, they agreed, to live in the same neighborhood before they live at the same address. They've scarcely gotten a chance to date the normal way yet– if it can be called "normal" when their combined security teams are headquartered in an empty apartment down the street. Still, Henry wants this to last.

They've sprinted headlong into everything so far, but now he wants move slowly, in delicious increments. He wants to savor nights, minutes, firsts, to covet them and then let them dissolve on his tongue, like the sugar cubes he snuck off his gran's filigreed tea trays when he was small. He wants a life.

He wants someone to tell him where to put this damned credenza.

It's a vintage Broyhill Brasilia piece, walnut with clever brass drawer pulls. June helped him pick it out when she was in town with meeting her editor, but she never gave him any advice on where it should go. He hasn't ever been allowed to decide where furniture should go before.

So, it’s...there, in the center of the empty living room, the first piece in the entire house.

“Maybe you could start with a rug or two,” says Alex from the foyer.

Henry turns to find him with his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smiling in a beam of mid-morning light, and, ah. Yes. There it is. That sweet, sharp gasp of nerves. The half second when he forgets how to use his mouth. If he knows nothing else, at least one certainty remains, which is that seeing Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh will always do this to him.

Alex in a photo is handsome, but Alex in life is a symphony. He’s refracted light with a cherry cola chaser. He’s got a Fibonacci jawline and a troublemaker smile and thick forearms built for posing in doorways with his sleeves rolled and thumbing corks out of champagne bottles. The first time Henry ever told Pez about him, he said, “God, but he’s lethal.” It’s only worse once you get to know him.

“Weird place for a credenza,” Alex comments. He kisses Henry’s cheek, then passes him a warm bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “Hope you like sausage-egg-and-cheese.”

“I don’t know where to put it.”

“Sandwich goes in your mouth, typically.”

“The credenza.”

“Ohhh, right,” Alex says, pretending to have just caught on. He winks. Henry sighs theatrically but accepts a second kiss, on the lips this time. “Why don’t you just put it right here?”

He points to his left, where a blank wall stretches from the front door to the foot of the stairs. It does, upon closer inspection, appear to be the exact right size.

“Oh,” Henry says.

This is where they overlap. Where he ends and Alex begins. Great gooey puddle of feelings, meet course of action; endless burning energy, meet point of focus. Agonies, meet your most obvious, most natural, most inevitable conclusions. It’s frightening sometimes for a person like Henry, who has spent his entire life pedaling his agonies about like baguettes in a posh little bicycle basket. What is he to do with them now?

Yes," Henry concedes, "I suppose I could," and Alex laughs.

...

It's the summer of 2022. Henry has opened his third shelter, and Alex has just finished bulldozing his first year at NYU Law.

A few boxes of books still wait at Alex's place, but otherwise, he lives in Henry's brownstone now. Their brownstone. A UT pennant beside a Chelsea scarf on the living room wall. A fridge full of Topo Chico and Bulmers. Two pairs of shoes by the front door, brown Barker derbies and Reebok trainers. Nobody could mistake it for anyone else's.

It's their first Chore Sunday (Alex's idea), and Henry has put the last of the laundry in the dryer. He's in the kitchen doorway, watching Alex unload the dishwasher.

Alex once told Henry the type of man he's typically attracted to: tall, broad-shouldered, pretty eyes, a little haunted. Bit of attitude and a smile that makes you curious. For Henry, it's never been so simple. He liked boys in his classes because they bothered with the assigned readings and fancied one of Philip's awful Eton friends because he could sail and smelled of cinnamon. The only thing all his Oxford boys had in common was that they didn't know how to speak to him. He's never had a type, and he's always been sure Alex was singular, anyway. Alex is unlike anyone he's ever met before or since.

But here, now, watching Alex bend to remove a salad bowl from the bottom rack, he is confronted with the hard truth. All those boys did, actually, share one trait.

"Are you gonna help me with this," Alex says without even an investigatory glance over his shoulder, "or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?"

...

It’s Christmas 2022, their first since Alex officially moved in, and Henry is going to make a yule log if it kills him.

Perhaps he’s been too ambitious. He’s rather new to all. Growing up, he was rarely permitted in the kitchens, and he concentrated his uni diet on fast food and takeaway. He can make toast and boil an egg, and he’s got a deft hand with the coffee percolator and a gin swizzle from time to time. He knows about food– the finest foods, actually, he’s yet to meet an Englishman who can select a better brie– but he never learned to cook, until recently.

Recently, as in when Alex became too fanatically involved in his second-year coursework to remember to feed himself.

It began with force-feeding Alex a bacon butty twice a week. Henry’s arms suffered little constellations of grease burns, but bacon was easy. And those faded, so they didn’t deter him for long. Curiosity piqued, he taught himself the basics of pasta, how one can simmer almost anything with garlic and onion and butter and it will taste good over noodles. It bolstered his confidence enough to truly commit, and now, between hours at the shelters and video calls with his mum, he watches tutorial after tutorial on how to brown butter and roast chicken. Only half of what he makes turns out the color it’s meant to, but he loves it.

He loves walking to the market on the corner and hunting down specific ingredients from the family recipes June sends him. In fact, it’s become such a regular pastime that the paparazzi have cottoned on, which is why his mother finally forced his security team to hire an actual body double. Now some bloke named Angus with his height and build and nearly the same face goes on diversionary strolls while Henry peruses jarred chilies.

With all his independent studying, he was certain he could manage a dessert. He wanted to do something impressive, since they’ve convinced their families to let them host Christmas dinner. Only, his sponge has gone all wrong, and if he’s learned anything from Bake Off, he knows it’s not meant to have cracked in five places when he tried to roll it up. Paul Hollywood would have him pilloried.

“Think you might’ve left it in too long?” Oscar asks from across the kitchen island. He’s wearing his white elephant prize, a sweatshirt airbrushed with the slogan YOU CAN’T SPELL CONSTITUTION WITHOUT TITS. Inexplicably, Henry’s own mother brought that one. “Lookin’ kinda dry there.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be helpful,” Henry enunciates, “but if you say one more word I may start crying, and then we’ll both lose some respect for me.”

Later, when Pez has persuaded him to “call it, mate, put it out of its misery,” he carries his disgraced platter of ganache and cake and marzipan out into the living room and lets everyone go at it with spoons. The house feels full to bursting, and not just because of the Christmas crackers. There are all three of Alex’s parents, Henry’s mum, June and Nora, Bea and Pez, Shaan and Zahra on speakerphone, occasionally an awkward Philip and Martha via FaceTime, and, because he had nowhere else to go for the holiday, Angus.

(“I don’t like him,” Alex muttered when Henry suggested inviting his own body double to Christmas dinner.

“Why not?”

“Because he looks exactly like you, but I find him deeply unattractive, and that freaks me out.”)

Ellen tells everyone the story of the year Alex got his first real bike for Christmas and knocked out his two front teeth by Boxing Day, which prompts Catherine to recite eight-year-old Henry’s letter to Father Christmas, in which he requested a leather-bound journal and a holiday to East Wittering so he could gaze at the sea. Bea pushes Henry behind the upright piano, and he takes requests for an hour. It only ends when Pez rewrites half the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to be about his own lactose intolerance. No one wants to follow “tidings of Lactaid and soy.”

After the third round of mulled wine, when Alex’s parents have called their drivers and his mum has retired to the guest room, June and Nora find themselves under the mistletoe. Everyone whoops and whistles until Nora finally pulls June in by her Christmas-light necklace and kisses her to a round of applause. June's cheeks turn red, but she looks pleased as anything.

"I can't believe it took this long for y'all to finally kiss." Alex says, to which Pez bursts into laughter. "What?"

"Alex," he says fondly. He drains his glass and pecks Alex on the forehead. "You gorgeous, stupid little turnip."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Pez just shakes his head and strolls off to the kitchen.

"Wait," Alex says.

He frowns, like he does when he's trying to recall something incredibly minute and specific from his torts textbook. Then, suddenly, a light goes on, and his own mug is clunking on the lamp table, and he's running off after Pez.

"Pez, what's that supposed to mean?"

...

It's late morning the summer before Alex's last year of law school, 2023, and Alex is the first word out of Henry's mouth.

Truthfully, that's how he begins most mornings. On a Monday morning five time zones away, "Alex" pitched low to the screen of his phone. On a Friday when Alex's early lecture is cancelled, "Alex" in F major, muffled in the pillow as his body moves and the day stretches out before them. Half three the night before an exam, a hoarse "Alex," followed by, "turn the bloody light off and come to bed."

This morning, it's because David is barking at the door. A rainstorm is brewing, and if jet lag didn't have Henry dead under the bedclothes, the gray gloom would. Alex was the one who surfaced from sleep half an hour ago and blearily ordered three entire pancake breakfasts from some 24-hour diner a few neighborhoods over. He should have to get up and answer the door.

“Alex.” Henry mumbles, turning over.

Alex has got the quilt tugged up so high he’s only a shock of wild curls on white linens.

“Nnnghh,” Alex groans from the depths.

“Breakfast is here,” Henry says. The doorbell helpfully rings again. David howls.

Alex’s face appears, pouting. There’s a crease from the pillow down one of his cheekbones, a comet’s tail in a constellation of freckles. “Can you get it?”

Henry rolls his eyes but smiles. Inevitable.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the joggers and hoodie from last night’s flight. It’s not until he feels the breeze on his ankles as he descends the stairs that he realizes they’re Alex’s, not his.

On their doorstep, a pink-haired delivery girl is looking bored under her bicycle helmet.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry says. He fishes a crumpled bill out of Alex’s pocket. “For your trouble.”

The girl pulls a face.

“Got any real money?” she asks. Her accent reminds him a bit of Alex’s mum.

He blinks down at her hand, which is holding a twenty-pound note. “Ah. Sorry again. Er.” He snatches his wallet out of the bowl on the credenza and gives her all the American dollars he has.

“She’s gone, Davey,” Henry says afterward to David, who’s now fretfully circling the living room. “You’ve protected us from another fearsome home invader. Well done.”

He lets David out into the back garden to do his business, then carries the food upstairs. Shockingly, Alex is awake and propped up against the headboard.

“I’m getting too old for red-eye flights,” Alex says, rubbing his eyes.

“Love, you’re twenty-five,” Henry reminds him. He deposits the bag on the nightstand, and Alex wastes no time tearing through the plastic and tucking in to his breakfast. “And I’m older than you.”

“Yes, you are. But like... I get why we have to go to Philip’s kids’ christenings. The cousins, though?” He sets to work smothering his pancakes in syrup. “I mean, at least my cousins would stack their baptisms. One and done, baby.”

Henry opens his mouth, prepared to answer with one of a thousand things. That the tabloids will have even more of a field day than usual if he stops doing his chores, that there will always be a church dedication or a swan upping or an appointment for a top hat fitting, that he’ll always be obligated to have one foot in London and one day they’ll have to choose where to settle down. It’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But then Alex shovels a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth and says, “Anyway, I love you. Do you wanna have June and Nora over tomorrow? We can play Mario Party again. I wanna see them get in a fistfight. Oh, and my dad’s in town next week, and he said to tell you he’s bringing that book you asked about–”

And that’s when Henry knows: He doesn’t ever want to go back.

...

It’s the end of spring 2024, and Henry is not eavesdropping, per se. He excused himself to answer a call from Shaan, which really could not be avoided. Shaan has taken to his new life as a househusband with predictable aplomb, and most of his calls these days involve Henry getting to talk to a baby who is clearly destined to become prime minister. He simply can’t send that to voicemail.

It’s the first time they’ve had room in the schedule for his mother to visit since Alex accepted his law job, which Henry understands very little about but has been assured is the most strategic next step for Alex’s career long game. When Henry left the room, Alex was still trying to explain it to Catherine. It all sounds terribly prestigious.

He is just returning to the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea when he hears his name from around the corner.

“–and the next morning Henry and Arthur vanished,” his mother is saying, “and when Uncle Algie called, I told him that Henry couldn’t go on the annual pheasant hunt because he was violently ill, but actually Arthur had taken him to Rome for two weeks on the set of that go on ridiculous car heist film he was working on, the one with, oh, what’s his name–“

“Jason Statham,” Alex says promptly, through wheezing laughter.

“That’s the one!”

“Loved that movie,” Alex says. “I can’t believe Henry got to be on set.”

“It was all Arthur’s idea, but he was right to do it. Uncle Algie is a dreadful bore, and Henry despises his son. Guilford. Did you meet Guilford at the wedding?”

“Henry made sure I avoided it.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Catherine says daintily. “He has matured into an absolute dickhead.”

Henry wishes he was in the room to see the way Alex sputters out, “Oh my God.” Alex always forgets that Catherine went to uni and married a commoner from Sheffield.

And then Alex sighs and says, “When Henry and I get married–”

Henry manages to recover the teapot before he drops it.

It’s not a surprise to hear Alex mention marriage. They’ve been sorting it out for years: political logistics and Alex’s child-of-divorce anxiety and a thousand questions about a royal wedding neither of them actually wants to have. He’s already bought an engagement ring, even, and judging by how tetchy Alex gets whenever Henry tries to put his underwear away for him, he’s not the only one.

But it is the first time he’s heard Alex mention it to his mother. He dropped it so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if he’s been talking to her about marrying Henry for years. Henry supposes it’s possible he has been. Is this why Alex had tea with her in London last month and told Henry he wasn’t invited? Have they been conspiring?

They’re discussing hypothetical guest lists now, which cousins secretly hate one another and who wore an inappropriately large fascinator to whose birthday tea, but Henry isn’t listening anymore. He’s thinking of a cafe table in Rome, his dad waving over a second round of gelato.

In his memory, he’s nine years old, and his father is saying, Whoever you marry, Henry, make sure they think your mum is a laugh, because she is. She really is.

He clears his throat and finally rounds the corner. “Tea, anyone?”

...

It’s 2024, and nobody knows they’re engaged.

Granted, they’ve only been engaged for about three hours, but Henry is curious to see how long they can go. It feels nice to keep a secret that doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s more that they’re keeping it like a pet, or something especially beautiful from the garden that they’ve coaxed into a jar.

A record is spinning on the turntable, one of Alex’s, maybe the Joni Mitchell he borrowed from Bea. They’ve shoved their phones under the couch cushions and ordered a pizza the size of the moon, and now they’re sitting in the center of the living room floor, demolishing it. They kiss, then eat more pizza, then get distracted kissing again. Henry licks a streak of pepperoni grease from Alex’s forearm, which is a fantasy he didn’t know he had until he’s living it. They tangle up on the rug, and Henry decides he’ll take Alex sailing next weekend, or even out to the edge of the river, just to see him against a horizon.

Four-nearly-five years in, the main thing he’s learned is that Alex is a world without end. All Henry wants is to go on with him forever. To keep finding new favorite parts, to keep turning things over and studying their soft bellies and finding the best bits.

So, he will.

...

It snows on New Year’s Eve 2024. Alex looks out the window and shrugs off his coat.

The Young America Gala may be no longer, but Nora, June, and Pez aren’t to be stopped from throwing a New Year’s party, especially now that Pez has gotten his own part-time flat in the city. They’re the three fates of New York City’s holiday social circuit: birth (June, managing invitations), life (Pez, topless), and death (Nora, also topless).

“What if,” Alex says, turning to Henry on the foot of the stairs, “we don’t go to the party?”

“Nora will murder me,” Henry says. “She told me she’s not afraid to do that now that I’ve given up my title.”

“Murder is still a crime even if you’re not officially a prince.”

“Yes, but she said, quote,” he puts on his best American accent, “They can’t put me in the Tower anymore. Who’s gonna arrest me now? Mr. Bean?”

“Why don’t we just send Angus? It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice.”

“Where’s your double, then?”

“We live in New York, I’m sure I can find a male model somewhere.”

“As always, sounding the very bass string of humility.”

“Is that fucking Shakespeare?”

“Henry IV.”

“I’m gonna give you a wedgie, you fucking nerd.”

In the end, it doesn’t take much to convince Henry to stay in. Lately, it never does. Alex texts June a flimsy excuse, and they toe off their shoes and relax out of their button-downs.

Henry does have to admit he’s exhausted, in the way that one only can be on the last day of the year, when every other day of the year piles way up behind it. It’s been a big one: Alex’s first law job, the endless press about Henry’s decision to surrender his title, the engagement, Bea’s wedding, the incident with the croquet mallets and the Dutch ambassador at Bea's wedding.

Sometimes Alex jokes that they squeezed it all into one calendar year because no headline can stick if there's another next week, but it's only half a joke. They've been bone-tired for months.

"I'm surprised you're the one who wants to stay home," Henry says. "I remember a young lothario who lived to ruin people's lives on New Year's Eve."

"Ruin?" Alex says. "That's not how I remember it."

"It certainly felt that way at the time."

They drift to the kitchen, past all the traces of the year. The dried flowers, the new scuffs on the floorboards. The box of bound manuscripts of Henry's first finished poetry-ish short-fiction-ish essay-ish collection. The holiday cards from senators and diplomats and old Texas friends, topped off with Alex's favorite of Rafael Luna and his astonishingly fit partner in matching Christmas jumpers. Henry would think Raf had been forced into it if it hadn't come with a case of beer and a note of thanks for letting him stay over the last time he visited Alex and had one too many tequila shots at drag bingo.

Alex withdraws a bottle of Clicquot from the refrigerator and says, "We're not washed, are we?"

“We're aging," Henry points out.

"That's right," Alex says, eyes immediately sparking at the opportunity. Henry preemptively sighs. "You're almost thirty."

"Almost twenty-eight is not almost thirty."

"It basically is. You're old. You'll be thirty a whole year before me. You'll be popping antacids and I'll be in the club, popping my p-"

"You're not even in the club now."

"I could be, I'm just choosing not to, because I don't want to deal with the snow. That's not aging, it's growth."

He slides Henry a glass of champagne and adds, "It's probably time for us to start talking about what's on your Do Before Thirty list, huh?"

Henry takes the glass and chooses going with Alex's bit over pointing out that he's entering his late twenties, not dying.

“I’ve done quite well on that front so far, actually,” he says. “Wrote a book. Started a nonprofit. Engaged to the love of my life.”

“Involved in an international sex scandal.”

“Shook the hands of all five Spice Girls.”

“Best dressed at the Met Gala.”

“Cried in the Water Lilies room at the MOMA.”

“Grew your hair out, then cut it all off.“

“Taught myself to make beef Wellington.”

“That one’s, uh, still in progress,” Alex hedges. Henry gives him an affronted look. “But, yeah! Definitely. And you got really good at scones.”

“That I did.”

“Right,” Alex agrees. “So what’s left? Streaking? Dropping acid? Having sex on our kitchen island?”

Henry takes a moment with that one.

“Having sex on our kitchen island?”

When the clock strikes the new year, the house is quiet. The timer on the light over the front stoop clicks off. The champagne bottle rests between two glasses on the edge of the sink, spent and sticky around the rim, a single soggy strawberry at the bottom of each flute. Miles out from their apartment, fireworks fight the snow over the East River, but in their kitchen in Park Slope, the only sounds are the two of them.

Henry, almost twenty-eight, presses his warm body to the cool marble and gets his midnight kiss.

...

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks on a lukewarm September.

It’s 2025. He’s in the doorway of Henry’s study, where Henry has been all evening, answering emails.

“Hm? No.”

When Alex doesn’t immediately fill the silence, Henry looks up from his laptop screen.

“What is it?”

“Five years since the story broke,” Alex says.

It takes a moment for him to realize what story Alex means; there have been so many of them. But of course, he means that gigantic, terrible one. The one that changed their lives forever.

“Oh,” Henry says. He closes his laptop, leaning back in his chair and away from it. “Well. Hated that.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Zero out of ten. Would not do again.”

His tone is light and casual, but when he folds his arms across his chest, Henry can see his glasses in the front pocket of his flannel. It’s been months and months since the last time Alex didn’t feel confident enough to wear them.

For his part, Henry can remember much of that day, but not all of it. He remembers stirring sugar into his morning tea when Shaan walked in wearing an expression Henry had never seen before. He remembers Pez arriving like the cavalry in Gucci slippers, hustling Henry away from his handlers with the same graceful disdain he used to direct at Eton classmates who stared at them too much. He remembers Bea finding them in the music parlor and refusing to hear Henry’s apology, and he remembers Alex’s call and Alex’s arrival.

The funny part, though, is he can’t remember anything between Bea and Alex. He knows that Philip was involved, and there were stories on every news channel, and he spoke to his mother at some point. But the space in his memory where those hours belong is simply blank. His psychiatrist says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and Henry is inclined to agree, considering the two of them spent the entire following year recalibrating Henry’s anxiety and depression medication around the event.

Those hours will always be gone. There are things he will never get back.

Most of the time, though, when he thinks of that day, the second worst thing that's ever happened to him, he thinks of Alex's hand in his under a Buckingham Palace table. He remembers, clear as a bell, Alex's voice telling him they would survive it together. It happened to Alex too. It wasn't what they would have chosen, but it was what they received, and they've done their absolute bloody best with it.

He rises from his desk, crosses to the doorway, and gathers Alex up against his chest. Their size difference isn't that pronounced—Henry is taller but lean, Alex shorter but sturdy—but in moments like this, he's thankful for the way Alex's cheek perfectly aligns with the crook of his neck. He's grateful for how effortless it is to slip a kiss to Alex's temple.

Neither of them says anything else. It's all been said a thousand times, in speeches and through official statements and in the dark when it's only the two of them. It's enough to stand here in the center of the house, in the quiet, and let it hold their weight.

...

At the end of 2025, Henry has a bad day.

There's nothing specific that causes it. The days just happen like this sometimes, even with all the therapy and medication and supportive partnership and fulfilling creative projects in the world. There are other people, he supposes, who don't spend their lives waiting for the next bad day. He's had every bloody luxury but that one.

Alex comes home from work to find him curled up on the armchair in the study, staring out the window at the light-polluted night sky over the row of brownstones across the street.

“What are you doing?" Alex asks him.

"Looking for Orion," Henry deadpans.

Alex kneels on the rug in his tailored suit pants and rolled-up sleeves and rests his cheek on Henry's knee, the way he often does when Henry's in a mood. Henry's fingers slide into his curls. They've grown a bit longer in the past few months. Lately. Alex looks quite like he did when they met, except for the glasses and the stubble dusting his jaw.

“I’m tired of big law, “ Alex confesses. It would appear he’s in a mood too. “I know it’s only been a year and a half, but...I kind of hate it.”

Henry contemplates that, along with the dark circles around Alex’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Henry tells him.

Alex looks at him like he did in that hotel room in Paris the first time they woke up together, like the only thing he knows for sure about what he’s being offered is that he wants it completely. It’s an intimidating look to receive, but it’s only ever improved Henry’s life in the end.

He kisses Henry’s knuckle, just below his ring.

“I have some ideas.”

...

In February 2026, a flu sweeps through Park Slope. Neither Alex nor Henry can agree on who gave it to whom first– Henry knows it was Alex, since he’s been up late consulting with his mum about a voting rights bill in Texas, and his immune system always suffers when he gets upset about Texas—but regardless, they’re trapped in the brownstone together for a week. At least Alex doesn’t have to work through his illness the way he usually does, since he resigned from his job last month.

Somewhere around day five, Henry realizes it’s the longest consecutive amount of time they’ve both been home in years. They always seem to be leaving or returning: rushing off to appearances, climbing out of security caravans in half-undone suits, meeting Cash at the curb at three in the morning with bags over their shoulders. It’s nice, in a way, to get reacquainted with this home they’ve built together.

While Alex naps, Henry paces the entire floorplan.

The first floor, with its long living room and the original beams and mantelpiece, which Henry had restored before he moved in, because he always has been precious about the history of things. Then the kitchen and the deep blue cabinets and the wide back window over the knotty pine dining table handed down from Alex's dad. Upstairs, on the second floor, the guest bedroom with all of his mum's preferred hand creams in the attached washroom and the sitting room with the shelf of swan figurines Pez started collecting years ago in a dramatic fit of June-related yearning. One more flight up to the top floor, with his study and Alex's office and the hall with their photo from Shaan and Zahra's wedding and, at the far end, their bedroom.

The bedroom is his favorite part of the house, and not only for the obvious reasons, no matter how much Alex tries to imply otherwise with suggestive eyebrows. He loves the high ceiling and the chipped plaster medallion of roses at the center. They picked out the bed together, and every morning that he wakes up in it, he gets to turn over and see Alex's loose pens and glasses wipes scattered atop the dresser and know that this, his life, is still real. Perhaps he likes the room best because it feels separated from every other part of the house, lifted up and bundled in, which is the first time he's ever been safe in a tower.

Most importantly, of all three levels of bay windows jutting from the redbrick front of the brownstone, only the one in the bedroom has a seat. They've filled it with velvet pillows and mossy green cushions, and once or twice a year, on one of their vanishingly rare slow days, Alex will climb in and fall asleep.

That's where he finds Alex when he eases into the room with a mug of soup in each hand. He recognizes the quilt wrapped around him: they slept under it in Alex's childhood twin bed the night Ellen won her second term, and then Alex crammed it into his suitcase and brought it back to Washington.

He stirs as Henry sets the mugs down on the dresser.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Henry nudges in beside him, gingerly removing Alex's glasses from beneath his elbow before they get crushed.

"You know," Henry says, "I chose this house for the bay windows."

Alex blinks at him, fully awake now. "Really?"

"I thought you might like them. You always talked about the one you grew up with. Hoped they might make the place feel like home."

Alex smiles. "They do."

Henry looks at him in his quilt, sleep-mussed and flushed from fever and overdue for a shave, and he remembers that night in the yellow house in Austin. Before Alex led them back to his old bedroom, he peeled up the cushion in the living room window seat and showed Henry pages of elementary school scribbles still hidden there. And he told Henry that he thought once of hiding a picture there too, if only he'd had the nerve to tear it out of his sister's magazine.

Love, Henry has found, has a way of growing backward. You fall in love with a person in the present, and then every person you've ever been gets to fall in love with every past version of them. A sleep-deprived Georgetown freshman falls in love with an Oxford sophomore who's testing out undoing the top button of his shirts sometimes. A ruddy-cheeked teenager with his nose in a book loves a backtalking lacrosse captain. A boy comes home from school with perfect marks and sees a picture in a magazine, and the boy from the picture pauses on a palace staircase.

The crux of it is, he loves every version of Alex to ever sleep under that quilt. Everything else is mostly set dressing

"I'm having a thought," Henry says.

"Congratulations," Alex deadpans automatically. Then, "Tell me."

"This life we have here," Henry says. "This house. It's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course it is."

"But we could have a good life somewhere else too."

Alex frowns. "Like where?"

"Somewhere... farther from everything, maybe? Somewhere we could slow down, and things could be quieter, and you could do the work you want to do. I think I could use some time away from it all, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't even have to have a body double anymore."

Alex considers that for a long moment. They both know where Henry means, even if he doesn't say it. Besides New York and DC, and London on its best days, there's really only one place Alex would seriously consider living. They've joked about it before, but Henry's always thought it might be nice to spend a few years somewhere completely different than he's used to. A place where he could see the stars.

At long last, Alex sniffs and says, "You're gonna fire Angus? He was just starting to grow on me.”

...

“If you don't wake Bea up, you're gonna have to hear about her back spasms in the morning,” says a voice that is most certainly not Heath Ledger's.

Henry startles awake to find Alex leaning over his shoulder from behind the loveseat, curls everywhere. The room is dark, and the end credits are rolling.

"You're not home until tomorrow," Henry mumbles.

"Moved up my flight," Alex says. He's so close to Henry's face, he's gone a bit cross-eyed. His lips bounce off the tip of Henry's nose. "I missed you."

It's only been a few days, but the truth is Henry missed him too. He supposes he should be used to empty beds and time differences by now, especially when they began that way, but he suspects he'll never stop waiting at the door. You know what will be the best part of getting married?" Henry asks Alex.

"The line dancing."

"The way I won't have to miss you nearly as often."

Alex softens, then maneuvers himself over the armrest until he's draped across Henry's lap. David climbs on top of him and curls up on Alex's left buttock.

Letting go of the house has been hard, but this particular decision was easy, once they finally said it out loud. A gradual, careful withdrawal from public life, at least for a few years. They’ve given so much of themselves to the world and had the privilege of feeling a legacy take shape beneath them, but they need rest too.

It was June who convinced them, actually. Even now, there are certain things only June can say to Alex. Early in the spring, when she was finally transitioning out of her speechwriting job for Raf, she called Alex from Colorado and told him she was moving to New York to be closer to Nora and Pez, and she wanted to sublet the brownstone. When Alex pointed out that he was still living in it, she said, "We both know you've been looking at farmhouses in Austin for six months, it's time to shit or get off the pot."

(Henry loves his particular collection of Americans. They truly do say what's on their minds.)

The new house is beautiful. Henry's only seen it in person once, but the previous owner was a reclusive tech executive with shockingly good taste, so Architectural Digest featured it last year. He's had the article open in a tab on his phone for two months, and he scrolls through all those perfectly lit photos twice a day, getting high on possibilities. Lazy mornings in the wide sunroom, midnight dives in the lake. It's easy to imagine Alex mellowing into a brisket-smoking, tamale-rolling Texas dad out there, and it's just as easy to imagine them basking under cedar trees until their mid-thirties and then deciding they're ready for another round. The wonderful thing is, they can take their time either way.

It isn't a full release from their obligations, but it is the next step after formally relinquishing his title. More boundaries, more of their own rules about what they will and won't do. No royal wedding, but a private ceremony at the lake house and a honeymoon unpacking boxes. A job for Alex at a smaller firm where he can finally get his hands in the earth. A quieter life.

"You're right," Alex says. "You know what else is gonna be awesome about married-people life? We can have actual, real-life date nights. Just imagine it: free refills and bottomless chips and salsa."

"Oh, I've got another one," Henry says. “You can finally show me how to navigate an H-E-B."

“Baby, don’t talk dirty to me in front of company.”

“Please,” says a groggy voice from the couch.

“Hi, Bea.”

“Time’s it?”

“One in the morning.”

“Ugh.”

Grumbling and tugging a blanket around herself, Bea wakes Pez and the two of them head off to wash up before bed. The odds of Pez returning to the couch for the night or availing himself of their bed so that Alex has to sleep on the couch are just about even, based on six years of Pez falling asleep at their house. It’s a comfort to know that when they leave the brownstone and June moves in, Pez will still be making himself at home in it.

Downstairs, surrounded by boxes, Alex crawls out of Henry’s lap and slides a large shopping bag out from behind the loveseat. “I brought you something.” Alex says.

Inside the bag is a box made of the sort of heavy cardboard that augurs something expensive. He imagines Alex hurling his patched-up rough-ridden leather duffle into the overhead compartment of the airplane and then sliding this bag under the seat so carefully that there’s not even a crease in the paper.

He takes the lid off the box and unwraps layers of tissue paper to reveal a hat. A cowboy hat. It’s made of gorgeous, thick felt, with a cattleman crown and a satin lining. A nearly identical one has hung in Alex’s office since he moved in, though Alex’s is midnight black and this one is a warm, pale sand. Where Alex’s hatband has a small gold buckle, this one has a silver pin in the shape of an English rose.

“It’s a Stetson,” Alex says. When Henry looks up at him, his cheeks have darkened faintly. “I know it’s not really your thing, but you ride horses, and it’s kind of a big deal where I’m from to get your first Stetson, so I wanted to be the one to give it to you since you’re about to be an honorary Texan. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want–“

“I love it,” Henry interrupts.

Alex pauses, then breaks out in a grin. “You do? I was afraid you’d think it was a joke.”

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It didn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

Henry laughs and kisses him over the open box, thinking of the next year of their lives. Sunday morning fry-ups, swimming holes, a wedding cake that doesn’t wind up on the floor. Tomorrow he needs to ask if Alex checked on the bakery while he was in Austin, and if they have any more packing tape, and whether Amy’s daughter has gotten her flower girl dress yet.

Tonight, though, Alex is home a day early, and the house is making all its soft, familiar night-time sounds around them. No one sees in through the windows. No one comes in through the gate.

“Henry,” says Alex.

“Alex,” says Henry.

“You and me,” Alex says.

“You and me,” Henry agrees.

End.

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raccoonfallsharder · 2 months

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rocket raccoon prompt week ✷ day six bite ✷.⁺⋆˚₊

low-grade spice & fluff | no use of yn | gn reader | minific | word count: 2,266.

“That’s — a big frickin’ scar you got there.”

Your eyes flare wide and you twist in your seat so fast you nearly spin off it, staring at the stranger who has just hoisted himself onto the barstool next to you. Not because you recognize the voice — you don’t yet, though you will — but just because it’s such a personal remark.

And you’re a little bit sensitive about the scar, if you’re being honest. It’s something of a souvenir.

Then recognition clicks in. Because there he is: short. Covered in fur. Velveteen ears and a dark mask, and a plush ringtail that sweeps behind him. Eyes like red stars.

Cutie.

You stare at him, breath sucked right out of your lungs. He’s got hesitation scrawled and sprawled all over his face: ears flicking down and tail lashing once, nervously. His claws clink against his massive, nearly-empty stein of Xitarish whiskey.

You tear your eyes away and stare down at the ring of pearly ridges stitched into your arm — like maybe there were answers carved into your flesh there all along, and you’d just never noticed. Or like each toothmark is a lodestar, and together the circle of them can help get you home.

“Isn’t it rude? To comment on a stranger’s scars?” you breathe out, trying to buy yourself time as all the pieces begin falling together.

He blinks at you, and shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, Jemiah.” He gestures at the owner of The Boot, who just so happens to be your boss. “Next drink’s on me.”

“Sure thing, Rocket,” Jemiah says warmly — far more warmly than you’ve ever heard from him before.

You feel your eyes flare wide. “You’re Rocket?” you manage to utter, eyes scrolling up and down him again. “One of the people who bought this damn skull? The pilot — the Guardian of the Galaxy or whatever?”

Somehow he looks even more uncomfortable. “Guardians of the Galaxy. Plural. We’re — a team.”

You exhale slowly — measuredly — and try to loosen all the small feathers of confusion crowding up your head, downy-soft. And as you let go of all those wisps, adrenaline rushes in to take their place: the intoxication of suddenly seeing him. Meeting him — for real this time. Having a name to put with the memory.

Your smile blows wide. You can’t help yourself.

“The cutie has a team,” you murmur under your breath, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks when his eyes sharpen on you. He shifts on his stool, but his shoulders relax a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Don’t listen to him, Jemiah,” you call out. “His drink’s on me.”

Your boss ducks to hide his grin even as the cutie in question — Rocket, you think, with a pleased little grin — grimaces. “Wait—“ he starts.

You click your tongue and shake your head, cutting him off and grinning. “Not a chance. You bought this stupid skull out from under the Collector and made it a tolerable place to live? There’s no way you’re buying the drinks. I have to show my gratitude somehow.”

You drop your lids to half-mast and raise a brow, hoping he knows that you’re happy to show your gratitude in a few other ways as well. The risk of offering brings a nervous little buzz to your belly.

As for him — well, you get the sense that he’s a guy who doesn’t let himself flounder very often, but right now his face is flickering between so many emotions that you can’t possibly catch them all. Shock, and then a brief flash of something like smugness, followed immediately by a flash of narrow-eyed skepticism — then a sort of uncertain hesitance, a brief twinge of humor, and finally, a cynical half-sneer. Then he starts right back at the beginning and does it all over again.

It’s fascinating.

“Did you know,” you say slowly when Jemiah sets down the fresh drinks, “that I work here at The Boot?”

The stranger — no longer a stranger, you suppose; no longer just the cutie — no, Rocket pauses in his cycle of expressions, takes a slug of his new stein of whiskey, and shakes himself out.

Where the hell does he put it? you wonder. The stein is as big as his whole torso, you think.

But he doesn’t seem buzzed at all. Instead, he casts you a measuring, sideways glance, entirely too alert for your tastes.

“You don’t say,” he drawls at last, one brow raised as his spine eases a little more.

“Mmhmm,” you say mildly. “It’s my day off.” You pause meaningfully and take another sip of your own drink. “Didn’t used to get days off in Exitar. Or anywhere else on Knowhere, as a matter of fact.”

His eyes track your hands, and flick to your face.

“Guess the difference is all thanks to you,” you tell him lightly, and tilt your glass toward him. “Here’s to the happy change in leadership.”

He studies you, and waits till you set your drink down again.

“So. Uh. How long you worked here?” he asks — as if he didn’t already have at least some idea.

You grin into your glass. “Long enough to have developed a very strict set of rules for my survival.”

His ears flick. You’re glad he’s indulging you — playing along for now. “What’re the rules?”

You lean back. “I’m glad you asked,” you tease, and splay out one hand so you can count them on your fingers. “Number one. Avoid the Collector at all costs.”

He snorts. “Well, guess you’re not a complete idiot,” he mutters, and then slashes his red-amber eyes at you and flinches, like he thinks maybe you’re going to be offended.

But you only wink at him. Not a chance, cutie. “Number two. Never hide all your units in one place — or on one datacard.”

A smirk curls the corner of his mouth and his nose twitches.

“Three. Always lock your doors behind you. And four, Don’t walk home alone from the Boot.” The smirk slides off his face at that and his eyes flash, so you rush along to the next rule, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Five. Always get customers’ money before you hand them their booze.”

There you go. The little curve is back at the corner of his mouth, even if his brow is still furrowed — almost like he’s distressed.

You lean sideways and nudge him with your elbow. “And finally, number six.” He looks up at you and his ears tilt, eyes locked on yours like glimmering red stones. You lean so close you know your breath will flutter in the curve of his ear, and you drop your voice to a whisper. “Don’t try to break up fights.”

The pilot rears back, nearly tumbling backward off his stool, and you reach for him before you both catch yourselves. Reeling your outstretched hand back into yourself, you instead gift him a reckless grin and turn to your drink once more.

“It’s not a comprehensive list,” you tell him pragmatically, “and it isn’t in any particular order, but it’s kept me alive this long.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rocket says, and his voice is suddenly raspy and low. “Even that last one?”

The laughter surprises you, fluttering up behind your ribs and escaping between your lips, soft and velvety and hushed.

“I only broke that one once,” you tell him, lifting your glass to your mouth and half-hiding your grin behind it. You can tell your eyes are sparkling, though. “And it’s not like I ever regretted it.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like you got a story.”

“Mmm,” you acknowledge, and you keep your voice playful. “It was years ago, now. I knew all the regulars back then — well, I still do, but more of them were jackasses back in the day. And this guy comes in — someone I’d never seen before. Swaggering, carrying a cannon twice as big as himself. Maybe — three feet tall? A true Short King.”

He’s got his stein to his lips and he chokes on a mouthful of whiskey, sputtering. “A what?”

You ignore him, still casting him that teasing half-smile and raising an eyebrow. “He had pretty eyes, and I remember him being more foulmouthed than a landlocked Ravager.”

“Pretty — what?”

“Keep up, Rocket,” you taunt lightly, tapping a finger to the air just an inch away from the top of his nose, and his eyes go narrow. Everything on his face is suddenly promising retribution, but you’re reckless with glee now.

And you’ll be happy to pay up if he actually comes to collect.

“I told him that I needed payment up front when he ordered—“

“Get the money before you hand them their booze,” he echoes Rule Five, eyes still hunting you, and you nod with mock-approval.

“You get it,” you say with a chuckle. “Anyway, his response was just to swipe another patron’s datacard right in front of me and hand it over.” You can still fucking see it: his challenging half-grin, one brow raised. “I think I stared at him for a full thirty seconds, but this cutie just smirked up at me. Brazen as fuck.”

You laugh softly at the memory, and Rocket — who might as well be your new landlord, you’ve realized — grumbles something under his breath.

“Anyway, I was kinda smitten,” you admit with a little curve in your mouth, still buzzing the inside of your belly.

It’s the truth, too. You’d never thought that raccoon can get it before, but there you were.

And here you are.

To your surprise, Rocket goes quiet at that. The pilot of the famous — or infamous — Guardians of the Galaxy, and one of the new owners of Knowhere: still and silent for a long moment.

Maybe he’ll slip out of his chair and leave, you think, and the flutters in your belly twist in sudden regret. Maybe you’ve scared him off.

But when he speaks, his voice is like crystallized maple syrup: rich and gritty, waiting to crumble and melt and scrub against your skin.

“He’s why you got into a fight?”

You weigh out your options here. What to say? You’d lost sight of the cutie thanks to his height and the constant surge of new customers, and you’d sort of forgotten about him in the moment, to be honest — though you’re sure you’d have remembered later, alone in your shitty little room — but then you’d heard the sudden cacophonous boom of his enormous augmented cannon. There’d been screaming and crashing, and you’d woven yourself between the bodies toward the sound. Just to assess, just to figure out what kind of danger you’d been in—

Fucking B’darl — the worst of your regular patrons — had entered into view and suddenly hoisted the cutie right up into the air before slamming him down into the orloni fighting ring.

You hadn’t thought about it — about anything, really — just thrown yourself through the crowd, toward the fighting ring. By the time you’d gotten there, B’darl had the cutie pinned to the miniature arena’s floor by the throat. Both the orloni and the f’saki had cowered back, blood-soaked and wounded, from the sudden interference in their battle-to-the-death.

Looks like you wandered outta the ring, the fucking brute had sneered.Time to go back to brawling with the other vermin, you little monster.

B’darl had lifted his other fist, easily the size of your entire head.

My money’s on the f’saki, though.

You’d surged between them without thinking, latching onto B’darl’s massive forearm, knocking his fist to one side.

You shrug. “It was worth it,” you tell Rocket mildly, and take another sip of your drink.

His eyes drop to the ring of teethmarks in your arm again. He opens his mouth to speak, and you cut in.

“My own fault,” you tell him. “I should’ve known the cutie could handle himself. I got in the way.”

You can still remember how his firelight-eyes had stared up at you from behind a mouthful of flesh and blood, stunned and maybe horrified, teeth sunk almost to the bone. In a worse timeline, maybe you’d have tried to rip your arm away. But here, in this one, you’d curled around him instinctively. Protectively.

And then he’d reached around you smoothly and snagged B’darl’s ion pistol, and you’d heard the gun go off as he’d squeezed the trigger, blind.

“My only regret is that I lost sight of him in the aftermath,” you tell him with a shrug. You try for a teasing smile but it suddenly feels strained, tense on your mouth. You’d been too flushed with adrenaline when you’d first started this conversation. Now, suddenly, the nerves are present: rattling and twitching behind your sternum. Your fingers shake a little and you clamp them onto your glass. “Didn’t even catch his name.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally get the fluttering in your vagus nerve under control, you hazard a look up at him.

His eyes are on your forearm though: the circle of silken raised marks, just three shades lighter than the rest of your skin, and strangely — almost prettily — translucent. His finger reaches out: dark and clawed, his touch like warm leather. You go so still that you can’t blink, can’t even breathe as he paints a ring of warmth on your skin, looping the circlet of scars onto his fingertip like pearls threaded on a string.

The flutters are back, full-force.

Slowly, Rocket drags his gaze up to yours, sunset-eyes glowing. “Cutie works.”

@hibatasblog deserves so much more & better than this little ficlet but i am dedicating it to them anyway because they regularly call rocket "short king" and i cannot get it out of my head. deepest love to them & all their writing (please do yourselves a favor and check out their ao3 fics if you have not already)

look i just feel like (1) rocket is a cutie and if you say it in the right tone, he'll be flattered enough to not kill you and (2) there's no way he'd ever forget the stranger who jumped into a fight on his behalf — and probably got scarred for it — back before he met the guardians. which is when the og encounter takes place fyi. forget about the fact that i don't think we know if he had ever been there before gamora brought them along — i headcanon that where two or more lowlifes gather, so too there is rocket.

sidenote oh my god i literally cannot stop with the increasing wordcount. day seven (when i eventually get around to it) is gonna be SHORT. it's a promise/challenge to myself. anyway i think my writing quality peaked with machinery and i'm sorry this is so late

day five. machinery. ✷ day seven. home. rocket prompt week masterlist ✷ main masterlist rocket raccoon prompt week list

taglist ♡ @evolvingchaoswitch ♡ @glow-autumz ♡ @wren-phoenix ♡ @suicidalshitstick ♡ @pretty-chips

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toastedjeans · 2 months

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Siren Tower AU!

I wanna keep this more on the silly side, but here's the basic gist of it.

There's a huge tower submerged in the ocean where many sirens and other sea creatures have found a home, and somehow humans have discovered it. They want to study and explore this tower, and the sirens are NOT happy about it, not wanting their home to be potentially destroyed. Pretty reasonable. But now, this random middle aged pizza baker somehow gets roped into this whole mess.

And here's the characters! (I tried to keep their heights accurate but idk if i succeeded)

And down there is some more info about everyone!

HUMANS (and Brick)

Peppino

He still has his pizzeria, but it's located a little closer to town. While business is slightly better than in game, he still has debts. But hey, he has his own apartment!! No more sleeping in the back of the pizzeria or on the floor!!

Peppino will sometimes just come to the shore or the port in the evening or at night to clear his head or be alone with his thoughts. Depressed guy. Will sometimes talk to himself when he thinks he's alone. He isn't necessarily afraid of the ocean, but because he can't swim, once he's in water the fear kicks in and he starts panicking.

He doesn't believe in sirens, mermaids, or other such creatures. Thinks they're just made up to tell scary stories of the sea. Jokes on him, he's about to meet the jolliest shark gnome man he's ever seen.

Brick

A gigantic rat that lives with Peppino, who didn't get a say in this. Just appeared one day, and no matter how many times Peppino tries to get rid of him, Brick always comes back. After a while Pep reluctantly accepts him and sometimes even takes him for a walk.

Brick actually loves to swim, but doesn't stay in the water for too long cause Pep won't join him. Like, he'll just leave if Brick stays too long. Kinda rude if you ask me.

Mr. Stick

Tax and debt collector, and a friend of Peppino. He often comes over for a pizza, then proceeds not to eat much, and rarely pays (he either says he's deducting it from Pep's debts or he lets someone else pay). He's kind of a piece of shit but outside of the whole money business he can be pretty nice.

He strikes me as a gambler tbh, either he's extremely lucky or extremely unlucky. Likes playing poker, and invites Peppino and Hazel to play after work from time to time.

Doesn't believe in sirens, but if he ever saw one he'd try to exploit it for money. He wouldn't kill it or anything though, mainly because he's too weak and he doesn't know how to handle guns.

Noisette / Hazel

She runs a little cafe near Peppino's pizzeria, and is good friends with him, but can sometimes be a little annoying. They hang out after work from time to time. When she notices that Peppino is having a rough day, she'll sometimes bring over a free cup of coffee or a slice of cake for him. Sometimes experiments with... interesting... food combinations, which are strangely popular.

She has loved mermaids and sirens since she was young and is very fond of them. Once she discovers they're real, she becomes even more fascinated and obsessed with them. You better believe she wanted to be a mermaid when she was young.

SIRENS

Gustavo

A little round shark man who is perfect in every way. He's curious and adventurous, and even though sirens and humans are enemies since, uh. A long time. He doesn't believe that humans are inherently evil. He'll help out whenever and however he can, but can get very aggressive when his friends or brethren are threatened. You will regret it if you anger him.

Noise annoys him often but they don't harm each other. He isn't really friends with Noise, but he will defend him if he's threatened or attacked.

One day he saves Peppino from drowning, which makes other sirens sceptical of him, especially those who think humans are evil. He will later try to learn human language to be able to communicate with Peppino better.

Noise

Goblin shark. He can theoretically go on land for a bit, but needs some water nearby. He's a little sceptical about humans, but not outright hostile. He likes annoying pretty much everyone, especially Peppino once they meet (he thinks his reactions are funny).

He throws sea urchins and pufferfish at others like bombs, as he (like most sirens) is immune to their poison / venom. While he's usually an unhinged gremlin, he just about melts when with Hazel. But of course he tries to hide this from others.

Fake Peppino

Created by Pizzahead from DNA of frogs, newts, and Peppino (obviously). He was meant to be a weapon for sirens against humans, and thus is supposed to be hostile. Unfortunately, he turned out to be extremely affectionate, and he loves hugs. Much like Gustavo, when friends are attacked, he can get downright deadly. He can also regenerate body parts like an axolotl, unless his brain has been damaged. Like, you can rip both his arms off and they'll grow back within a day.

He becomes close friends with Gustavo, and is kind of fascinated by Peppino (other humans too, but mostly Peppino). He would play in the water with Brick once they meet, and become friends with Hazel. Can go on land as well, but prefers the water. He communicates with croaks, gurgles and other noises, and can speak very limited human language (very few fractions of words or sentences, it just sounds like gibberish), taught to him by Pizzahead.

Pepperman

Lumpfish (idk either just roll with it). He's kind of indifferent to humans, but he does think he's better than them. I could see him making a brush or something out of seaweed to draw. And then always getting upset that his drawings never stay cause of the water, but he keeps drawing anyway. Blames Noise for destroying his art even if he knows it's the water (Noise thinks it's funny). "Borrows" seaweed from Vigi's farm to make new brushes. But he'll also make statues out of various rocks and other things he finds laying around. Mostly of himself. Some humans think they're built from ancient civilizations, while others think it's some sort of elaborate hoax. Nobody recognizes Pepperman's talent :(

Vigilante

Sea slug. He genuinely believes humans want to kill sirens for nefarious reasons, possibly cause he's a little older i guess. Hands just appear when he needs them.

He has an underwater equivalent of a farm (like, he grows and tends to seaweeds, anemones, corals, etc), that he inherited from his grandpa. He'd love to just tend to the farm all day, but feels obligated to punish anyone who does wrong. Unofficial officer / sheriff of the sea. He still has his cowboy hat because i said so let me be silly on main.

Pizzahead

Ribbon eel. He can give others a little shock as if he had like a hand shocker thing. It mostly just hurts a bit and isn't lethal cause cartoon logic. He does not like humans, but mostly because he grew up with everyone around him telling him they're evil. Actually he's very curious and fascinated by humans, which is why he decided to clone Peppino. Mostly cause he sees him the most on the shore. Somehow. How he actually got his DNA is a mystery.

Later on he decides / attempts to make Fakey into a weapon after witnessing how strong Peppino is. He obsessively learns human language and tries to understand as much about human culture as he can. But he'll twist things around and tell others that he does it to "better understand their weaknesses". Right.

Pizzaface

Stingray. The leader of sirens in the elusive Siren Tower. He HATES humans, especially after some divers discovered the tower and continuously come there to explore. Basically just doesn't want his and his fellow sirens' home discovered or threatened. He's disappointed in Pizzahead because he taught himself human language, even after given an explanation (or excuse).

SPECULATION CORNER

Aka characters i can't quite figure out what to do with yet

Burton

A whale shark bc I can't get enough of sharks apparently. Sharks are cool okay

Alternative: just Mr. Stick's husband who sometimes comes with him to Peppino's

Gerome

A sentient rock and John's older brother, who always took care of him and helped him with the tower. Now just does maintenance and keeps John company.

Alternative: Peppino's janitor, but still made of rock because that's silly

John

A sentient rock that used to carry the tower around through the oceans but somehow got cursed and is now part of the foundation and can't move anymore. Was he a siren before? Or just a pillar? Or maybe a fish made of stone? We don't know.

#pizza tower #pizza tower au #Siren Tower AU #peppino spaghetti #gustavo pizza tower #brick pizza tower #mr. stick #the noise #noisette #fake peppino #pepperman #the vigilante #pizzahead #pizzaface #toasted art #it's finally done #i hate being so slow with drawing but hey #to the three people who liked this idea. hope you enjoy #to everyone else. hello look at this silly fish thing

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awyeahitssam · 2 months

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Absolute crack.

Above all, Harry was an explorer. He loved to get lost in the labyrinth he called home, from the orchards to the forest to long-forgotten, dusty passageways and secret rooms. Indeed, he derived great pleasure from being so far into the unknown that he could no longer hear or see signs of civilization save those long passed. In his exploring he discovered relics of different times: a small, unbreakable glass-blown dragonfly; the preserved canine of a werewolf; a rune-inscribed well, dry as the bones that lay around it; a chunk of platinum from a time when such was still used as currency… yes, Harry was an explorer, a discoverer, and a collector, because what else was he to do without the company of others?

You see, Harry could not break past the boundaries of his home, nor could any other being. In fact, Harry had never met another living thing for all of his life. As far as he could remember, from the time when he was a youngling, all of his needs were attended to by magic itself. His nappies cleaned themselves, his meals prepared themselves, and, when he wished to learn, magic whispered and taught him. As a child it was a frequent voice, his nurturing companion, but as he grew it strayed to a silent presence and chalky hints against a blackboard; a floating book, perhaps, if he grew desperate in his desolation.

Still, Harry was content. After all he had never interacted with another living thing, and while conversing with someone might prove interesting it wasn’t as though he was ever particularly bored. He had an endless library, and the vast grounds and halls of his home to explore.

And so he looked, he learned, and he grew, by stumbling, by reading, by watching the meager hints magic let him see.

Of course Harry was far from normal, but he knew little of normalcy and so cared very little for it. He was used to an endless cycle of exploring, of cooking, of reading, cleaning, drawing, writing, speaking

Until one day, his cycle was broken.

“Who are you then?”

Harry startled so badly he dropped his book, wincing when it’s spine cracked against the hardwood floor. It was an older volume, worn by time, and Harry was always particularly careful when handling bits of history. But, well…

Harry stared at the thing across from him, astounded. It was taller than him, and looked much the same, which probably meant it was a human. That was a bit of a shame, as Harry had always imagined he would meet a creature, first: a deviously charming Fae, perhaps, or a quick and clever Naga. Still, he wasn’t too let down. He hadn’t imagined he would ever meet another living creature, so to meet one so soon was a delight!

Wait.

What had the - human! - asked?

“Oh, er, hello there... human. I’m called Harry.”

The man's eyes narrowed. He didn’t seem to know quite how to respond to that, but that was okay. Harry had lots of questions - he could just answer those.

“How ever did you end up here, though? In my home?”

Perhaps he should have been offended - wasn’t that called trespassing? - but Harry was far too fascinated for that.

“Your home,” the man hummed, not answering even as his eyes lingered on Harry, on his bare feet and long hair and wide, fascinated green gaze. Maybe he didn’t know that was rude? At least, Harry thought so - then again, magic ignored his questions often enough… though magic was honestly a bit of a bully, no matter how sweet and nurturing it could be.

“Naturally,” Harry nodded. “I don’t think you’re supposed to go around barefooted in other people’s libraries, though I might be wrong on that. I’ve never exactly been.”

The human frowned at him. “No, that’s right. You’ve never - Harry.”

Harry blinked at the abrupt use of his name. “I’ve never… Harry?"

Was that a question?

“Your name. What’s your surname?”

Harry frowned, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Not sure. Magic’s probably told me before...”

“Magic’s told you?”

“Well, yes,” Harry nodded, unsure why the other sounded so surprised. This wasn’t at all what he had imagined. Then again, he hadn’t really imagined much of anything. “What’s your name?”

For a moment the man's face looked odd, almost conflicted, and then he said, “Tom.”

“Tom,” Harry pronounced slowly, really wrapping his mouth around it. “Okay, Tom. How did you get here?”

“That’s… a long story.”

Harry lit up. “That’s all right - I love stories!”

They sat in that library for several hours, and in that time Harry learned of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Of how he subjugated magical creatures, witches, and wizards. Of how he slaughtered his own kind as indiscriminately as muggles, and in his fool heartedness, exposed wizards to muggles.

Tom spoke of a war, terrible and long. He spoke of a dying planet, and of Voldemort’s undignified end at the hands of the very muggles he thought so worthless.

Then, he spoke of a second chance.

Voldemort was, by all accounts, a villain. And Harry—well, he had always liked villains the best.

“You’re in your redemption arc!” Harry enthused. “If you do things right I bet you can become an antihero.”

#crack #17 yo me was a genius #have I shared this before?#either way you're welcome lmao #Harry and Voldemort have a chat #redemption arc incoming #my writing #happy to claim this one

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bubbledrivercomix · 1 year

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Who’d win ? The Goo Purist Godzilla or The Knight Templar Sibling ? :D

Pt 1 / Pt 2 / Pt 3/ Pt 4

Eda and King are both very amused from their front row seats to said smackdown. Luz is very concerned. Belos is regretting ever picking up that mirror. The Collector is just happy to see their big sibling.

Anddd here is a bit of my silly fanlore/headcanon things on this au’s backstory . The Collector acknowledges Jambo as their only cool sibling and notably doesn’t consider them as an ‘Archivist’. The Collector has misunderstood ‘Archivist’ as a term for a jerkbag older sibling aka their older quintuplet siblings.

‘Archivist’ is a title for all members of their species who reach adulthood. I like to fancy that Archivists are sorted into castes , but for sake of this au’s lore (lol) , ‘Jambo’ is part of the caste called the Chroniclers , which is the faction responsible for recording the exploits of their race which the ‘Archivists’ aka our Collector’s older quint siblings are part of the Preserver faction which is the most glorified caste .

The oldest siblings considered their youngest a burden, and despite being ordered to indoctrinate said youngest by taking them on ‘Preserving’, foisted 'the brat’ into their quiet,placid, seemingly emotionless middle sibling’s care. What they never expected was for said middle sibling to gradually develop genuine affection for our Collector and indulge their more pacifistic worldview rather then crush it.

Hence the oldest were in for a rude shock when ‘Jambo’ stood against their preserving the Titans and their young , just because of the Collector’s friendship with the natives. With heavy hearts, lamenting how the ‘foul Titans’ had corrupted even their level headed middle sibling with their foul power , turning them against authority, they sealed Jambo away. The elder siblings then prepared to wipe the Collector’s memory of their time spent with the Titans , and even Jambo in hopes that due to their youth , they could be ‘raised right’ this time.

However, the Collector who had witnessed the whole ‘seal away the only parental surrogate figure they have’ deal , had fled. They were found shortly by King’s father . And the rest is canon history. :D

Thank you to everyone who reblogged and liked my previous comic before this one. I really appreciate it and hope you will like this one and the rest of the comics !

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ask-thearchivists · 1 month

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Collector Cousins and Uncle Information

This is a post I will temporarily pin for the duration of their visit. If you want the information on the Archivists Click This Link

These are characters here for a temporary event! Send them questions while they're here because none of them will be returning once I'm done.

Meteor (He/Him, masculine titles only)

The Uncle, over a million years old

Code name Uncle Coor (short for Coordinator)

He is in Control, feels very polite, will use coded insults to be mean in a way that gives plausible deniability, he's always in the right, impatient for a man who's immortal, expects perfection from his children. Does not play favorites with his children but has a subtle distance from his youngest.

Solstice (He/It, masculine titles only)

One of the Eldest Cousins, tied with his twin, over 200k years old

Code name The Compelor (a Charmer)

Not very naturally charismatic, a bit invasive, a little off putting, works as an extension of its father's will, agreeable when you are not rude to his father, cold when you are. F response: Friend

Equinox (She/It, feminine titles only)

One of the Eldest Cousins, tied with her twin

Code name The Copyist

Tired, exhausted even, much more naturally charismatic than its twin, she behaves similarly to her twin when it comes to their father but she's much weaker in her defense of him, has a secret that is eating it alive, desperate to tell it in the right circumstances (no Meteor). F response: Was Friend, is transitioning to ???

Comet (It/Its, any titles)

Second Eldest Cousin, over 150k years

Code name The Conservator

Is constantly dissociating, when it speaks it will speak in long, detailed sentences due to its job, is actually very sweet and will comfort its younger siblings when they're upset. F response: Flop

Astra (Ze/Zir/Zim, feminine and neutral titles)

Second Youngest Cousin, mentally/physically/emotionally 14

Code name The Cataloger (a Curator)

When zir father is around ze tends to shrink and mumble and not speak unless prompted by him, but when he isn't around ze behaves much more like a typical teen, a little mean unintentionally, teasing, but very insecure. F response: Freeze

Nova (He/E, any titles)

Youngest Cousin, the same age as the Collector

Code name The Cartologist (a Cartographer)

Doesn't play because he's not allowed to, doesn't grasp death, doesn't mind not being able to play because eir job means e can leave, flighty and nervous, avoidant. F response: Flight.

Premise:

The askers are Collected individuals that have been removed from stasis to be observed by the Archivists, this is due to an experiment Penumbra/The Coordinator is running, and now the relatives are here to evaluate the results. You do not know their True Names because they are closely guarded secrets (knowing their names gives you power over them so they would never tell you their names) so please try to refer to them solely by their code names in asks.

There will be an ongoing story, responses will be in text and not the images for accessibility, images will primarily be the faces of the Archivists, images will have IDs in alt text.

#ask blog #ask the archivists #asks are open #id in alt text #the owl house #toh #toh oc #collector oc #meteor shower event #did this up so you all can reference their pronouns and titles easier :>

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trevorendeavors · 1 year

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HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE

Now pass the phone to me.

GUYS.

There is no way these parallels are a coincidence.

I am 99% sure that Dana Terrace was referencing Kirby when making the Collector. For context, I've not seen For the Future yet, so please no spoilers beyond the trailer. I haven't seen anything other than Luz's palisman, that one thirty second clip from the owl club, and an irrelevant screenshot of Hunter.

Also plz don't spoil FTF in the comments or reblogs :(

That said,

TW: Discussion of Cults

Canonically,

Kirby:

god or godlike being

heavily associated with stars. As in, Hoshii no Kaabi (Kirby of the Stars)

ambiguous gender (referred to as he in American translations, gender neutral pronouns in Japanese)

rides on a star

The Collector:

god or godlike being

heavily associated with stars. "Child of the stars"

ambiguous gender, canonically a he/they

rides on a star

Still not convinced? Well I believe there was a specific game Dana was referencing: (MAJOR KIRBY SPOILERS AHEAD)

In Kirby star Allies, Kirby gains the ability to turn enemies into friends by launching friend hearts on them.

It’s an ability unlocked by a botched resurrection/rebirth of a dead god accidentally granting Kirby that ability.

No seriously, that's how it happens.

Here's a short summary for those not familiar with the Kirby franchise.

Basically, cult leader Lord Hyness and his closest followers once managed to stop an out-of-control being named Galacta Knight (shown below)

However, the people eventually began to fear LH and his ilk, so they preemptively tried to seal them away and erase their existence from history (rude). LH and his people survived and managed to obtain a vessel containing their Dark Lord (basically, an egg that housed a god or godlike being) Cult leader Lord Hyness then attempted to resurrect the god Void Termina.

But the ceremony went horrible wrong, shattering the vessel into friend hearts and dark hearts that were scattered to the stars. One such friend heart landed on Kirby, granting him the ability to quote-un-quote, "befriend" his enemies...

...

... by which I mean brainwash smaller enemies into doing his biddies while exorcising dark-heart-possessed individuals by beating the shit out of them until they were no longer usable vessels for possession. I'm not even kidding, this is actually canon.

Eventually, Kirby, with his amassed allies, confronts Belos, Hyness, who has this to say:

We are the masters of a power driven to the far reaches of the universe, and we have but one desire! Can one such as you possibly fathom how dearly we have clung to this dream across the aeons? How could you! You couldn't! Never ever ever! We who once faced those who were in such fear of our power that they sealed us away and banished us to the edge of the galaxy! US! As if THAT loveliness wasn't enough, they tried to erase our very existence from history! RUDE! Only through our magic were we able to overcome their science and achieve great prosperity! We alone were responsible for stopping that repulsive nightmare of a galactic crisis, yet this is how you repay us! This won't stand! It won't be forgiven! It won't be forgotten! Never ever EVER! Those who called us mad, are you listening? You left us at the edge of the galaxy to be forgotten, then went along your merry way, probably living somewhere pretty and peaceful! But know this! Your future is a farce! You have none! We, masters of a matter most dark, vow to be restored, as foretold in the book of legend, which everyone thought was just a fairy tale! It WASN'T! We have already obtained the vessel that contains our Dark Lord, and he will soon awaken and shower us in compassion! Look! The vessel of our Dark Lord is filling up even as we speak! Now the time for his greatness to enter our world has come! Welcome to a new history! A new age! The age of awesome! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARK LORD! HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Grace us, Gloriously Dark Looooooord!

And when cornered, he drains the life source of his closest followers, his priestesses, and uses them as fucking battering rams.

Oh and btw they're all conscious when this happens. If you listen closely, you can actually hear their grunts of pain when they hit the ground.

When that fails, he forces the god-resurrection to fruition by tossing in the priestesses' bodies and his own into the alter, bringing foooooRTH!!!

VOID TERMINA.

A morally neutral being who also uses the same tactics as Kirby to defeat his enemies (except somehow Void doing it makes it evil or something *shrug*). Oh, and Void's implied to be born from the same material as Kirby (or vice versa).

Upon Void's defeat, it's said he may be reborn in another form and perhaps someday... a friend.

AND THEN THERE'S THE OWL HOUSE

In which The Collector, a god or godlike being, was sealed away by a Titan (probably because of their destructive, reckless nature - idk for sure I haven't seen the episode). As an act of revenge, the Collector made a deal with the inhabitants of the titan trapper witches: he would grant them (or more specifically Bill - not GF Bill btw) power in exchange for slaughtering the Titans. The blood of the last Titan (King) would then be used to revive The Collector from his prison.

Then along comes a scrunkly dunkly old human who winds up trapped on the Boiling Isles, a realm populated by witches and demons living atop a carcus. Convinced of the inherently evil nature of the inhabitants, he deceives them into aiding him in their own execution.

In order to pull this off, he enlists the help of The Collector. In exchange for promising to release them, The Collector teaches Belos magic "stronger than anybody's." That is, the Draining Spell.

Belos then professes himself to be able to commune with the dead Titan (the Boiling Isles itself) and thus convinces them to brand themselves with the sigils that would serve as their metaphorical nooses.

The draining spell works, but Belos breaks his promise by using up the last of the Titan's Blood to (attempt to) travel home, only to thwarted by Luz, who traps him in the draining spell.

Meanwhile, King makes a deal with the now-betrayed Collector: stop the draining spell in exchange for their freedom and a game of "Owl House." The Collector agrees, and King follows through on his promise. Well, part of it anyway. He frees the Collector, they stop the spell, but he attempts to escape with Luz to the human realm. The Collector stops this; Luz, her friends, and unfortunately Belos manage to escape to the human realm.

There, Belos goes around possessing and consuming various woodland creatures until he has enough sustenance to possess Hunter, one of his former second-in-commands.

This ultimately fails, which leads to him fleeing back to the Boiling Isles, where For the Future begins.

NOW LET'S TALLY UP OUR PARALLELS

WE GOT:

Horrifically misguided religious leader? Check.

Masked at some point? Yep.

Drains their closest followers and uses their bodies for their own gain? Yep.

Particularly brutally betrays their second in command?

OH YEAH.

Winds up sucked into that very spell themselves? Sorta.

Hyness intentionally sacrifices himself to the spell in order to resurrect Void Termina, whereas Belos is tricked by Luz into getting drained by the spell.

Not to mention we got the fuckin uhhhhh GODLIKE BEING WHO MIND CONTROLS FORCIBLY BEFRIENDS PEOPLE

This could be Void or Kirby paralleling the Collector depending on how you read it. However, Void and Kirby are definitely two sides of the same coin, and if my interpretation is correct, I believe The Collector is meant to be a parallel of BOTH. Neither good nor evil: simply raw power put in the hands of a child too young to comprehend or manage it.

Now I'll admit, TOH doesn't follow the KSA story tit for tat. I believe that Titan-trappers take the role of the people who sealed away the eldritch power. The placement of Galacta Knight vs the Titan as who fits in what role is harder determine.

Despite this, there are definitely some pretty solid inspirations.

The aesthetic of FTF very clearly draws inspiration from KSA. Hell, KSA was originally released in 2018, around the time Dana was developing the series. It's very likely she drew inspiration from this video game, if not played it herself. There are simply too many parallels to count.

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immajustvibehere · 1 year

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Spark (2/8)

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader - Enemies to Lovers

Series summary: An impulsive and reckless girl who stands for everything Arthur tries to overcome joins the gang. Even worse, she is related to Micah Bell. What starts off as a relationship of mistrust and hate slowly transforms into a beautiful, deeper connection, as both parties realise that there is more to the other person than what meets the eye at first.

Chapter 2 summary: Back in camp, you prove to be as horrible a gang member as Arthur feared. It's anything but pleasant when Dutch assignes the two of you to rob Chez Porter.

Link to my Masterlist

previous chapter

1900 words, less than 10 minutes reading time

Something about you interested Arthur tremedously. He would try to explain it by telling himself he was watching out for the other gang members, because you were very clearly tormenting many of them. You were rude to the girls, who at first had tried to welcome you into their circle, but you refused with a snicker. You openly complained about Sadie mourning her husband so loudly. Pearson would get your complaints about his food every evening and you didn't hold back to insult anyone who approached you kindly. You obviously hadn’t planned on fitting it. This was even clearer when you set up your tent away from the rest, a few feet behind his own, between two trees in the thicket that was surrounding Horseshoe Overlook.

Arthur observed all of this, even though you barely were at camp. He had to hand it to you, you were a hard worker. While you complained about Pearson, you brought him rabbits or turkeys almost everyday and threatened him to make something good out of them. You always returned with as much firewood as your horse managed to carry and occasionally, when you thought nobody was watching, you handed some berries to Jack. Most importantly, and probably the reason why Dutch was so ready to welcome you, you put money in the shared box every day.

Micah’s good report about your character and your young and eager spirit had impressed Dutch. You found it sickening when Dutch praised you, but always smiled and agreed with whatever he said, something that Micah had implored you to do. It didn’t take long until you were held in high esteem by the leader. Arthur accepted this development as much as he accpeted Micah sucking up to Dutch since he first joined.

Nevertheless, you and Arthur clashed on multiple occasions.

Soon after your bank stage mission, Arthur checked the ledger. He had just put a couple of bucks into the gang’s funds, something he had managed to loot from O’Driscolls that had tried to rob him earlier this morning. The sun had just set, people were returning from their scoutings and jobs and with them came the buzzing of a group of people being ready for a couple of beers and calling it a day. Arthur, too, looked forward to a warm stew and a good night’s rest, when his eyes skimmed the numbers in the ledger. Something didn't add up.

"Y/N", he approached you determined.

"Ugh", you answered. It was late. You were tired from robbing a handful of people today and had retreated to your tent.

"I checked the ledger", Arthur went on, kepping his distance as you crawled out from your tent and stood up, making you feel a little taller when you stood opposite of him. Already by his posture you could see that he was about to complain. You despised this judgemental stance.

"Good for you", you replied, crossing your arms.

"Could it be that you missed a couple of bucks after the bankstage robbery?", he asked. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to see how you reacted.

"What business is it of yours?"

"I have already been reduced to the camp's debt collector by Herr Strauss, I don't mind beating up one more person that owes money", Arthur hissed in a low voice.

"Listen", you started, puffing out your chest, "apparently you can do the maths, so do me a favor and count up what I contributed the four days I've been here and compare it to the money a Swanson or this Uncle guy contributed the last years and you'll find that I have surpassed them by a lot. So I don't know why you keep bothering me."

Then you just crawled back into your tent, closing the flaps and waited for Arthur to go away.

Those and similar conversations started to become an almost daily occurence. You started to like disobeying small rules, only to see Arthur get all riled up. The double standard amused you. He could kick a Uncle out of his sleep, you weren’t allowed to insult his lazy ass. Nobody checked if Arthur shared half the money he made, or any other person for that matter. You knew Micah wasn’t sharing half of his.

Before either of you realized, more than a week had passed since you joined the gang.

Arthur had just finished his morning coffee and was strutting towards his tent. The plan was to shave and then head to Valentine, beating some time, maybe run some errands. But he didn't even get to his tent, because he heard his name yelled by Dutch. You stood next to Dutch, his big hand resting on your shoulder in a friendly and proud manner.

"Come over here for a second!", Dutch waved to Arthur.

Immediately, Arthur's mood worsened. Just yesterday evening he had to listen to one your ramblings about why there shouldn't be so many people in the gang that can't contribute with money. You had Micah's full support, the rest of the listeners were rather hesitant to agree with you. Arthur had left his spot on the log as soon as he had seen you come over, but yours and Micah's conversation was loud enough to haunt him while he tried to sleep. Somewhat apprehensively, Arthur joined Dutch and you.

Dutch was in high spirits, proclaiming: "Micah told me you two work well together.

You sighed a: "Did he?" While Arthur simultaneously grumbled a "Of course he did..."

"Called you a dream team", Dutch raised his eyebrows, looking at Arthur for confirmation. But before Arthur could open his mouth, Dutch went on: "Javier told me about a lead yesterday. However, I sent him on a different business today and I thought, maybe the two of you could work together to rob a little homestead."

Dutch looked so convinced of this, you supressed rolling your eyes.

"Alright", you crossed your arms in front of your chest. You weren't exactly the type of person to refuse a good lead, especially when it gets suggested by the leader you were told to appease and please.

"What exactly are we talking about?", Arthur asked. His hands settled on his gunbelt, and he looked at Dutch, trying to forget that you were there.

"Javier told me about a family of crazies living in the woods. At Chez Porter, apparently. The talk is that they sit on some cash", Dutch finally took his hand from your shoulder to stroke his mustache.

"Fine. We'll do it. Come on, Morgan", you commanded, heading towards your horse before either Dutch nor Arthur could say anything. Arthur sighed while Dutch chuckled: "Oh my, Arthur. Good luck. I'm sure you can handle her."

I'm not so sure about that, Arthur thought to himself as he followed you to the horses. He watched as you confidently swayed your hips and swung yourself onto your horse. You waited patiently with a cheeky smile on your lips until Arthur had mounted his horse with a grunt.

“Know where we’re headed, Morgan?”, you asked.

“Vaguely.”

“Guess I’ll take the lead then”, you stated, riding on ahead. Arthur let it go, it didn’t feel like this was something worth arguing about. There was no talk between the two of you the whole ride. Sometimes, you could feel his gaze drilling holes into your body from behind, but you ignored it, deciding you wouldn’t give him the attention he’d need to start another argument. You were close to Chez Porter when Arthur finally opened his mouth: “Let’s leave the horses here.”

“We could at least ride them up the hi-“

“We’ll leave them here”, Arthur interrupted, dismounted and gave his horse a few gentle pats on the neck before he took a rifle, “We’ll sneak up and check how many armed people we’re dealing with.”

“Come on, Morgan. The two of us could take out a whole army if we wanted to. You don’t need to be afraid when I’m at your side”, you mocked.

“This is the only reason I am afraid”, Arthur grumbled before the two of you started climbing up the hill. You had a nice view on the property. Arthur took out his binoculars, trying to count how many people were on the ground.

“Okay. We got a big barn in the back…and a large house. Must be a lot of people living here. I ain’t so sure about this. Maybe if we draw ‘em out or somethin’…”, Arthur said. When he removed the binoculars from his eyes to decide on a plan with you, he only found an empty patch of grass next to him. Suddenly, he heard the shots. Only a second later he had eyes on you again, strutting onto the property as if it was yours. Curses were falling from his lips as he sprinted down to catch up with you. Three man were already dead on the ground while you stood far from any cover, aiming for a woman at the upper window of the barn. Arthur shot two men who were running towards you. For a moment, it was silent with only an echo of Arthur’s last gunshot ringing in your ears.

Arthur started to call out your name, but you had seen and killed the last man before he could pull the trigger once.

“Easy!”, you exclaimed and holstered your guns, “Money’s probably in the barn. They really tried protecting it.” You turned around to Arthur, only to see him approaching you angrily.

"What the hell was that?"

"What was what? I cleared us the way!"

"You would have been shot if I didn't cover for you. Why didn't you stick to the plan?"

"Because the plan was stupid and just because you are a pretty boy who doesn't want to get his clothes dirty, doesn't mean I'm changing my methods."

"What?", Arthur growled. There was this nick name again. He hated it. Why did it keep following him?

"Oh, you heard me", you replied.

"You think I want Micah to make my life hell, because you bite the dust on a job with me?"

"Micah doesn't care shit about me! It's an unlucky coincidence that we share the same father."

"Okay. Doesn't mean that you can run towards the enemy like-"

"Oh, shut up. Just because you're too yellow."

"Well…maybe I want to live!", Arthur yelled with a grand gesture of his arms.

"Oh bullshit. I can shoot like this because I got nothing to live for, and neither do you. So stop whining."

"You don't know nothin' about me, so-"

"I know you ain't such an idolized fool as your old friend Dutch, so you're definitely not living to prove the government a point, nor do you have a family. And if you did, you sure as hell left them behind years ago or you wouldn't be here!"

"The gang's my family", Arthur said after a short pause.

"Ugh. Sure. Most of them would betray eachother for a handful of gold. Nice family you got"

Arthur didn't answer. He just strut towards the barn that had been so eagerly defended. It didn't take him long to figure out the best hiding place. He moved the crate, though it was hard on his own, to reveal a hatch under which a box had been hidden.

"Take your cut and get out of here", Arthur harshly slapped a couple of bills into your hands.

"Gladly."

taglist: @xclovers @photo1030 @little-honeypie

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Next Chapter here!

(If you want to be added to this project's taglist, just lmk)

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 #rdr #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction

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elbiotipo · 7 months

Text

Much like I did with Beto, I'll try to make a timeline of Ragua's life. It's in Earth years, but her species ages differently and much of her life is spent in virtual paradises/relativist travel, so the dates here are very approximate:

0: Is born in one of the paradise hatchery worlds of the Irruita (now called Precursor) civilization

1-15: Learns to swim, talk and all that (she did NOT eat her siblings at this time how dare you imply that's RUDE)

23: her parents "get bored of her" and she's raised by her grandparents in a rural world

23-54: Mostly gaming and herding fish and making shrimp egg honey

54: goes into her first galactic cruise with her girlfriend, she has a short honeymoon relationship with her (about 25 years max)

75-97: (plays gacha games):

98: reconciles with her parents for a brief time, works as a retainer in the Irruita celestial bureaucracy, quickly resigns

120: (plays gacha games)

130: Tries a singer career, goes kinda well

130-170: her "sex drugs and rock n' roll era" according to her (exact ratio unknown)

168: Gets bored of fame, might have blown up a moon in her farewell concert

170-210: (plays gacha games)

210-260: her second galactic cruise, has some short relationships but mostly goes sightseeing and such

270: (plays gacha games. some lady on Earth is inventing agriculture at this time, don't pay much attention to it)

295: goes into her third galactic cruise, this time alone

320: tries a contemplative pilgrimage to the center of the galaxy. Just kidding. (plays gacha games)

327: has a short fling with her girlfriend again (about 10 years)

340: nostalgic about her childhood, decides to become a retro game streamer/idol.

353: Reaches a thousand subscribers

360s: the retro fashion in this era gets her more popular

370s: she has about two billion subscribers now, making her a minor celebrity

381: she gets dared by her chat to wait for the release of a new game in relativistic travel, she takes the bet and goes into animated suspension.

The spaceship fails, sending her into relativistic travel for thousands of light years.

The Precursor civilization dissappears mysteriously.

The enterity of human recorded history happens

After the Machine War, modern galactic civilization emerges

381: spaceship deaccelerates into regular speed again, only a couple of months of internal time has passed, millenia have gone by outside.

386: discovered, still in suspended animation, by antiquities collectors who might be working for more secretive powers

387: Awakened by Beto and Suisini in a regular transport mission. After a short fight with the grave robbers, they agree to shelter her. She joins the tripulation of the Mastropiero

#this was fun to write actually #cosas mias #campoestela #she is either 400 years old or 12000 years old or 24 years old depending on how you ask

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topazshadowwolf · 8 months

Text

A Win and A New Foe

Cross won! The boy did it! But Fell didn't win this time. Error is now the opponent Cross will face. And what a challenge this will be! Cross, the youngest of the gang vs Error, Destroyer of Worlds, Master of Puppets, Guardian of Destruction, Collector of Souls.

Good thing Cross has others to support him! Make sure you vote as I am sure this will be a close one!

---

Nightmare yawned as he tried to finish his work. The polls had been a distraction, but he had plenty of things to do. He figured he could check in later when a few hours were left. He had been so wrapped up in his work he forgot to check. Instead, he learned the results when he heard a commotion in the hallway.

He looked up in time to see Killer and Horror carrying Cross over their head into his office with giant smiles. “he did it! our baby bro did it!” Killer cheered.

“he beat ink!” Horror added as they set a very anxious Cross down.

“hurray me,” Cross said as he looked down.

“Indeed, it will be you against Fell,” Nightmare started but was interrupted by Killer.

“ehhh, about that boss. error won,” Killer said while putting his hand on Cross’ shoulder. “which is why the oreo is such a nervous nelly right now. he knows who he’s up against.”

Hearing this caused Nightmare to frown as he woke up his laptop and brought up the website. He paused for a moment, then looked back at Cross. “Do not… fret. Regardless of who the victor is, I am just happy you made it as far as you did.”’ A grin grew across Nightmare’s face as he steepled his hands, “Although, I would love to rub it in Error's face that one of my henchmen won against him.”

“i will try my best!” Cross said, saluting.

“I know you will,” Nightmare smiled as he stood and walked over. He rested a hand on Cross’ shoulder, followed by Killer and Horror doing the same. “We are still behind you, doing what we can for you.”

---

arguments for voting for cross and not error

heya. here’s a list of why you should vote for cross (the baby bro of our group):

he’s a cool dude

he doesn’t go around destroying other people’s stuff

error likes to destroy other people’s stuff. talking about homes and whole worlds here

cross doesn’t like to kill people and steal their souls

error’s main gig is to kill people and steal their souls

he dresses nice for a sans. (you think i have the energy to dress like him?)

he showers daily (i’ve never seen a shower in the anti void. or a wardrobe.)

i’m pretty sure error is that weird smell i notice when he’s around

he doesn’t steal other people’s stuff

error likes to steal and litter other people’s homes/worlds (bad for the environment)

cross helped save an endangered species of butterflies from destruction

except for the few cross saved, error made those endangered butterflies extinct by destroying not just their habitat but the world they came from

cross is polite for the most part (we are a bad influence, sorry)

error is very rude

nightmare would be happy if his youngest “son” won

“Ah, there you are, Dust,” Nightmare’s voice interrupted Dust’s thoughts, and he looked up to see his boss entering his room. “Cross has advanced to the finals.”

“i saw,” Dust said as he started to close his laptop. Nightmare stopped the motion and pushed the screen back to look at what Dust had been working on. The dark guardian then rested a hand on his shoulder as he chuckled softly.

“That you have. It seems you are trying to support Cross in your own way. Still, you should try to congratulate him verbally. He is apprehensive about this upcoming competition. I am sure he will be happy to have your support,” Nightmare said.

“i will,” Dust replied, then looked up at Nightmare. “you look tired, boss. when did you last sleep?”

“I have said it before; I will say it again. I do not require the amount of sleep you four do. Thank you for your concern, but I am doing fine and will retire to my chambers for a rest when this is over,” Nightmare stated.

“alright, boss,” Dust shrugged and looked over his list. “once i’m done editing this, i’ll go find cross.”

“That is fine…,” Nightmare said softly. He then turned slowly and left.

Alone again, Dust sighed. He still had his last “dad” to use. Unlike the others, he barely said the word when he could say it whenever. That word, at one time, had no meaning to him. Now that it had meaning to him, he didn’t want to overuse it. So, he will have to make that one count.

#crosssweep #cross!sans #horror!sans #killer!sans #nightmare!sans #dadmare #dust!sans

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mamamittens · 9 months

Text

In lue of my laptop battery deciding to try and kill itself, here's a fun headcanon for OP

OP characters as vampires

Marco

He's pretty old for a vampire and kind of relaxed. Settled is a good way to describe him. He's got his preferences for the time he spends and plenty of time to spend.

He likes seeing how fields of study changes over time from the superstition he used to deal with to complex studies he voraciously follows. He personally funds several promising researchers just to see where they go.

When it comes to his... Food, he likes to wine and dine a little. He's fine drinking from a bag but it's more satisfying feeling a connection to his donor. He likely has lived with a few humans he drank from in return for taking care of them as well. Likes intelligent, energetic, and fiery people. Makes him feel young.

Odd idea but I feel like he'd be more vulnerable to classic vampire weaknesses like being unable to leave his coffin if there's a rose on it and crossing running water. Not really the sun but it does itch. He's not quite 'demonic' enough for silver and holy symbols to bother him. Does need an invite to enter a home.

Ace

He's so edgy when he isn't living it up in the night. Feels like he deserves damnation like an insufferable mix of Edward Cullens "I'm a soulless damned" and The Lost Boys daredevil tendencies. He's restless and strongly wants a 'cure'. Startlingly young for a vampire.

He refuses to drink from people unless he absolutely has to, and when he does it's from scum of the earth criminals. After he beats the shit out of them. They usually don't make it cause he's starving at that point.

Oddly very vulnerable to the more demonic type weaknesses. So crosses, silver, and sunlight stop him in his tracks. Running water and garlic do jack shit though besides annoy him. He can turn into fog and a bat though, which he thinks is neat and appropriately spooky. Cannot enter a home without an invite and even has a hard time touching others without it as well. Fighting is an invite on its own, so the invite doesn't need to be explicit.

Thatch

Life of the party, really living it up and enjoys hosting dinners. Usually for his human friends, of which he has many. His greatest pride is his ability to somehow enjoy food despite it not saying his appetite in the least unless it has blood in it. His recipe books would be prized collectors items for any librarian but only Marco is allowed to store them when not used. Some can't be made anymore cause their ingredients are gone or unethical to procure anymore. Old but certainly doesn't act like it.

He likes it when his dinner guests offer blood in exchange for meals. A meal for a meal as it were. Usually after the main course and dessert as the pick me up to recover from the blood donation. He likes to think he can taste the 'true meal' from the blood after his cooking. Likes to cycle through donors and doesn't care for bagged blood outside of emergencies. He wouldn't mind favoring a specific donor though, usually only when he's really attached to their company.

His weaknesses thankfully don't include garlic. He can't see his reflection though and crossing running water is a no go. Silver also hurts but it's closer to an allergy. I like to think he could hypnotize with his gaze but doesn't cause it's rude. Needs an invitation to enter a home.

Zoro

Doesn't quite register he's a child of the night most of the time. Well traveled but doesn't realize it cause he's always lost somewhere. Has zero idea how old he is cause he naps so damn much in dark places.

He likes the blood of his enemies. No, really. Finds the antagonistic relationship adds zest. He will also drink from friends if offered but it's not the same as licking the blood from his blades. Drinks bagged blood if he finds it but always makes such a mess with them.

His weakness includes silver, his reflection, and garlic. Holy symbols make him pause but he can ignore it. Sunlight doesn't bother him but it does hurt his eyes. His gaze can paralyze though, which is why he keeps one closed. Makes sure he doesn't cheat in a fight on accident.

Law

Somewhat young vampire and very into the details about it. Runs a lot of experiments with himself and doesn't keep track of his own age except in his journals. Mostly for posterity. He's not super angsty about it but does have the "I'm cursed to walk the earth" vibes about him.

He prefers bagged blood. Less complaints if he drinks too fast because he ignored his needs for too long. Also not likely to be diseased and he hasn't researched his immunity enough to risk it. If offered he'd likely refuse unless he absolutely has to.

He has a strong aversion to holy symbols but is fine with silver and running water for some reason. Garlic just burns his nose but that's about it. As for sunlight he does burn in it but more like severe sunburn than bursting into flames. Not like he got much sun in the lab to start with. Has a hard time entering a home without consent.

Luffy

Very young vampire and seemingly doesn't care at all. Sees it as an opportunity for even more adventure than before. Doesn't seem to struggle with angst about it either. He can turn into a bat and fog but never remembers to do so. He also has a magnetic aura he isn't aware of.

Predictably quite glutenous with his blood. While it doesn't look like it, he does have standards for his donors. Bagged blood is just a necessity because of how much he needs. Likes adventurous folks for his blood and taking them in adventures to bond with them before drinking. Finds the adrenaline in their system makes it taste more heady. Can eat regular food and does but it won't help with his appetite for blood.

His weaknesses is mostly running water and silver, but he can see his reflection.

Sanji

Somewhat young vampire with old blood. Hates this and seems to live more like a new vampire with high standards. Has moments of self hate but generally seems to enjoy charming women with his vampiric charm. Can turn into fog but has a hard time holding it.

He prefers intimate dining experiences with his donors with explicit consent after wonderful dinners he makes himself. He can eat normal food and even subsists on it somewhat. But obviously he prefers women for blood though he absolutely has drank from men--its a shameful secret and he was very desperate for food at the time.

His weakness is silver, his reflection, and also can't move when a rose is placed on his casket. Cannot enter a home without consent and also can't drink from someone without consent either.

Whitebeard

A very old vampire than adores watching how the world changes. Enjoys gathering fledging vampires and sheltering them. Teaching them. Has a very strong vampiric magnetism and can transform but he hasn't in a very long time.

He enjoys drinking from drinking partners, the alcohol spiked blood tangy. Still somehow bad for his though. Pouts when he is given clean blood bags, complains that it isn't a proper meal if he didn't do at least a little hunting for it. Drinks frequently but in small quantities.

He has a weakness for silver, holy symbols (but like, really old ones), running water, and can't enter a home unless he's invited. Also can't get out of his casket when a rose is placed on it and whines when it's used to ground him for health reasons.

#one piece #one piece headcanons #one piece whitebeard #marco the pheonix #fire fist ace #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #monkey d. luffy #thatch one piece #trafalgar law

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sugarakis-p2 · 1 year

Text

Sickly Love

Life isn't easy in a foreign land. The moment your boat crashed into Japan your life was cursed and plagued with illness. You worry it will be worse when you caught the attention of Gyutaro. But to your surprise, he is gentle and calls you an exotic beauty. You can see yourself being with him until he starts crazy talk about his sister and him being demons.

Warning: Non/con, minor character death, demon transformation, sick y/n, flesh eating

The money is decent, and it keeps me away from the customers.

But not from Daki's creepy brother. You worked in the kitchen, cleaning and running other small errands. Not that you were ugly, you are considered very pretty, but this country is harsh to foreigners. Your boat crashed here, and the payment to return home is too much for you. Almost all your money goes to your treatment. Not that you there was anything to go back to. Ever since they pulled you and a few others from the shores of Japan, you have had a cough. Sometimes it's hard to breathe. You are too sick to be a prostitute. Thanks for small miracles.

Almost a year. A yearlong cough that keeps you from clients. A part of you is very grateful for that. The work isn't hard, but you head home exhausted every morning. You live with a few of the other survivors. You are scrubbing the kitchen when he appears behind you. Gyutaro shows up every night to check on his sister. He looked incredibly deformed and possibly diseased. He has a dower face as he stares at your ass. Moving back and forth as you scrub. You don't want to talk to him, but you also rather not have him standing there.

"Can I help you?" You ask in stilted Japanese, a cough following the question.

"What is wrong with you?" He asked surprisingly. He talks in a sing-song lilt with an annoying quiver near the end of every sentence. He makes it easy to hear the rage he carries with him. You shrug. That was incredibly rude of him.

"Who knows. I can't seem to get rid of this cough. What's wrong with you?" You snap back. Yellow eyes narrow. He did not like to be sassed, at least that is what you thought, until a horrid grin spread ear to ear. Flashing you a row of sharp teeth like a lurid shark. That doesn't surprise you in the least. You go back to work, trying to ignore him.

"You're like a drowned cat. I like that. I like how you didn't flinch. Women have been disappearing at night. Doesn't your shift end in two hours? Won't you have to walk home? Alone in the dark?" He chuckled.

The way he laughed made your skin crawl. But he was right. It will be you and Mary walking home alone. Mary is in her sixties, and you must help her most of the time. You two are easy targets for muggers and killers. You stopped and looked up at him. He's some kind of collector for the gambling house, you believe. Despite his consumption appearance, he has sinewy muscles. He shows off with an opened mustard kimono and very baggy brown pants. The bright golden silk sash wrapped around his neck. He must be a good fighter to be a collector. Dirty bare feet as always, you mentally sigh. You will have to scrub the floor there.

"What of it? I don't have any money to pay you to escort me home," you said dully, returning to your work.

"Not needed. I'll do it out of the kindness of my heart. I'm a good guy like that," he laughed as if that was the most hilarious joke he's told. You considered saying no, but he wasn't wrong. Women have been disappearing for the past eight months. He started to get annoyed, visibly annoyed, while you were thinking it over. Dropping his smile and mumbling to himself, "I bet if I was a pretty boy, you wouldn't refuse."

"You'll be the most handsome guy that has walked me home in years. Ok. Thank you," you said, stopping your scrubbing to peer up at him. Gyutaro seems ultra-pleased to be staring down at you struggling to clean. Wheezing as you move to empty the bucket. That creepy smile was back.

"Free advice. Avoid my sister. I'll be back later, kitten," he giggled.

"My name is not kitten!" You shouted at the creep's retreating form.

He was there at the back door waiting for you. Gyutaro said he would carry the old lady to the house first, then return for me. Oh great, you think. This will be forever. Except it wasn't. He ran with Mary like the wind. You have yet to determine how you will be able to keep up with him. You start walking. With no idea how long it will take, you begin the long trudge alone.

Fifteen minutes later, Gyutaro pops up next to you. Your heart nearly stops as you scream and jump from him. It puts you in a coughing fit. He watches you like a ghoul. It quickly dropped when you could breath.

"Why did you leave? Are you stupid?" He asked, annoyed. He's not breathing hard while you take gulps of air to catch your breath.

"I can't keep up with you. Walking me home is (wheeze) pointless," you gasp.

His vice-like grip snatches you up and throws you on his back like a ragdoll. You squeal and clutch to him as he hitches up your legs to carry you piggyback. Then he is off. You whimper again and clutch onto him. His flesh shudders under your chest.

"Hold me tighter," he commanded. Tightening your grip, you press more into his harsh boney body. You wonder how anyone can survive being this thin.

He is so solid and fast. His bones dig into your thighs. Suddenly he is panting, feeling his lungs expand and collapse between your legs. It had been so long since you felt the warmth of a body pressed against your sex. You burn in shame as you feel your middle heat. You bury your face in the crook of his neck. You thought he must smell bad from his greenish complexion and cool off your arousal. But he smelled clean, like oranges and musk. Your body betrays you further as you give a breathy moan against the pulse of his neck. He dropped you off at the front of your house, setting you down gently like fine porcelain.

"Gyutaro, you are so strong. That was amazing. For once, I feel like I can breathe and have a little energy. Thank you. You are truly wonderful," you gushed. He beamed at your praise. Your place is painted with racial slurs. The people standing around usually throw stones at you. They see Gyutaro and back down, and you sigh, "I'm also grateful for that. They usually don't draw blood, but every now and then, someone does. This county has been a curse to me. It was not good before, but there's no lily's here, my favorite flower."

He looked over and gave the locals a dirty look. They started quickly scuttle away. He turned back and grinned grotesquely at you.

"The first time is free. The others will cost you," he beamed.

"What?" You narrowed your eyes at him. Just when you thought he was less of a creep, "I told you I can't afford to pay you."

"I don't want your money. You have none, sad foolish girl. I want your time, and I always collect," he replied. You did not like being called foolish but couldn't help regarding him with appreciation. His kimono was open enough to see his rippling muscles. After all that strength had helped you, you felt more gratitude than annoyance as your cheeks heated up into a bright blush. You looked up at him and smiled.

"Oh. I think I will like that," you said genuinely. Giving him a bow and saying good night.

After weeks of this, you decide he seems less of a creep. He's a very devoted brother to his bitch of a sister. You crossed her once and kept your head down for an abusive lecture. You got off light. She kicked and slapped the other servants. She called you ugly and pathetic several times.

"No wonder he likes you, gross foreign turtle-faced brat!" Daki had screamed. His sister is such a whiny, needy mess for him, it flares jealousy in you. The other staff whispers about them. You personally don't care as long as you never cross their paths. Today it doesn't seem like you're that lucky. Typical.

She must like you a little. Daki didn't throw things directly at you or kick your face like she did to the other girls. Did Gyutaro, the sister pimp, really like you? He really is kind and gentle to you even though Gyutaro is harsh and cruel to others. Even his sister is trying to hold back her wrath. That was something you had never seen. You ponder this as you avoid Daki for the rest of your life, hopefully.

You look forward to her brother climbing on his back, holding him tight. Nuzzling his neck and hair. Your heart beats harder. The people in front of your house have disappeared since he has come into your life. Today you whispered your thank you next to his ear. Your breath gently caresses the cone of his ear. He shudders like a workhorse under you. His strength lends you strength. Diseased or not, you won't be alive for much longer in this foul place, regardless. He has been the best thing in your life. You are teasing with the idea of going further with him when he takes you to some new place. A little way for the beaten path he usually takes. The sudden change makes you more nervous.

"What are we doing here?" You asked him. A little worried about being alone with him like this. You might die soon but didn't want it to be today. It's clear by your neighbor's reaction to him that Gyutaro is dangerous. At least at your place, you'll be surrounded by people with a delusion of safety.

"Look. These are spider lilies. You told me you missed the lilies of your homeland. These are not the same. But hopefully, you will see we have lilies too. I have an eye for beauty. They are like you. Exotic beauty," he grinned, picking lilies for you.

"They are very pretty. How old are you? You still look young," You asked with a brilliant smile, accepting his boutique and trying to flirt. He stared at you momentarily to be sure you were not mocking him. Beaming with pride at the youthful compliment. He looked wistfully towards the park.

"I only remember the past ten years clearly. I could be 23 to 25," he said absently, scratching himself.

Do you want to go for a stroll over there?" You asked, pointing to a far-off park. It had several of those flowering willow trees. They looked pretty and smelled sweet.

"No," He said abruptly, grabbing your hand and walking you towards your place.

He's surprisingly gentle with his strength. You are shocked by this whenever he touches you. He could easily crush your hand. But he is always careful with you. You have a coughing fit, and he stops to help and rub your back. Kneeling to let you climb on his back. He is not a conventional beauty, his dower yellow eyes and asymmetrical features make that an understatement, but you admire his strength and gentle ways.

You weakly cling to him, tucked against him and wrapping your scarf around the both of you. Surprised when he slows to a walk, pulling your scarf off before you get to your door. Putting you down, clamping a hand over your mouth. But not before you see a wailing Mary being dragged off by Samurai. She was covered in blood, screaming how it wasn't her.

You attempt to shout out against Gyutaro's hand. Eyes watering, tears spilling as Gyutaro yanks you with him, hiding in a side alley.

"You poor dumb woman. To them, you are a foreigner. An unwanted invading parasite. Something that doesn't belong and never should have been here in the first place. Use your brain. I know it's hard for you. But think what they will do to you if you run over there?" Gyutaro growled.

You did stop to think about it. They are carting away a little old lady for the murder of fully grown people. The punishments in Japan's justice system are brutal. Gyutaro is right. You were not meant to be here. You can barely survive, and the land has been trying to kill you. You have a coughing fit just at the thought of it. Gyutaro clamps his hand tighter. Cutting off your air. You claw at his hand, panicking to get air into you.

"There, there, kitten. I know you are trying with what little you have. You don't have to think while I'm here. I'll do it for you. Poor weak creature. You never stood a chance here. Pathetic little drowned kitten," Gyutaro giggles as your struggles weaken. As my lungs give up trying to pull in air. Blackness crowds your sight.

You wake up thrashing and gulping for air, clawing blankets in darkness. Strong arms suddenly wrap around you. It's Gyutaro. It has to be. You've studied these arms over the past few weeks. You would know them anywhere. But something is off. He doesn't smell like Gyutaro. He has a rancid iron scent that lingers heavily in the air.

"Calm down," he says in a friendly tone. His rough hands are making their way under your kimono, and you squeal in utter shock.

"What are you doing?" You whimper as his digits grope your breast, pinching your nipple lightly.

"You can't go home. So, I brought you here. Where you will be safe. It's out of town, and I sleep here until I am with my sister. We think it will be soon, I can already control her from a distance, but in the meantime, it's here. Your suffering is exquisite. I've wanted to devour you for too long," He murmured in the dark, shifting to light a candle for a dim glow. The room is stuffy, windowless, and cold, with a ladder leading up. The floor is smooth compacted clay. The place is very barren, with a few essentials. Oh no, your mind screams as your panic rises, and you must voice it or explode.

"No! This is not fair. Why must I suffer like this? I have never done anything to deserve this other than to be born," You wailed as Gyutaro giggled at your despair.

Parting your layers enough to cup a breast to his mouth. You scream and pound at him with all your rage. You managed to claw him, only to have those wounds heal before your eyes like magic. You must be delirious with oxygen deprivation. He cackles in joy as he keeps sucking and licking your nipple. You instantly feel drained and breathless as you fall back into a coughing fit. His assault on your body becomes more vicious.

"How pathetic. So weak and helpless. The only thing you have going for you is you're slightly smarter than Daki. You try my sad, soggy kitten. I've waited a long time for you to ripen. I've watched that delicious ass wiggle as you scrap and toil. Now you are ready to be completely mine. You have no place to go. You will have to rely on your Gyutaro," he cackled against your chest.

Pulling the rest of your kimono open with a violent jerk. Exposing your sickly flesh to the cold air, making your burning lungs gasp in shock. Your skin breaks out in goose bumps as you shiver from the frigid draft and his warm tongue lapping your hardening peaks. Suckling and playing with them too roughly, you moaned in pain, not pleasure. Everything aches. The longer he exposes you to the cold, the worse it gets.

"These saved your life. If I had not felt these hard nipples on my back, I would have killed you for talking back to me. Ooooh, the heat of your cunt on my spine," He moaned as a shudder ran through him. He pinched and peaked your nipples, rubbing his thick cock roughly on you.

"It hurts," you whimpered. He threw his head back in a horrible cackle. He ground his sharp hips and his large hard presses against yours, crying out at the intense pain he was sending through your middle. Spreading you open for his pleasure.

"It will be excruciating. I asked around. Little virgin. You will suffer and cry because you are weak and mine. I will take excellent care of you. I won't eat you. You'll beg to be a demon like me. It was delicious. The old woman got blamed over my meal," he giggled. You are not a virgin, but you will never tell him that because he is completely insane. Claiming to be a literal demon is a sign of insanity. He seems to be getting harder the more he mocks you. It's already too big. It has been a long time since you did have sex. He was right. This would be painful if you didn't escape.

It was hard to breathe in the cold already. You shivered and groaned. He growled in satisfaction at your pain. Loosening his baggy pants. What spring out to smack your sex makes you whimper and jerk in fear. His cock is not normal looking. None of him had ever looked normal, but this was extreme. He reminded you of a praying mantis. His upper legs are bulky compared to the rest of his body. Pressing his boney hips between your legs until you open enough for him. His cock that he languidly strokes, drool spilling over the top of your belly from his overly thick tip. His sickly tint, three spots, and a splash of diseased black make you shudder in fear. A prominent bulge below the head of his cock. You already feel weak. But when you saw that thing between his legs, spitting venom on you, you felt cold, and the blood drained from you.

"Why are you trembling like a leaf? Is it because you're afraid of me? Because you're weak and helpless? Either way, I find it so pretty," He chuckled, roughly spreading you apart. He stares and inspects you with slack-jawed interest.

Closing one eye, he concentrates on rubbing himself against you. Using your wet folds as a lubricant. He lined himself up, and you squirmed and panted shallowly as he rubbed the head of his dick over your sensitive clit. Intense sensations run through your middle. Notching himself, he thrusts his hips forward. He slips, hitting your clit. You twist in pain and cry out. That throbbing thick beast he gripped was shiny with your slick, the tip dripping cum, pumping it three times, squeezing that dirty seed on your belly. He tries twice more, slipping on your slick, forcing you to hold still with one rough hand on your bare thigh.

"I know, Daki!" He hisses. That confused you more than anything. His sister is not here. Why is he thinking or talking about her now, in this intimate moment? Maybe those disgusting rumors are true.

"No! Stop this! It hurts. Please Gyutaro. If you had asked, I would have given this to you. But it would have been together. Not like this," you plead.

Gyutaro does not appear to be listening to you. He is panting, his eye looking through you, staring a thousand miles away. Mumbling about Daki while spreading your legs wider with a tight grip on your thigh. Gripping the head of his cock with the other and pressing at your entrance. He thrusted his hips forward hard, finally pushing past your resistive entrance. You squirmed while he groaned, his eyes opening in surprise.

"Such a little hole. Doesn't look big enough," he groaned. It's when you realize, Gyutaro is the virgin. Gripping your waist harshly. You screamed as his head pushed in, stretching your entrance painfully. Forcing past your squeezing walls. You tried to squirm away, but he followed you before pressing painfully hard on your thigh. Driving you completely open while pinning you like an insect as he anchored himself deep inside you until he bottomed out. His legs and arms trembled for a moment before he burst out laughing.

"You look completely miserable and pathetic," he chuckled. Eyes heavy with lust as he presses his boney against yours. You can't breathe. You squirm, pinned in the middle to the mat with his thick heavy cock, "Quit struggling. It's useless. Behave, and I will cover us in blankets."

You gasp for air and immediately stop fighting. Struggling only makes it harder to breathe anyway. Your body clenches around his twitching throbbing cock. It has not stopped seeping hot precum. That was a kind mercy. He made you slick when you couldn't produce anything but sad little pants. Tossing blankets over us both, he lightly pressed his body against yours again. Cradling you in his arms, his fingers loosening your hair, running through your locks, creating delicious tingles on your scalp. The light sniffling and nose nuzzling in your hair started to feel nice.

He's mean. He has always been mean and cruel to other people. But to you, he has always tempered it with gentle care. That soft touch is what broke you. You are dying one way or another. He may be diseased, a cruel monster, but you will accept his kindness because it was the most you have been given in a long time. Wrapping your arms weakly around his neck, you lift your head to press your lips to his. He was surprised again, with a wide jerk of surprise you both grunted at.

It hurts so deep in your center as shudders of pleasure creep and crawl through your body until you are dizzy with need. He began to thrust at a feverish pace of a rutting animal. You groan in gain as his grinding hips are sawing through yours. He is so thin and sharp. It's pure agony.

He stops, closing his eye and mumbling. "It's hurting her. Be of some use. You are stupid in everything else. Be good for something," He hisses this into the air, making you feel crazy. Who is he talking to? Maybe he is insane. Maybe you should dare to run? All this ran through your mind when he sheepishly asked you to "Lift your knees."

"Huh?" you asked before you thought it through. His hand's cup under your knees and pull them up violently when you don't respond immediately and press them down to either side of your head. Mewling, you try to hold back the tears.

"Lift your knees unless you want to suffer?" Seeing your suffering, he growled, a tinge of concern near the end. Are you insane, or does he care? You lift your legs with a cry. Your knees are in the crook of his elbows as he shifts with you. Not allowing you to get away. He's pushing deeper in you, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix. Oh god! It was a surface pleasure that ended in deep acne near the end. At least he wasn't sawing into your flesh. An ache deep inside you as you groaned and writhed under him.

One that lasted until the next full thrust. Instead of sharp hips rubbing on soft hips, they are cupping on the back of plush ass and thighs. Gyutaro's hips stuttered painfully slow at first. Like a shy virgin, he was timid, pulling his cock out and stuffing you again with a thickness that stretched you wide. Thrusting until he is firmly planted to the base. Until each thrust gave him more pleasure and confidence. Hovering over your moaning and grunting, his hair tickling your cheeks.

His lips come crashing against yours. Too wet, as you swallow his saliva and whimper. His tongue stroking over yours sensually. He grinds his cock deeper. Making you squeal in his mouth at the sharp pain and pleasure. Kissing against your cervix sharply enough to make you squeak and tear up. He nips your lower lip and pulls away with a loud slurp. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Panting so hard and hot you can see billowy clouds in the dark.

"You taste too good. If I'm not careful, I may end up devouring you differently. I have a ravenous appetite. That would be a shame. I rather like sad, pathetic things. I can relate. Poor little foreign toy," He chuckled.

Gyutaro's sad eyes brighten with each slow grinding thrust. His length stroking against your slick walls, that suck him back in with each long deep stroke. Each thrust warms your middle, picking up speed. It's quickly becoming a pyre in you.

"So tight and warm," he groaned, "You can't whimper like that. I don't like controlling my desire. You've already pushed me to the limit. I am ravenous. Tight flesh trying to keep me out."

Your hot, slick walls constrict while your nails dig into his flesh weakly. He gasps and grabs your hands, making you tear him open. He is completely insane! Your mind screams in utter fear. His blood sweeps, and then his wounds quickly heal. You scream in gut-dropping terror. The walls of your pussy constrict on his invading cock, making his thrusts slow. He groans and drools.

"Your living flesh is hot. It responds to my cock. So wet. Your fear makes me feral," he snarled in a sick joy. Ramming his hardening cock faster. Rolling his hips with a painfully delicious grind.

“No, no, no, no, no!” You are screaming and clawing at him for a different reason. Heat coils in you, burning the strength in your body with pure ecstasy. You are mentally numb, feeling fucked stupid, and diving into insanity yourself. This is not possible. Demons do not exist. Yet one is killing you with his cock. It did not make sense.

"Useless to argue and lie. Your cunt is sucking me back in. It does not want to let me go! Tight wet pussy. My pussy. It loves me. Your body is honest. Lewd woman. It is what saved you. Your body wants me!" He screamed manically, happy. Intense eyes boring into yours. Your lungs burn as the air is being crushed from you. The hot tension in your body tightens until it explodes in a blissful release.

His back arches push his cock in deeper. His mouth gaps into a primal scream. Hot jets of cum fill and overflow your cunt. Your vice grip quivering and milking him of every drop. Your bodies meld partially where you are connected. Bending your mind further into shock and pleasure. The sensations of desire are prolonged. Carnality racks through both your bodies sharing a pulse and rhythm. Your heart beats as one leaves you lost in a sea of conflicting emotions. A horrible burning that is seizing your thoughts and functions. You achieve nirvana as a floating sensation stops all the pain and leaves your physical body a trembling mess under Gyutaro.

"More." You force your physical self to gasp weakly. He shudders, panting, his lust-hooded eyes filled with love. A moment later, you can feel that love twitch mercilessly deep in your hot cum filled channel. You constrict on his cock like a python and gasp when you see you made him gasp. A little control in this chaotic moment made you so happy. You don't think you've ever felt this happy. Not when your life has been filled with bad luck and misery.

"You will be the death of me. I did not know I could do this with anyone other than, Daki. Even then, we were not able to meld like this. You enhanced my blood technique. You are mine. We are one. Do you feel that? That is the master's essence turning you into a demon. This is the most peaceful way than when I was initiated. Muzan didn't want to at first. But I convinced him by explaining the experiment for blood technique," he husked.

A roll of emotional switch in you. A wave of jealousy leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, which he feels. Smacking his lips, he was used to the flavor but surprised. You couldn't escape the meld even if you wanted to, which means he can't either. How dare he talk about his sister when he's fucking you. Not only did you not understand the stupid things he was saying, but it enraged you that even at this moment, he was saying gross things about his sister while he was buried in you . You! Not Daki! You.

"You need to shut up!" You wheeze, clamping your lips over his. Gyutaro lifted you in his strong arms, pressing you to flush, tongue massaging yours. Feeling his chest expand and collapse. You envy them. He separates enough to thrust up. Forcefully rubbing you along his body as he pumps you up and down on his length as you are a limp drooling mess in his arms. This time when you cum at his length, stars burst into your vision. The darkness clouds your eyesight.

When you wake again, all your pain is gone. The pain of your spite lingers, as it's a scar that is too deep to no longer feel, even if you don't entirely remember it, but your physical pain is no more. Gyutaro is shoving delicious meat in your mouth. Washing it down with blood, he feeds to you with his mouth like a mother hen. He truly loves you, and you feel your body growing stronger.

"The Master understands your pain. This is the way we are even in the world. We will make them pay. I always collect," he groaned. Feed you more. An overwhelming need to kill and collect with your love wells up.

"I want to kill all those that have thrown rocks and made my life more miserable," you plead. He giggled.

"Don't worry. I already collected. You are eating one of your neighbors as we speak. They will never catch us. Master Muzan wants you to infiltrate the churches. With your exotic looks, they will trust you. You will serve Daki and me. But I will take care of you both. You don't have to think too hard, my love," He cooed.

You nod in appreciation. Life has been so much easier since you've become a demon. You became Daki's servant as she went to a better house. She is still a brat but treats you with love. Sometimes kissing and lingering longer than you enjoy. They make it clear they are one, and you are their beloved. Your blood magic has been getting stronger to assist your loves. You emit smells that connect to a person's positive memory. It helps Daki manipulate people.

You admire how she can be charming. Filling with pride when they praise you for making her job more manageable. You manipulate records, and Daki is never caught for being ageless. You are happy until you are killed by a Hashira. At least it wasn't an apprentice demon slayer. You wait. You wait for them. Watching and lamenting as Gyaturo decides it will be better to hibernate within Daki. Even in death, you are second. You think, rolling your eyes in limbo. He only ever wanted the best for her that was not granted by birth. He loved you dearly, and now that you are gone, he rather be in Daki's shadow.

You hated the red boy but were grateful he stopped their fighting during their final moments. He was right. They feel that way about each other, but their heart of hearts do not mean it. You rejoiced when you saw them in the flames. Gladly following them. Gyutaro and Daki guiding you with them. They remember you and don't regret their love and faith in you. Gyutaro weakly tries to send you away. But like Daki, you can't. He lifts you with one arm, Daki wrapping your child limb around your neck to help stable you as you all cling together. Gyutaro is strong enough to carry and love you both.

That is true love.

#gyutaro x reader #gyutaro x y/n #gyutaro x you #gyutaro #demon slayer x y/n

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