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lilac-5ky · 1 year

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Hi there! Your writing is awesome!!! I love your headcanons and fics as they feel so spot on ❤️❤️❤️

I have a request if you are accepting - imma be angsty today - do you have any headcanons for Gintoki when he realizes he loves someone who was in love with him too late?

Thank you for this awesome blog!!! Makes my day to see posts!

A/N: Hi! It's been ages since I've done a request, but I was feeling generous (bad about being this lazy) and thought I'd give it a shot! Turned out more like a mini thing than headcanons lmao oops. HOPE THIS WAS GOOD ENOUGH, HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING FOR GINTOKI IN AGES, and THANK YOU FOR YOUR WONDERFUL WORDS! Hearing such lovely words is enough to make my day!

Warning: Didn't proofread .-. Angst

Gintoki was a bastard. Nothing new or foreign in particular. Everyone acquainted to the silver-haired samurai could name at least 10 negative traits of his, struggling to name just one good quality that would redeem him.

Everyone, except of you, that was. You didn't see Gintoki as the lazy, parasitic, sleazy, sadistic, gambling-addicted drunkard (wow he really has a lot of negatives) they made him out to be. You saw Gintoki for the kindhearted man that he was. The one who went around risking the color of his soul just to save another. The one who was whatever those around him wanted him to be: a friend, a brother, a hero, and why not a lover?

Admiration turned into Infatuation, tricking your heart into thinking you loved him. You'd linger around Yorozuya, offloading whatever menial task you could think of just for the chance to see him. Be it cleaning the leaves from your porch, killing that one cockroach that had sneaked in (one that had him running laps around the house while screaming for help) and even being your plus one to the wedding of a friend.

You dreamed of a day when you wouldn't have to come up with excuses for his company, and seeing as there were only so many times you could call him up to unplug your toilet before you ran low on cash, you decided to pour your heart out.

Kagura and Shinpachi knew. So when you asked Gintoki if he could meet you at your place on his own, they dolled him up and sent him your way with a "Good Luck" whose meaning he didn't quite understood until he saw you cradling a heart shaped box of chocolates-- plush cheeks flushing red, while pink lips curved into a shy smile.

"Gin-toki," the name shattered on your tongue. "I... I love you. Go out with me, please."

He stared at you for quite a while, as if you'd just uttered the world's most complicated joke. He wasn't sure if he should laugh or ask you if he knew what kind of crap you'd spat, and him being eager to verify his reputation chose the second.

"The yard seems clean enough to me. I'll be going now," he said, rejecting not just you, but the boxes of chocolate as it fell open onto the ground.

The next few hours were the hardest. Sleeping on the same pillow where you daydreamed all about your future with him felt like sleeping on glasses of your shattered dreams. Not even an answer, not a single explanation. He'd broken your heart with such ease that it terrified you. How plausible was it that in this new era of canine looking Amanto and flying cars some alien had taken over his body and wore it around like a heart-less, soul-less puppet?

Denial.

It was easier to deny all that had transpired and pretended it never happened. You even passed by Yorozuya the next morning, willing to give this another chance, telling yourself that man wasn't Gintoki. But when you saw his apathetic face reading the newest Jump and picking his nose even in your presence, you couldn't stop the tears from streaming down your puffy eyes.

Anger.

It didn't take long for you to join the ranks of Gintoki's haters, seeing the man as nothing short of the Devil himself. Every terrible thing that happened, you pinned on him. Bumping onto the kitchen cabinet? He was jinxing you from afar. Running out of gas in the middle of town? He must have stolen it while you were asleep. A terrorist attack nearby? Weren't those goons Gintoki's old war-pals? Every natural phenomena, every misfortune of this world and the next was Gintoki's fault. Love? The mere notion that you once loved him made you laugh. Hatred was all you had left.

Bargaining

With each passing day, you felt your fury redirecting at you, gnawing and clawing at your insides, while small "What If's" plagued your mind like maggots. What if you hadn't confessed that day? What if instead of your place you'd called him to a restaurant? What if you'd gotten a different brand of chocolates? What if--

Depression

You couldn't remember when the last time you'd gotten out of bed was. Balled up tissues framed the four corners of the room, the tears contained in them enough to cause a shipwreck. You didn't want to see anyone anymore, afraid that if you did you'd spot a resemblance between them and the man your heart longed to see the most. You didn't hate him anymore... you missed him. You missed the sound of his name so badly that it threaded itself between pitiful chokes and sobs like a rosary.

You missed him.

Acceptance

The days in your calendar kept shifting until a month had passed. Taking baby steps, you'd done your best to return to an inchoate routine. You woke up, washed your teeth, showered, checked the functionality of your toilet's flush, ate breakfast and went to work, where you stayed until the stack of paperwork diminished, and until you were rewarded for your efforts in the form of a promotion. Your coworkers cheered for you, and for a moment life felt good again because you'd stopped searching for the familiar hue of a silver mop.

You were fine.

The route Gintoki took to and from the pachinko parlor he frequented was predetermined. On hot days, he'd stop by that one ice cream joint with the world's greatest (and most affordable) soft serve. On cold days, he'd trade that for a warm bowl of red bean soup. Then he'd be on his way to the convenient store to grab the latest Jump and finish his day with a drink at the old hag's place.

Gintoki always took the same route, except of that one day he hadn't. The worn-out soles of his black boots carried him in the opposite direction of all those places and even home, bringing him to stand outside the two-floor house with the porch that needing cleaning regardless of season; your house.

He hadn't heard anything from you since God knows how long, and why would he? No one needed to remind him how much of a jerk he'd been, for the words in his brain repeated like a broken record he couldn't afford fixing. He was worse than a jerk. A despicable caricature of a man that couldn't own to the fact that he'd grown fond of you the same way you'd come to love him.

The look of absolute endearment whenever your eyes spotted him, a look that didn't change despite the crudeness of his actions. He loved that. The shaky fluctuations in your tone whenever he'd sit close enough to feel your hair tingling his face. He loved that, too. The smile that shone as bright as the sun itself and the little hand that waved at him -gosh, how he longed to hold that hand in his and compare the difference in size- goodbye. He loved that all so much. Too much. He loved you.

Or else why would he be standing out there when his beloved weather girl had issued a thunderstorm warning?

With his hands buried in his pockets, Gintoki circled the picket fence of your porch, head tilting between the wooden cracks at a chance to see your face. How was he supposed to start? Would an apology do? Would letting himself be beaten by that rusty rake or drenched from head to toe by your garden's hose do? How many "I love you's" would he need to spell out to convince you he was any less of a bastard than you made him out to be? What would it take for your forgiveness?

His fingers weaved through locks of silver, threatening to pluck them out. If he told you the truth, that he thought you deserved something better than a basket case samurai with no more than 300 yen in his name, he'd seem like a complete idiot. If he told you that the ghosts of the past he'd tried so hard to evade were catching up to him, you'd mistake him for a coward. And if he selfishly grabbed your hand and forced it against his chest, he knew he'd never be able to hear the three little words that directly countered those you'd said before.

"Gintoki, what are you doing here?"

The track of guilt gave way to the sweetest melody known to his ears, hope daring spur him on. He wore his gentlest smile and turned around to face you, the same hope digging like a knife inside his wretched heart at the sight of fingers -ten, in total- intertwined together, five of them belonging to you and the other to a man whose face didn't matter. All that mattered was the joy plastered on your pursed lips, one he saw fade away the second your eyes locked. One that was meant for him no more.

"The yard seems clean enough to me," he pointed beyond the fence, boots diving in the first of Ketsuno Ana's warnings as the sorrowful record resumed.

"I'll be going now."

#gintoki imagine #gintoki oneshot #gin oneshot #gin imagine #gintama #gintama oneshot #gintama fanfiction #gintama imagine #anon requests #gintoki x reader #gin x reader #sakata gintoki #gintoki sakata #gintoki angst #gin angst #gintama angst

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everyones-least-favorite-bard · 11 months

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more western au!! this piece takes place before kdj fakes his death the first time but after he and hsy have met. enjoy!!

They’ve been talking for somewhere upwards of an hour (about inanities, nothing of substance, really) when the wind howls for the first time.

The rickety wicker chairs he and Han Sooyoung are sitting in creak with every move—a trait she says they had from the moment she bought them, but as Kim Dokja watches her tip the chair so far back she’s nearly parallel to the ground, he’s not inclined to believe her. Sheriff Han Sooyoung, he’s finding, seems to be intimately familiar with the concept of hyperbole.

“Wind’s roarin’. Probably should get yourself indoors,” she says, lips still curled around the blunt end of a cigar.

He’s not stupid. He’s lived in this town longer than she has; he knows the signs of a dust storm brewing just as well as any other desert-dweller. There’s been an impenetrable wall of ruddy brown slowly encroaching on the horizon for a while now, accompanied by great hanging fist-like clouds. The air smells faintly of ozone, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up as the wind sweeps up plumes of dust. The issue is not that he doesn’t know better: the problem is that he doesn’t have an indoors to get himself inside.

But that’s none of her concern.

“I’m aware.” He’s quite proud of how neutral he sounds. He still hasn't quite figured out where exactly he'll hide out at, but he'll think of something. It's sort of his thing.

She must read some of his thoughts off his face as her fine brow develops a narrow crease, the corner of her mouth pulling into the beginnings of a scowl. "You haven't got anywhere to go, huh?"

He waves her off, pushing out of his seat. "I'll find a barn to lay low in. Shouldn't be too hard t'find a soft-hearted farmer."

It clearly isn't the assuaging remark he intends it to be because the crease furrows further and her discontent is written outright in the sharp line of her narrowed eyes.

But she doesn't say anything further, so he takes it as permission to leave. He's about to step off the porch when he hears the rasp of Sooyoung putting out her cigar.

"Get your ass back here. I'm not done with you."

There's always been a sharpness to her, even from the moment they first met. He'd caught her counting cards at the poker tables back at the saloon, and almost called her out on it but she'd removed her pearl-handled pistol from its holster and set it very calmly on the table, watching him with dark, narrowed eyes. He can’t shake the feeling that she hasn't stopped watching him since, the vague feeling of those near-black eyes tracking him as he slunk out into the alleyway behind the saloon, the sensation prickling his nerves, raising the hair on the back of his neck—the rumble before a storm.

He turns back around, cracking a crooked grin. "Miss me already? You should've said so."

Now normally, she'd scowl further at him or something, canines flashing like a disgruntled cat. He'd ruffle her hair and she'd kick him in the shins probably harder than necessary and they'd bicker in good faith for maybe another half hour or so before she'd let him go.

She's frowning though. She's standing now, one hand resting on the table by the little clay ashtray he’d given her that Biyoo had given him before he stppped smoking.

"You don’t have to leave, you know," she says. There's something weird in her voice, neither the blunt cruelty inherent to her resting speech nor the cold sharpness of her rage. It's foreign, it's not cold at all but Dokja's still hesitant to call it warm, and whether that's a result of his opinion on her capability for it or on his viability as a receptacle for it is between him and the nearest bottle of gin he can supplicate himself to.

"What, gonna put me up in a cell, sheriff? How generous." He feels vaguely itchy. It's a little windier now, the wind rustling his hair some, whipping in front of his eyes. He's probably overdue for a trim.

Now she scowls. "Just get inside." She turns away from him and picks up the stub of her cigar and the little ashtray with surprising gentleness, then kicks open the door to the station with barely contained violence. It's a rather fitting tableau of her general demeanor.

She doesn't hold it open for him though, and he's halfway tempted to leave anyway, but she throws a, "and I best not turn around and see you gone," over her shoulder so he follows behind her.

Her boots click on the wooden floors, the keys at her hip rattling against her gun and holster, echoing strangely in the empty station. There's a reasonably nice sitting area, a vase of flowers on the cusp of wilting in the middle of a low table atop a cream and black woven runner done in some geometric pattern he doesn't particularly care enough to remember the name of. Her desk is littered with papers, mugs and cups and what may have once been a brandy snifter before its inevitable surrender to a thick layer of dust speckled in between the deluge. It's not the first time he's been in the station—as a tenant or a visitor—but there’s an eerie emptiness to it, an undefineable aura of solitude, of liminality, compounded by the still howling wind just outside, the faint rattle of the window hatch.

She throws open a door in the back, leading to a narrow stairwell only faintly lit by the watery brownish light coming from the windows and receding fully into black nothingness by the fifth or sixth step.

"You gonna keep gawkin'?"

"Not much to gawk at," he fires back on instinct, and he's rewarded with a familiar scowl and some irritated-sounding muttering.

"Just get up here."

He grins and follows behind her, up two flights of stairs (one step creaked particularly violently and Sooyoung cackled ahead of him), coming up to a cozy apartment space. Cozy being a generous descriptor, as it seems half of it has been overtaken by more filing cabinets and a truely hideous rug hanging on the wall to his left. But otherwise its almost pleasant; there's a kitchenette with a stout little wood fire stove towards the back, a lounge chair with only maybe two or three cigarette burns with another nice textile blanket in the same geometric pattern as the runner downstairs across the back of it, a little bookshelf with six or seven dog-eared books beside it. He’s almost put off by how nice it is, how lived in it feels. The itchy feeling persists, and he has to actively push down the urge to spin on his heel and run.

She stoops down in front of a cabinet in the kitchen space and retrieves a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses.

"Sit," she says, pointing sharply at the couch, "and don't think I didn't notice you ditherin' by the door."

He sits. She walks over and drops beside him, setting the bottle and the glasses on the table in front of them with a noticeable plonk. She flicks the top of the bottle open and deposits a heavy pour into both glasses before handing one to him.

He takes a tentative sip and nearly gags. "Lord, that's awful. You could strip the color off a horse with that, good God, woman."

She laughs, sharp and feral. "Good. Now drink."

He wrinkles his nose and takes a delicate sip, watching out of the corner of his eye as she drains the glass in one go, slamming the glass back down with a sigh.

"So," she says.

"So."

She wipes the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. "You don’t have a place to crash."

A part of him has a very specific direction he'd like this to go, possibly including some of the highlights from a few late night reveries he’s awoken from red-faced and trembling, but he shoves that part very far down and schools his face into something approaching neutrality. "I don't," he says tentatively.

"I happen to have a perfectly serviceable couch and a slight excess of funding that I'm inclined to spend."

He picks up his glass again, takes another sip of the sharply acrid liquid. "I'm strugglin' to see where this involves me."

Again, normally she'd snap at him, maybe throw some insults, make a few disparaging comments on the integrity of his mother, and he'd laugh them off. Call her short or something. She doesn't do any of that.

Sooyoung shifts so she's facing him directly, the weight of her stare pinning him in place. The wind whispers, wraith-like, rattling the windows, a sign of impending destruction. There's a cruel irony in it, and if he were a braver man he might even comment on it. But he isn't so he looks away and swirls the gold-ish liquid in his glass.

"You're staying here." She's blunt again, and he can feel her eyes on him. The weight of her undivided attention is near unbearable and he has to fight not to squirm. "No," she says, and she puts her hand on his thigh, "I want you to stay here, but I won't hear any arguments."

He swallows. Her nails are long, pressing slightly into his leg. He can’t seem to get his thoughts in order enough to protest.

It's never escaped his notice that Han Sooyoung is, objectively speaking, a very attractive woman. Her eyes are dark and framed by softly curling lashes, a mole on one side atop sharp cheekbones. Her mouth, while thin, is a reddish-pinkish color, like blood in water, and her teeth are white and straight. She's pretty short even with the not-insubstantial heel on her boots—a source of ire for her, but he’s always thought it was kind of nice how he could easily put his arm around her shoulder if he wanted. He never has, of course. The point is that she's beautiful enough to have no reason to be putting her hand on the leg of someone like him, and especially none inviting him to stay in her home.

But he’s selfish. It's perhaps his only consistency, the only real thing about him. Much of Kim Dokja is a construct developed in the moment, for the moment, but self-absorption is something thats stuck on all fronts. He wants her to keep her hand there, he wants her to put her head on his shoulder, thread her hand through his hair, rake her nails down his spine—he wants her beside him, he wants her around him, he wants to hear her say his name, low in her throat, shaped by red lips—

He wants her badly enough to know he shouldn't, so in what is perhaps among the only good things he's ever done he drains the rest of his drink and gets up, letting her hand slip off his leg.

"Nice to see you've developed a charitable streak, sheriff. But I really ought t'be getting back." He dusts imaginary dirt off his pants, ignoring the spot of warmth where her hand was. "Han Myungoh'll have my hide if I skip out again."

She should be furious with him. He wants her to be furious, he wants her to yank him back onto her couch and pin him down, she wants her to hold him back so he can never leave again. But she doesn't, so he opens the door and goes back down the rickety stairs and ignores the wind, the itching desire crawling up his spine, and steps back out into the storm.

#ow ough agh #this one actually hurt me a little more than the last one tbh #idk doksoo just hits diff #im not super happy with the hsy characterization but #cest la vie ill do better next time #orv #orv western au #omniscient reader's viewpoint #omniscient reader #kim dokja #kdj #han sooyoung #hsy #doksoo

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samantha-and-her-chaotic-desires · 8 months

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BELOW THE SURFACE: CHAPTER TWO: Cyanide's Touch

Below the Surface: A 2023 Lackadaisy Fanfiction...now posted here, there, and NOW on Tumblr. Enjoy!

TW: poisoning, blood, vomit, violence and gore: If you are uncomfortable with these things, SKIP AHEAD. While the gore and blood is at the end, I will mark it accordingly.

---"Too many of us treat guns with genial familiarity. Guns should give us the heebie-jeebies. They are killing machines. That is all they are. We should dread them the way we dread cancer and cyanide and electric chairs." - Author: Kurt Vonnegut Jr.---

"His voice means to deceive you...my voice just wants to lead you...Below the Surface."

-🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹-

A night of witnessing poker playing and other gambling games increased his headache.Yet Mordecai Heller still remained by Asa Sweet’s side for that night. All these rich people, wasting their time and wealth on betting games. Occasionally, Asa nudged him into a game or two.

“I’m uninterested in such a rambunctious activity, Mr. Sweet,” Mordecai told him in a flat tone, and Mr. Sweet would only reply with a smirk and a shrug of his shoulders, before returning to his gambles.

“Aw, really? I thought you were the type of guy to be exceptionally good at gin rummy~”

Mordecai’s ears flicked up slightly, turning his head to face the Savannah cat in front of him: Silas Tueuse, French actor.

“I can assure you, I would rather not.” He remarked in disdain, trying to keep himself up to be professional, yet somewhat polite. “Besides: I am not one to lose myself over such antics.”

“Aww, what a spoil sport.” Silas inched closer to the tuxedo cat, his own ears flicking upward, and his tail fluffed up. Mordecai looked into his yellowish green eyes, and his frown deepened. He watched the Savannah cat breed carefully and very closely. He watched his neck length, brown and highlighted hair, seeing how much it bounced as Silas moved and turned his head.

“That’s what I keep telling the boy,” Mr. Sweet chuckled, giving Mordecai a gentle nudge. Mordecai suppressed the urge to roll his eyes yet again, but despite that, he couldn’t help but to give an unnoticeable smirk at his boss’s remark.

“I can always help loosen you up~” Silas offered, leaning back in his chair, his legs opening slightly. Mordecai had a close–mouthed grimace curl onto his lips, his ears flattening against the back of his head. He and Mr. Sweet shared uncomfortable glances of the innuendo Silas proceeded to practically shove into their faces.

“I like to decline that, very much.” Mordecai cleared his throat, turning his head away. Silas shrugged with his right shoulder, leaning back more.

“Your loss, then.” He ran his tongue on the top row of his canines. He turned to face another hotel member, now chatting away. This hotel member was named Roberto, a quiet and shy type of man. Silas was trying to flirt with him and get him out of his shell, in order to do unholy things.

“Uch…” Mordecai pinched the bridge of his nose, and felt a gentle pat on his arm from Mr. Sweet, and it somehow eased him for the given moment. The rest of the night was still rather loud, but eventually it all ended. Silas brought some poor unfortunate fellow along to God knows where, and the office had been emptied, aside from Mr. Sweet and Mordecai.

“Well, they certainly got their money’s worth.” Mr. Sweet spoke up, leaning back in his chair and sorting out the dollars he had. He lit up a cigar, intaking some of the smoke, then exhaling out his nose.

“I have yet to commiserate with the fools and how they spill out their wealth over a simple game of gin rummy.” The tuxedo cat finally brought up.

“Ah, don’t act like you don’t enjoy a round of gin rummy.” Mr. Sweet chuckled, pulling out his cigar from his mouth. “You’re quite good at it, you know.”

Mordecai’s ears flattened further on his head, eyes narrowing more. His sharp and cold glare softened, just for a split second, before shifting back to the cold and stoic gaze he always harbored. “...I don’t play gin rummy much anymore.”

“Painful memories, eh?”

“Very much so.”

“Understood.”

There was more silence, aside from Mordecai taking out his pocket watch and flicking it open to notice the time. He rolled his eyes and flicked the lid of the pocket watch shut with a loud click.

“Son, there’s been many things going on in the shadows of St. Louis.” Mr. Sweet finally sat up fully, turning to face Mordecai.

“Isn’t there always, Mr. Sweet?” Mordecai cocked a brow, putting away his pocket watch.

“Not like this…amongst us rum–runners is something dangerous…more dangerous than usual.” Mr. Sweet leaned forward, gesturing with his free hand. “I’ve had too many employees rush into my office to tell me that my hotel residents are dying in their rooms.”

Mordecai faltered, blinking once, twice, registering the words his boss had spoken. “Dying?”

“Killed, it doesn’t matter how: what matters is that they’re dead. Unmoved. Complete cadavers.”

“I understood that part completely, Mr Sweet, you needn’t explain a thing.”

“...do you remember Mrs. Smitt?”

“Quite well, in fact. She was the kind and feeble elderly woman who came in to spend the night here after her daughter’s baby shower. That way she could hop on a train to return safely to Detroit.”

Mr. Sweet’s eyes dulled: “...she’s dead.”

“...excuse me?” Mordecai paused again. “...she’s dead?”

“Staff found her with a slit throat in a pool of her own bloodied water in the bathtub.”

“Christ…”

“It was one of the grizzlier murders…like something you would’ve done on command.”

“When was the murder, sir?”

“Two days ago, eleven–thirty pm, sharp. ”

“I was right beside you while you were busy playing roulette.”

Mr. Sweet gave a hearty chuckle, clapping the other’s shoulder. “I’m well aware. You never left my side during nights like those.”

“It’s my job, after all.” Mordecai gave a single, firm nod. Mr. Sweet gave him a genuine grin, and Mordecai’s expression finally broke out into a small smirk. It quickly faded into a nonchalant expression as he gazed forward. He pursed his lips tightly, keeping himself silent. The news of murder circulated in his thoughts, turning cogs in his head as he began to wonder who Marigold was dealing with…

***

The poor man had no idea what hit him.

Roberto stole each kiss from Silas, being lured away into a pool room, tucked away into a further corner of Hotel Maribel. Silas giggled at Roberto, stroking his chin as he pressed him against the pool table.

“Ah, damn…” Roberto let out a shudder, feeling Silas’s hands rove across his chest. Silas gave a crooked grin, baring his sharp fangs.

“You like that, don’t you?” He chided, bringing his lips closer to Roberto’s neck. Roberto let out a shriveling moan, leaning into the bite.

“Y–yes…” He admitted softly, gently. He hastily gripped onto Silas’s top, but Silas guided the hands away.

“Nah–ah–ah…not until you had a drink. Just one more: for me?~” Silas stroked Roberto’s chin, then strutted away to shut the double doors, then sauntered over to a drink cart. Roberto slumped against the pool table, letting out a small, unheard whimper. Silas kept his back turned, hiding the fact that while he was pouring Roberto his favorite gin, the Savannah Cat slipped in poison. No…

…he poured in cyanide. Yet Roberto was too blinded and a bit too drunk. Silas hummed a haunting tune, slipping the cyanide bottle into his pocket, then swung himself around, holding Roberto’s whiskey and giving it to him, gently caressing his shoulder.

“Drink up,” Silas hummed, “we don’t want you to get parched~” He planted one last kiss on his mouth, then strutted to get a pool stick. He got a chalk cube, chalking the cue slowly, deliberately, gears shifting in his head as he heard the ice clink against the glass when Roberto took a drink of the gin, the gentle gulp or two. Silas’s ears flicked at the sounds, and he grinned deviously: the cyanide would later take place…

***

“Peekon?”

Mordecai’s eyes snapped open, and his head whipped up. When did he fall asleep…? How did he let this happen? He was scolding himself…until he realized and felt the gentle draping of a jacket over him. He met yellow eyes and slit pupils, his shoulders dropping at the sight of Serafine. He gave a deep frown, sitting up slowly in his chair. He massaged his temples with his fingers, muttering something incoherently.

“I thought I locked the door.” He then brought up.

“Ya didn’t…I guess dat you felt too tired.” Nico chimed in. Mordecai stared at the Savoy siblings with dulled eyes. He gently took off the jacket, realizing that Serafine was wearing only her red undershirt, with her necklace of bones dangling almost elegantly…in a haunting manner. Ah…said jacket was hers.

“Which is rather indecorous of me, considering the current work location and time.” He handed it over to her, though a glimpse of gratefulness flashed through those olive eyes of his, before quickly fading.

“Mmh, you an’ your fancy words…don’ you get a bit tired of keepin’ all dat up, chér.” Nico gave a quick eye roll. There was a gentle clink of a mug on Mordecai’s desk, with a nice scent wafting into the trio’s senses.

“...did…” Mordecai stared at the mug of tea, his favorite, no less: Earl Gray. He eyed it skeptically, pursing his lips tightly.

“We listen, chér. No matter how much talkin’ you do, we listen .” Serafine slid the mug over more, just slightly. Mordecai blinked.

“...that’s rather unusual, coming from you and Nico.” His fingers curled around the handle of the mug, and he brought it over cautiously. “...no pranks? No Winchester sauce poured in as one of your practical jokes?” He raised a brow, smelling the fragrance: it was the usual, subtly citrusy scent, and his shoulders noticeably dropped. He felt relaxed, at least a bit more. Though he is going to be fuming if he finds that damn sauce in his tea… again. So reluctantly, he took a sip…and it tasted good. He was in pure shock. “...my apologies. I assumed before I found out.”

“No apologies, we don’ need any.” Nico shrugged it off. Mordecai took another sip, and he sighed, setting the cup down and he took off his pince–nez, rubbing his eyes with two fingers.

“...what are you doing here, anyhow? Don’t you have to attend your cult with…your chicken.” Mordecai used hand gestures. Nico and Serafine shared a fit of laughter, ringing through the tuxedo cat’s head.

“We’ve been stuck wit’ Mr. Sweet, jus’ like you, chér.” Serafine then slid her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, now adjusting how it felt.

“That’s rather unfortunate.” Mordecai deadpanned.

“Someting we can both agree on.” Serafine raised her brows slightly.

“A shocker.”

“Oh don’ tink dat you’re better than me.”

Both of them gave each other withering glares, with Nico staring with a somewhat wide–eyed stare. Serafine cracked a genuine grin, her eyes squinting: showing that she was thoroughly and honestly enjoying the banter she and Mordecai had going on. Mordecai gave a smirk, raising his own brows out of surprise.

“Hm. I wasn’t the one who carved a loa into someone’s chest.” He held a hand up. Serafine flicked her knife out, pointing at Mordecai as she watched his eyes narrow, and his tail fluff up in alarm.

“...hm. You learned a ting or two.” Nico hummed. “Dat’s a start.”

“Mhh, I suppose.” Mordecai swished around the tea in his mug. The office was quiet, now…despite the literal embodiments of chaos known as the Savoys standing directly in front of him. He couldn’t help but feel enlightened…barely.

The three heard footsteps, rushed, panicked even. Mordecai quickly moved to answer the door, and noticed how Mr. Sweet was now in front of him. There was an uncanny look of urgency in his boss’s eyes, and that meant something awful happened. Mr. Sweet put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it a bit.

“...there’s another victim of homicide, Mordecai.” He kept his voice lowered. Immediately, Mordecai let out a small noise of disturbance, then he gave a firm nod, pulling out his M1911 and gripping it tightly. Serafine’s head whipped to face the other two, as they rushed out of the room. She followed with curiosity eating at her, quickening the pace with her brother by her side.

“How did this happen?” Mordecai kept himself collected, being led by Mr. Sweet.

“Nobody knows what exactly happened…but there’s…” A look of disgust crossed Mr. Sweet’s face. Mordecai bit back the urge to grimace, but he continued forward.

“Peekon, what’s goin’ on?” Nico walked by the tuxedo cat, and Serafine wasn’t too far behind.

“Murders have been going on in the hotel. It’s becoming apparent that we are a target to this predator.” Mordecai took a sharp left, and the faint smell of vomit wafted into his nostrils. He let out a growl, ears pinning on his head as he reared back, bringing his arm to his nose and mouth, turning his upper body to face the other direction as he halted in front of closed double doors. He was missing the scent of his tea now.

“Ugh, what crawled up an’ died in dere?!” Serafine let out a quiet retching noise, suppressing a gag. Mr. Sweet swallowed thickly, then shoved open the doors to the secret pool room. When he showed the Marigold Trio what was causing such odors, it was apparent now. Crystal clear, and it made Mordecai’s stomach twist into knots.

(TW: blood, vomit and gore below!)

“What the hell?!” Serafine backed up, jerking away violently as she hit the back of a lounge chair. Nico reached for her, his ears pinning against the back of his head. His eyes were widened. The horror scene in the pool room. Blood splattered on the floors, but that’s not all. A pool stick was stabbed into Roberto’s right eye as he slumped against the wall. Vomit was on the floor, nearby his feet, and bits and pieces of bile caked the corners of his mouth. His mouth was open, as if he was trying to gasp for air before he was killed. His face was slightly tainted with blue and purple, due to suffocation. Cartilage from his stabbed eye stuck out and curled around the pool stick in a disgusting fashion, occasionally dripping blood or sloppily falling onto the floor in pieces.

(TW: blood, vomit and gore warning over!)

“Son of a…” Nico trailed off. Then, his brows creased as he tilted his head to the side: confusion crossed his face. He had no clue who was going this far to take such measures to massacre people like this. Serafine looked concerned more than she had ever seemed: her brows were angled, she dug her heel into the ground and planted herself. Mr. Sweet was tapping his foot rapidly, sweat beading his forehead over the situation and how there was, yet again, another murder in his hotel…and for the first time for the elaborate triggerman, hatchetman, ferocious shadow of Mr. Sweet, Mr. Mordecai Heller…

…his gun slipped out of his hand and hit the floor, and the world went silent and deathly still.

-🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹🌼🏵️🌹-

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godkilller · 8 months

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"Nah," he says, sliding off his branch and dropping, with a softness more catlike than his canine attributes would betray. The soft jingle of bells is the only indication that he's moved at all. "--not t'mortals anyway. If ya'd gotten here fifty years earlier, I wouldn'ta known a thing." He'd been human himself, then. "'m sorry ta say my master's out." He volunteers, even if the information had not been asked for. Chances are the kami had not been looking for the daitengu, but it is also awfully coincidental that they should be wandering here when this shrine is so remote. "What brings ya?"

A FLEETING GUISE OF AMUSEMENT STRETCHED ITS WAY INTO A SMILE, mentions of a master made the kami want to tease and prod akin to a crow tugging at one's tail. He could taste the scent from its sheer potency, it resided so thickly upon the spirit before him that he knew this master's name without them being announced. Whether or not a shrine was considered... remote meant little to the kami. He could find shrines whilst drowsing away in a lazy nap, truly, the gravitational pulls were difficult to ignore. No matter how neglected or abandoned, Gin could drift toward them all the same.

❝ Can I not take a stroll through the mountains like my kin? It's quiet here. ❞ Whispers of scattered wishes aside, the air was indeed quieter here. But Gin wasn't complaining about the swirling cluster of hushed yearning prayers that flowed around him akin to fireflies. No, he merely waved a hand, a dismissive little gesture that brought the lengthy drape of his sleeve to sway and shift. Azure eyes peeked through silver lashes, piercing into the very soul of all who fell beneath the vibrant gaze.

❝ If you two consider terrorizin' any villagers below for a quick snack 'n dash of worship, think 'bout how awful it'd be if I have to intervene... ❞ It'd be a grand shame if he'd been granting plentiful harvests only for those crops to be spent trying to appease this apparent boredom roused between guardian and its master. The thoughts weren't far from the other's mind, albeit Gin didn't taste any further into that slew of memories available at his unveiled glance. He sealed his eyes, an idle shrug whilst he spared Abarai's mind some privacy.

❝ Go lure a few merchants off th' mountain pass if you're so plagued. I won't mind, they should know better by now not to stray from their lil paths. ❞

#[ roleplay ] predator; murder on his mind & hymns on his tongue #[ au: inari ] he would name himself trickster; demon; before claiming divinity #arrives late with starbucks. pinkity drinkity.#also yes gin snooped i'm sorry. he's a nosy bitch.#but also the whole omnipresent thing. it's more lowkey than that but --#st i ll.#your thots: hand'em over --

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silverfactory · 2 years

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i said i would do these character-development questions for jack fairy, and i did 🫢

1. what is the character’s go-to drink order? a botanical cocktail, usually with gin or absinthe. sazerac, aviation, dirty martini, etc.

2. what is their grooming routine? extensive! most of their beauty routines aren’t unusual for their era — they use cold cream as a cleanser, and have an array of biba, lancôme, and chanel cosmetics — but they go the extra mile doing shit like pushing back their cuticles and taking primrose supplements. they color their hair with henna every two weeks, since it’s naturally a light, warm cinnamon-brown. facial hair is a dysphoria trigger for them, so they shave first thing every morning, often before any overnight guests see them. they also religiously shave or wax basically all of their body hair (not typical for the ‘70s), though this is something they start to relax post-glam when they’re in a steady relationship. grooming straddles a line between being deeply affirming for them and fraught with expectations of perfection.

3. what was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go? jack has a mix of cheap and extravagantly expensive things. they aren’t used to having as much money as they do now, so they still mostly live frugally, but in moments of stress they’ve been known to make some…less frugal purchases. they once bought an original salvador dali watercolor because they were fighting with malcolm. their black patent leather duster is a £2,000 custom piece from ossie clark. (also in general they love to spoil malcolm… he’ll say he’s cold and jack will be back in 10 minutes with a new fur coat.)

4. do they have any scars or tattoos? not exactly a scar, but one of their canine teeth is broken from a punch to the jaw (it has a porcelain crown). they also have miscellaneous knicks from childhood beatings, though you wouldn’t know unless you were looking for them.

5. what was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances? jack learned very young that things are better for them when they don’t cry, or at least don’t show it. they’re a bottler of emotions for sure. they get vivid, disorienting trauma dreams though and will sometimes cry when they wake up. this was how malcolm first saw them in tears.

6. are they an oldest, middle, youngest, or only child? they’re an only child, which was slightly unusual in an irish catholic household in the 1940s. their mother was in poor health and was never able to carry another baby to term.

7. describe the shoes they’re wearing. heeled chelsea boots in black patent leather, a little scuffed and dirty from walking around berlin.

8. describe the place where they sleep. jack’s bedroom has always felt like one of the few spaces that’s entirely their own, where as a queer person they aren’t going to be told to exist differently, and they treasure that. it feels very personal — soft and dark, with satin pillows and velvet drapes and deep green art nouveau wallpaper with a pattern of water lilies. smells like cigarettes and musky, herbal perfume. they have a bunch of dried bouquets and candles and a huge gilt-frame mirror they found on the street. their siamese cat maila is usually there too.

9. what is their favorite holiday? halloween. jack is here for any celebration of the weird and liminal. they grew up hearing that it’s the time when the veil between our world and the fairy world is the thinnest, and magic is at its peak.

10. what objects do they always carry around with them? for most of their life, the green brooch was basically a part of them. they still unconsciously reach for it sometimes. other than that… a pocket notebook for lyrics. medications, both legal (aspirin, tums) and less legal (acid, amphetamines), in an antique pillbox. lipstick. a comb. a mother-of-pearl compact mirror. small knife in case of harassment. cigarettes and a lighter. crystals and plain old rocks.

#velvet goldmine #jack fairy #this got long!!#it was so fun though

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candy-floss-crazy · 5 months

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Quirky Food Trucks, From A Container To A Rocket Launcher

At one time mobile catering consisted of almost entirely box shaped 'burger vans'. Occasionally someone with a touch of flair, or perhaps just a bit mad, would put together something quirky. With the dawn of the instagram generation, boxy burger vans suddenly dropped out of vogue. To get ahead you really needed people to be sharing your set up. Sure, good food was important, but it was no longer the sole arbiter of success. Your food truck needed to look better. We are going to be taking a look at some of the quirky, weird, wonderful and downright strange catering outlets around the world. Happy Larrys Shipping containers are ubiquitous throughout the world. A standardised method of transporting goods via road, rail and sea. Many of them however do find a second life as something totally different. From bars, to offices to mobile toilets. They have also found favour with catering vendors. The basic container is a strong watertight structure, that is built to accurate dimensions, and lends itself to conversions. Happy as Larry is an Australian company that specialises in selling Napoli-style wood fired pizza. A nice touch in this container conversion is that they have replaced much of one side with huge glass pains to give a real contemporary feel to it. Space Shuttle Cafe If you are looking for something to convert into a food truck, the most obvious thing you could think of is an aeroplane. Probably not! This one was converted to a mobile eatery by GMC in 1976. But it started life as an actual flying machine in 1944. Cotton Candy Jeep One of our favourites this, take an iconic WWII off road vehicle, and shove a cotton candy (candy floss if you live this side of the pond) machine in the back. Oh and for good measure paint it all pink. Walls Mini Ice Cream Truck Walls ran a campaign called 'Goodbye Serious', where they built a miniaturised ice cream truck designed to drive into offices and dispense their best selling goodies. This is one seriously quirky little food truck. Though some of our taller staff might struggle to operate in this one. K99 Ice Cream Cart This one is notable, not for being a different type of food truck. But because of its target market. This sells ice creams for your canine companions. That's right, doggy ice creams. Seems that scientists have discovered that gammon and chicken-flavored ice creams really hits the spot for our doggy friends. Vintage Caravan These are gaining in popularity, and are being used for everything from a gin bar to a burger joint. The ironic thing is, was during the late 90's, the fairground industry used these for staff quarters, then tended to scrap them at the end of the season. If they were scrapped, it wasn't unknow to just remove all identifying marks and leave them in a layby for the council to dispose of. You try buying one now, I have seen them advertised for upwards of £30k. Step Frame Food Truck More of a Stateside set up, they have a plethora of large step fram delivery vehicles from the likes of Dodge, Ford, GMC etc. These are pretty near the size of a 7.5 tonne lorry in the UK and make an ideal blank canvas to fit out as a mobile eatery Airstream Style Food Truck Another option hailing from the good ole US of A. Airstreams were originally touring caravans. Till some adventurous soul decided to cut the side out and add a kitchen. They are now a fairly regular sight on the UK scene. With both the original Airstream brand and a number of both EU based and Chinese manufacturers building similar looking trucks. Converted Vintage Horsebox Stunning Horsebox Food Truck Hire A regular sight nowadays, horseboxes are easy to obtain, pretty easy to convert and very flexible, though a bit on the small side for some catering options. Prices are steadily rising, to the benefit of anyone needing to dispose of a horsebox that's past it's sell by date. What you once would have scrapped, you can now get a tidy few grand for. Snow Mobile Food Truck This one is as far as we know, pretty unique. A burrito joint on a tracked snow mobile platform. Great for last minute corporate jobs in the arctic. Bloody noisy if you need to take it down the M1 motorway to London. London Red Bus Yoghurt Truck An iconic British vehicle this time, an ex London Routemaster bus, turned into a yoghurt dispensary by Snog. A cool vehicle for a cool brand serving a cool product (literally)! The Peanut Van Occasionally there are totally custom built trucks out there. I've seen vehicles that look like hot dogs, doughnuts, oranges. This one is a peanut. Leaves you in no doubt what the product is. Land Rover Ice Cream Truck Another off road vehicle pressed into service. We have already had a Willy's Jeep with a candyfloss machine. This one is the UK equivalent. In vehicles that is, not food. This is one cool ice cream truck. Monster Truck Another ice cream van. This time shoehorned into a monster truck. Unless you are 6ft 6 you need step ladders to be served here. Rocket Launcher Coffee Truck A big boys toy this one. A coffee truck on a rocket launcher. Though it didn't work out too well for two of the staff when they were arrested for causing panic on the streets of Malaysia. What's next, doughnuts served from a Challenger tank? Tactical Tapas Another paramilitary offering. Tapas from a tactical armoured car. It's all starting to get a bit Mad Max. Fire Engine The last couple of options were built on trucks designed to blow things up and start fires. These were designed to put them out. Popular both sides of the pond, though the US fire trucks just seem to be a lot more jazzy. Read the full article

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scritch-scratches · 2 years

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VAULT: punchline! [version 3] (?/?)

Gin is watching as the newcomer slips past the Gatekeeper with ease—the giant still cussing at him angrily as he blurs inside with a startlingly fast shunpo.

It’s curiosity that stays Gin’s hand from performing a quick draw and bisecting the intruder; after all, it’s not often that they get intruders, especially not ones that dress like humans. Gin can’t remember the last time he saw someone in jeans—he hasn’t been to the human world in ages—but the intruder’s got them, along with a black jacket with a hood.

He can’t see the intruder’s face, just a flash of white, but he waves cheerfully when the intruder spots him.

Immediately, the intruder skids to a stop and snarls, “You!” Like they know each other, and Gin means really, really know each other. Only people that know exactly how much of a sneaky dick Gin is greet him that way.

There’s a strange echo to the intruder’s voice, a sort of rasp, that doesn't sound healthy. More importantly, the intruder’s voice is young, distinctly so.

A sick teenager. Delightful!

“Why, hello there!” Gin greets, putting on his best smile: the one that always make poor Hinamori-chan squeak and run for the hills. “Can I help ya wit’ somethin’?” Distantly, he wonders if he killed the kid’s parents or something and this is a revenge thing, but then he remembers that he hasn’t really killed anyone recently. There’s been a disappointing lack of reason to. “Directions? A doctor? Directions to a doctor?”

He can’t see the kid’s face, but he can feel the confusion coming off the hostile invader in waves.

“Need some water? A cough drop?”

“Uhhh…” The kid scuffs the ground with a sneaker. It distinctly sounds like the kid is scowling behind that pesky hood of his, but that’s been a constant so far. Gin decides to classify this particular noise as baffled aggravation. “…No?”

“Alrighty, well then get on home now.” Gin gives the brat a shooing motion, back towards the gate. “Before yer Mama starts ta wonder where you got off ta.”

“Oh, okay,” the kid takes a dazed step back. Then: “Hey, wait a minute! No!”

Almost got ‘em.

Gin shrugs a little and tucks his hands back into his sleeves. “What, ya got business here or somethin’?”

“Yes!” The kid even stomps his foot. He’s adorable. Gin wants to mess with him forever.

“What kinda business?”

“None of yours!”

“Come on now, you can tell me.”

“Like hell!”

For the first time, the kid’s head lifts enough to jostle the hood, and Gin’s eyes fly open wide as the fabric shifts back to reveal what was hidden underneath.

A mask: ebony white, blood red, night black. Two rows of canine-sharp teeth set underneath monstrous eyes, the irises a brilliant gold and the sclera a solid black.

The kid ain’t sick. The kid’s a Hollow.

In Seireitei.

“Ah,” Gin says, “yer right, a cough drop ain’t fixin’ that.” But his Zanpakutou will.

#vault #blch #pl

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hanazou · 3 years

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╰ ⋆ ଓ. 𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢’𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 • ₊˚

warning : depression, suicide, and self-harm

note : Thank you for this request, anon! this can also be interpreted as a friends-to-lovers since I believe that before dating Dazai, you have to befriend him first in its earnest meaning. Sorry I had to post this without your ask, I accidentally posted without triple-checking so I redid it

𝗗𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗢𝗰𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

There’s never a dull day when you’re Dazai’s best friend.

You and he create codenames for everyone in the agency, some are super random that sometimes you forget who they’re for.

The rest are so painfully obvious just for the sake of getting good reactions from the said target (mainly Kunikida, sometimes Atsushi)

Kunikida is Miserable Four Eyed Single

Atsushi is Hello Kitty

Yosano is Don’t Even Try

Neither of you attempts to come up with one for Ranpo and don’t have the heart to give any for Kyouka

The Tanizaki siblings are Cherry Bombs and Kenji is Steak Harvester

None for Fukuzawa because although he’s cool with jokes, you and Dazai respect him and also don’t want to risk unemployment.

Those in Port Mafia get nicknames too.

Chuuya is Tangerine Slug. Dazai didn’t even try to get creative and you don’t bother

Mori is Overpriced Perfume because of his coat, tie, heavy cold perfume, and the smile of a potential sugar daddy.

Akutagawa is Angry Canine, Gin is Crawling Bat

Kouyou is Fancy Hot Pink

Hirotsu is Weathered Tobacco.

Kyuusaku is Daycare Child

You and Dazai toss balls of paper, Ranpo's candy wrapping, or anything else at each other from across the room.

Atsushi is stuck in the middle, both position-wise and “whose side are you on?”

You and Dazai argue to win over Atsushi’s good side so he’d help one of you throw paper at the other. You pull Atsushi’s right arm and Dazai pulls his left.

Of course Atsushi won’t side with any of you with that sharp glare from Kunikida that shivers him.

Prank wars are a must! Things always get crazy because Dazai is the epitome of turmoil and he has a high tolerance for the most annoying pranks.

Dazai spends half of the office's clear tape to stick them on the doorframe so you'd run your face onto it.

You drop a toy cockroach through his collar after sneaking behind him

He somehow knows which toilet stall you'll use (either you have a habit or he just… deduces) and tampers with the bidet beforehand.

He always puts a roll of toilet paper behind the closet though. If you don't panic or get too mad, you'll find it.

You spray your cologne/perfume directly at his face and say it's "to replace the nasty odour from his bandages" while he coughs.

You tie the waist belt of his trench coat he lets loose to door handles and watch him get caught and fall on his butt.

He often crashes at your place at ungodly hours to ravage the alcohol (sake) in your mini-fridge, bearing a bucket of crab sticks he’ll fry using your stove, and does it at least twice a week.

He comes to your place because his alcohol tolerance is wa~ay better than yours and he doesn’t want the trouble of dragging your wasted self home.

His living space isn't the best for a pair of hazards to drink in either, it has bad ventilation and is too cramped.

Do you know that kind of game show in Japan where the guests have to do super odd missions? That’s what you and Dazai watch while chewing on crabsticks

More often than not, Dazai gets too lazy to make the walk back home so he crashes at your place (not that he actually sleeps well with those neverending disturbing thoughts, just enters energy-saving mode)

When he “wakes up” earlier than you he uses your bathroom and every pleasant-smelling shampoo and body wash you have without hesitation.

Don't sleep in for too long because your face will not escape Dazai's permanent markers.

Why did he even bring markers?

You and Dazai arrive late because you took your sweet time beating him up for using too much soap and water.

Just by your simultaneous late arrival and Dazai’s oddly fragrant hair, Kunikida knows you and Dazai slacked off the night earlier and gives you both an earful.

You either stop Dazai from flirting with random women or join him when you see someone attractive.

If you stop him, grab him by the neck or ear and pull him away.

If you join him or even compete against him to woo his beauty, you have to come up with normal and better flirts to win her attention.

If you're his competitor, Dazai pushes you away by swinging his hips against yours to send you off stumbling.

Random duets while sounding like a constipated seagull with asphyxiation.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re a good singer or not. When Dazai starts his Double Suicide song your vocal cord is squeezed thin

Once, you and Dazai scared away the cat Fukuzawa wanted to pet.

Ranpo asks Kenji to get him earplugs to cover his ears from you and Dazai’s "singing". Yosano ends up asking for a pair too.

Spontaneous random hauls (during ungodly hours) to 100-yen stores (like Daiso) or 24-hour minimarkets. Sometimes it's a good way to let out some steam after a tiring day at work.

In case you don't know, 100-yen stores are super common in Japan. Every product sold there costs only 100 yen (the highest Japanese coin value)

95% of the bill is on you, of course. Dazai chips in with only like, 5,000 yen or 10,000 yen at the most

Dazai doesn't mind carrying all the bags since you paid for most of the products.

He buys the most random stuff too, like cat nail clippers.

"I'll give it to Atsushi-kun," He says.

"But I was the one who paid for it," You stare.

Eating hotpot at the roof of your apartment or any random building which roof is open (aka invade-worthy) at midnight.

The utensils, portable stove, and ingredients are on you. You can't expect Dazai to provide those when all he eats and drinks are alcohol and instant food

He's the one carrying everything behind you while you unlock (pick the lock) and open the door

Dazai always, tirelessly, tries to pour his whole sachet of MSG and you have to be quick to bust him before the whole soup is ruined

He pokes his chopsticks into your meatball and steals it just before you eat it

Everything becomes a mess from there.

The udon that got tangled between his chopsticks dropped on your thigh, the mat, and his own leg. The broth drips on everything

The mess aside, it’s very enjoyable with the dark sky, tiny stars, and cool breezy wind against your faces and hairs.

Dazai’s not the only one who crashes at his best friend’s place unprovoked, uninvited, and by unpopular demand.

You bring trash bags because you always have to dispose of the empty sake bottles, food wrapping, and leftovers he let flood his space.

If you don’t, you have to squeeze yourself to fit on the small untouched space on his floor because the rest of the area is hidden under the trash.

Dazai whines and says you’re nitpicky while sitting on the couch watching you clean, poking your back with his toe.

Sometimes you bring DVDs of old movies for you and Dazai to watch and diss together over soft drinks.

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗧𝗼𝗴𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿

You and Dazai often clash when Dazai isn’t mentoring Atsushi properly.

“What kind of mentor asks his newbie junior to help him get out of an oil drum on his first day of work?”

“I know not everybody can be me,” Dazai flails his hand.

Sometimes you feel the need to chaperone Dazai and Atsushi... just in case...

You have to be able to endure not knowing anything and just do things according to his plan because Dazai always keeps his strategies all to himself

Always be ready to be told to do the stupidest things

"Stand at the end of the plaza and make pigeon noises," This is something Dazai might tell you.

After arguing, you have no choice but to follow because as he claims, "Have my strategies ever failed?"

The ending will be something along the lines of the target you and Dazai pursuing use pigeon noises as their code and the voices you made disrupt their communication.

Dazai always has a cocky smile each time the mission is successful at the expense of your patience (and dignity).

Dazai trusts you to always have his back, even and especially when he puts himself out there as the dummy for the sake of success.

He doesn’t think twice about entering a building with a bomb inside to confront criminals while you’re left in charge to find the diffuser before it explodes, killing everyone and him included.

Or like when he counts on you to find the sniper in time while he strikes a ‘negotiation’ else he gets shot dead.

It's even more irritating how Dazai never bats an eye at the possibility of him dying while he always, stealthily, protects you from behind the stage

It's hypocritical of him and it angers you from how one-sided everything is.

You often rage at him about this after the jobs are done. It irks you even more how he never thinks it’s that big of a deal and always dismisses your emotions like it’s a casual day to day conversation.

(A fist or slap may be thrown at him in the heat of the moment.)

Dazai never gets fully convinced by your concerns about him, but he may compromise for future plans. It’s a slow journey that requires your patience and persistence.

𝗘𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗢𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿’𝘀 𝗦𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗦𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗺

Being his best friend means that there's a huge chance that you relate to his emptiness/hopelessness (or even both) since Dazai's emotional distance grows when faced with people who he deems is "in another world".

[If you're one of the people who walk under the light, unaware how it feels to have slimy dark hands creeping over you, it'll take longer for you to be his best friend.]

It's your second nature to keep an eye out for bandages on sale. You always buy a heap of them for Dazai. You see bandages, you think of him.

Dazai ‘thanks’ you each time by treating you for a night out at random bars to get wasted together

He actually rejects any woman’s advances so he can savour his time with you. Who else will he do that for?

Whatever depressing or embarrassing blurbs you both say out of drunkenness, they'll be forgotten when morning comes.

You continuously break into his living space to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. It terrifies you how you can never absolutely know what he does when you’re not with him considering how spontaneous his attempts are.

You always burn any rope before he makes a noose out of them

You throw out any suspicious pills and every blade you find

You properly sort any dangerous cleaning chemicals

You can never reach his infamous Complete Guide to Suicide book though, he always keeps it somewhere safe

You secretly install a couple’s app in his phone that gives you his location and alerts you if he’s out of range in case he tries to jumps into a river or off a building.

(He actually knows but for some reason, he doesn’t want to uninstall it. By gut feeling, you also know that he knows and are glad he keeps the app)

Dazai always protests each time you stop his suicide attempt, which may lead to arguments, but at least you'll see him tomorrow. You don't hear any genuine irritation in his complaints either.

When he looks like he doesn’t even want to crack a joke about what he’s feeling, you strike up a conversation as if nothing’s wrong

Dazai appreciates that. He doesn’t need advice, just a faithful presence that doesn’t judge him.

Your conversation with him circles around what he’s feeling without actually addressing it, just to give enough clues that you acknowledge his feelings without being melodramatic.

Dazai is much more casual compared to you whenever he catches you having a depressive episode, but there’s always that pensive look in his eyes he can’t or doesn’t try to hide.

His statements aren't what you'd call conventionally supportive but he delays your dark thoughts for another day.

And if they're still there tomorrow, he'll delay them again. It goes on like that.

He knows how to handle your depressive/suicidal thoughts if you have any.

"Are you going to use that box cutter? If you have to be an amateur, at least live until tomorrow so I can teach you the proper art of suicide."

"This noose is too weathered," He wiggles the flimsy rope in his hand. "How about shopping together to find better kinds of stuff after work tomorrow?"

“You seriously still believe these pills are lethal?” he throws the bottle over his shoulder and it rolls down the gutter. “Don’t you know basic chemistry? The best these will do is give you diarrhoea.”

You always end up following his goofy lead and he somehow always distracts you successfully.

Basically, he addresses your pain the way you address his; acknowledging it without making a huge fuss about it, and you appreciate his efforts.

taglist (send an ask to be added or comment here!) : @uwu-monster101 @bsdwhore @dreamyeyesandfoggyminds @whorefordazai @jawololo @neighborhoodfriendlysimp @pompompurin1028 @atsushisgf @jadegreenimmortality

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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

Text

this song is stuck in my head, thanks to tiktok. this ficlet correlates (ish?) with my two previous pieces of stephen brainrot.

"That's not your place to decide," arms crossed, she stared Stephen down with all the forces of nature behind her, like an iceberg, all sharp edges, and incoming avalanche.

Stephen stood equally frozen, blue eyes as piercing as the most hard-working icebreaker. "No," his voice thundered, echoing between the rest of the team who watched the spectacle with little more than amusement. "And that is my final word."

It struck a chord within her, it was obvious. From the way she straightened in her spot to the way her fingertips dug into the softness of her arms, her body pulled as taut as a bowstring. "You are not my boss, you are not my father," the last word spoken with a smirk; she was openly mocking Stephen. "Some nerve you have, giving me orders."

The golden embers sprung to life in his eyes fully, fingertips shooting tiny little sparks flying over the table. Magic that the rest of the team pretended not to see - because, well, it wasn't like they could do anything about it and Loki was obviously enjoying the circus.

"I will lock you up, if I have to," the calmness in Stephen's voice was deceptive. "It's for your own good. You are not trained to be in the field."

That makes her laugh almost hysterically. "I am not trained?.." She trails off, shaking her head to clear the venomous, malicious joy. "Baby, I am a woman. All we have been taught is to appeal to men, from the day we wear our first clothes to the day that we die, all covered in flowers and make-up as we're quite literally decaying," there's a hidden rage in her words; she leans in, catching Stephen's wide eyes.

Natasha whistles, quietly, and Wanda shuffles in her place, looking awkward and uncomfortable. It isn't lost on them how most men blank at her statement. Stephen's no different. He remains quiet.

"So I will get this sonuvabitch without even really having to try. Because men think that they can make decisions for me, and I'm pretty," her words seep bitterness, like the strongest gin, they can all taste it in their mouths.

Loki's grin slides off his face like a Christmas ornament that has been hanging out for far too long.

She's drop-dead gorgeous in her dress. The fabric glistens in the candlelight, and she cocks the gun of it right at their unsuspecting target; he falls for it, of course, and they are forced to watch the exchange of pleasantries thorough several cameras; listen to the man's blatant flattery through several mics.

The worst part of it isn't concern for their un-official teammate; there was always a mutual understanding that she wasn't, didn't want to be quite one of them. She wasn't even a baby agent, just a civilian that knew a little too much.

Having to see her genuine personality, the, at times, obscenely joyful words melting off her tongue directed at someone else, at an enemy - it feels like walking on broken glass, like dragging bare feet through burning coal. They're all jealous. Natasha hasn't stopped grumbling about how she's laying it on too thick but deep down, everyone knows that the spy is just impressed by the sheer amount of charisma their girl seems to be in possession of.

"I'm not a fan of classical music, it's boring," she says, convincingly, playing the part of a slightly-above-average college student.

"What do the youngsters listen to these days?" The target asks in a patronising tone.

Somewhere in the background, Tony makes a quiet, sharp inhale into his mic. He'd said the same thing to her not too long ago. But it was different.

Instead of shooting the target a sarcastic grin and showing her teeth, she softly sings, coos. "Baby, I'm a gangsta too, and it takes two to tango," the song is vaguely familiar and a few of the team snort. "You don't wanna mess with me, mess with me," their target had leaned in, eyes darting between her plush lips and her cleavage.

"That's cute," the man breathes, but it's all wrong.

Stephen glows. A golden glow surrounds his bailed fists, a cloud the size of Manhattan hanging over his head like a lead curtain. Not one person can blame him, though.

She briefly upturns her nose, scoffing, and if they knew her even slightly a little but less, they would have been forced to give a standing ovation to her fake-flirting skils. Except the scrunch of her nose is quite obviously disgusted and her body language has that subtle undertone of wariness, as if she is trying to figure out how to inconspicuously shake off a piece of shit stuck to her shoe.

The mission is a success. They apprehend the man in his hotel room, Natasha waiting for him leisurely reclining on the bed and Loki holding onto a seething Stephen for his (and the criminal's) life.

She grins at them, all canines and blood-red lips. Stephen shudders, looking away, going through the motions of opening a portal just for the sake of doing something. Her shoes lay abandoned by the bed, bare feet padding on the carpet and into the portal, greeting the emptiness of the common room with a stretch.

Quick fingers make the work of removing the jewelry; its empty shine forlorn and discarded. Diamonds or just stray rays of the sun caught in the prismatic glass surface, they bear no meaning. The tight peplum dress gets hiked up to mid-thigh, the intricate hairstyle crumbles into endless waves of unruly hair, cascades over her shoulders.

Stephen watches with the portal shrinking behind his stiff form. The light of the hotel room on the other side makes a for a halo around his lithe form.

She admires it, the flow of his ironed dark robes, the graceful posture. Not without the eyebrow arch, however. She waits.

His eyes rake over the expensive dress, now crumpled and misshapen, the lipstick, now smeared from the bottle of some fancy soda; the way her hair stands up in all directions. Stephen can so nothing but shake his head at the provocation.

"Baby, I'm a gangsta too, and it takes two to tango, you don't wanna mess with me, mess with me..." She drawls mockingly, a challenge they both know he won't be able, doesn't want to resist.

#stephen strange x reader #lana del rey lyrics #i felt the tension writing this #i just want to be a cute brat

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lizzy-williams · 3 years

Text

𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞 | 𝐛.𝐛.

༄Warnings: Smut, blood/gore, language, mature themes, 18+, minors DNI

༄Masterlist

༄Summary: You're a creature as old as time. And Bucky is entranced by you. (vampire!reader x Bucky)

The moment that Bucky saw you, he was completely enamored. Looking at you was seemingly a gift. You were dressed like an angel, a white cocktail dress with shoes and gold hoops to match. Simple, and yet would be like a beacon of light; a flame and Bucky was nothing but a mere moth just like the other gentleman whose prying eyes made his blood boil.

Possession was all he could feel as he finally made his decision to get up from his sulking corner and go out on the dance floor, where you were surrounded by men who were desperate to get a taste.

Grabbing hands, tentative stares, and desperate body language surrounded you as you danced without a care in the world. As if there was no one watching, your own little world surrounding you.

As Bucky finally pushed his way through the crowd of horny and otherwise intoxicated men, he finally was able to see your body in full view. To say the least, he liked what he saw.

Finally, he slid up behind you, making a bold move and placing his gloved hands on your hips. The moment your eyes locked with his was the moment he knew that there was no escape, and maybe he was okay with that.

You suddenly turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulled you close, swaying to the beats echoing through the building. Other men looked to him in envy, but Bucky couldn't care less, not when he was staring at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

Your skin was flawless, your hair perfect, your curves fitting against his hands like a puzzle piece. The lights blared on around you two as you felt him press himself as close as he could to you, your touch like a drug.

You then caught sight of his dangling dog tags against his red Henley, and you smirked as you looked at him, "What brings you here, soldier boy...?" you tease as you look at him intently for an answer.

Bucky stuttered on his thoughts as he tried to think straight, "Uhm, I was just with a couple of friends, and I think I'm kind of just... on my own now...," he admitted, "What about you?"

"Looking for someone to pass the time with." you admitted truthfully, and of course he would never understand the gravity of your response, barely anyone ever could.

"Well, look to farther," he smirked, pulling you closer to his hulking form.

You suddenly pulled away and slipped out of his grasp impressively quickly.

"Where are you going?" he called over the blast of the music.

You turned around, giving him a playful smirk, before calling back, "Going to get a drink!"

And like a moth drawn to a flame, he followed closely behind.

"You're so full of shit!"

Your laughter was music to Bucky's ears as he leaned against the bar as you sat in a seat, sipping of a Gin & Tonic with a bendy straw.

"It's the truth," he put his hand over his heart with false sincerity.

"There's no way you stayed in Wakanda and met the king. Interesting story, but I doubt it," you jabbed back.

"Believe what you want to believe, but I have." he swore, taking another swig of a bear he knew he couldn't get drunk off of, "Alright then, Miss Cynical, what have you got in the arsenal. You've had to have had some sort of misadventures,"

She paused but only for a second. She has seen many, many things. If only he knew.

"Umm... let's see... I've traveled to 72 of the 195 countries in the world. Lived in Romania for 4 years, France for 2, but I figured after being in the U.K. for 12, I thought it was time to come home."

"So your American?"

"Originally, yes."

"Huh. It's just that you have an accent and... I just can't quite seem to place it."

Bucky would know. He had traveled many years as well. More than he'd care to remember.

You brushed it off, "I take it you've had your fair share of 'misadventures'?" you jabbed back.

"If only you knew."

The hours passed quickly, and by 2 in the morning, people began to filter out one by one, and finally, you decided it was time to take your leave as well.

But you really didn't want to. You had the most interesting conversations you'd had in decades. He was truly a man out of time. Literally. He let it slip about the Avengers, and to say the least, it opened up a can of worms.

He was oddly open about most things. How he was with the Avengers, how he was taken in the snap (you, however, weren't), and how he really did stay in Wakanda. But he spoke of nothing farther back than that.

You decided not to pry. If you knew one thing, it was that people had secrets, and they could get very good at hiding them.

Finally, the two of you decided to shuffle your way to the door, and once you swung it open, you immediately regretted not getting an uber before getting there.

It was pouring rain, the thunder now clearly heard now that there wasn't any blaring music to block it out. Bucky looked at you suggestively.

"It's fine, I... I can call a cab or something," you tried, but Bucky wasn't having any of it.

"Come on, doll, I can give you a ride home."

The two of you quickly ran out into the rain as he used his jacket to cover the both of you, and yet despite the rain, he still walked to the passenger side with you and opened the door, a gentlemanly smile on his features.

Once he got in, he reached to turn the car on but was stopped in his tracks. Next to him, he saw you looking up out of the windshield on the end of the sheet, watching the rain as it fell and slipped down the glass. You had seen rain millions of times before. But every time you did, it made you pause and remember the life you had lived; the things you had seen.

You felt a pair of eyes staring, and you pulled your gaze away from the water droplets to look at the culprit.

"What?" you asked, and Bucky just grabbed you, your lips meeting his, the sound of the rain hitting the metal of the car making the moment that much more special.

You made the bold decision to mount his lap, your tongue mangling with his as you just... felt. It had been a while since you had done that.

The kiss seemed to last for eternity as you softly ground on his growing erection, his breathing picking up. You started to go lower, your lips meeting his jaw as you took a desperate inhale of air against his flesh.

"I can smell the sunlight on your skin," you finally muttered, your hands on his biceps, "You smell so good...,"

"I'm flattered," he nervously chuckled.

Finally, you pulled back, and Bucky gave you a confused, otherwise terrified glance. That was when you noticed that your fangs were out, the moonlight outside the tinted windows of the car.

"Are you scared?" you muttered, knowing that you were going to get what you wanted whether he liked it or not. But you would rather him be conscious and willing.

His look of confusion morphed into something more. Something darker. Lustful. Taking his thumb, he reached up and pushed your top lip up and exposed your canine at the root. He then looked you dead in the eyes, shaking his head 'no' softly.

He then took one of his gloves off. Soon enough his whole jacket was off, and he revealed a harsh metal arm that beamed just as brightly. Who were you to judge? You refused to pry. You knew what it was like for society to hate you because you weren't what they wanted you to be. You move your hands up and down the sleek metal, the plates shifting as your fingertips grazed it.

You gave him a compassionate smile, leaning over and whispering "It'll only hurt for a second, but it'll start to feel good, I promise."

You went lower before giving a gentle kiss to a spot on his neck —a warning — before biting deeply into his neck as he let out a pornographic moan.

His blood was intoxicating. Like plums, whisky, and a sharp spike of mint. His flavors were vivid, addictive, and you let out a verbal moan as you tasted him on your tongue.

You suddenly jerked your head back, a gasp leaving your mouth as your lips parted, your eyes searching his, "What are you?" you pried, confusion etched across your face, your hands now holding his face.

"I'm whatever you want me to be."

That was true. At this point, even he didn't know what he was, everything that he was, a blurry memory. A soldier. A lady's man. A best friend. A fighter. Now he didn't know what he was. He was hoping that you could help him figure that out.

Assuming you weren't going to get a definitive answer, yet at least, you brushed it off, pressing a loving kiss to his forehead, before leaning down and sucking more of his sweet, addicting blood from his veins, another groan leaving his mouth as he leaned his head to the side, giving you more access, your hungry tongue probing and licking.

His hands wandered eagerly, grabbing whatever it could on your body as he tried to catch his breath, his body suddenly relaxing, his body no longer feeling pain but rather absolute pleasure.

His head was now cocked up as he gasped for air, feeling as if the air was sucked from his lungs, not in malice but in pleasure as he felt his body well up with heat.

You pulled yourself away from him, pricking your finger on one of your teeth and rubbing it on his bite marks, the gashes closing up almost instantly.

Bucky then weakly reached up, now cupping your face in his hands, speechless.

"Can I keep you?" you whispered in a hushed tone, your crimson-red eyes meeting his crystal blues.

Bucky nodded, enveloped in your gaze.

The words that came out next slipped out before he could stop them:

"Wanna head back to my place?"

The kiss was sloppy and uncoordinated as you fell through the opening doors of the elevator of his apartment complex. You stumbled down that hall in an unsynchronized jumble of needy grabs and touches.

Bucky finally reached the door, grabbing his key and trying to put it in the lock, missing the mark completely and dropping his key to the ground.

Begrudgingly he broke the kiss and frantically shoved it in the lock, unlocking the door and slamming the door open, the two of you tumbling inside and letting your lips lock once again.

You were able to catch a glimpse at your environment when you broke the kiss, noticing how Bucky must have truly been a minimalist.

"Nice place," you joked, smirking at him.

"What can I say? I like a tidy home."

He then wrapped his hands around yours and pulled you to the bedroom. Your dress almost disappeared like a rabbit in a hat, you didn't even feel it leave your body as he tore it off, the only indication was the cool temperature hitting your skin.

Bucky was delighted to find you weren't wearing a bra as he leaned over you, his lips immediately finding your exposed chest. You mewled as his tongue probed at your nipple, using his flesh hand to tweak and pinch the other.

You felt yourself get hotter despite your normally cool temperature, and you loved it. You had spent so long looking for a man like Bucky to make you feel like a little girl all over again. To make you hot. To make you feel like maybe your life was taken from you just so you could meet him.

You bucked your hips up to the erection he had been sporting since you pierced his neck. He let out a primal growl, taking off your panties, leaving you completely nude.

"So fucking gorgeous, like a goddess," he praised before driving in between your necks, wasting no time licking a wide strip up your sex, making you whine in surprise.

Your attempts to make him go faster here futile as you bucked your hips, gripping his hair like a vice. You verbally whined as you tried to get him to do something— anything— but your patience began to wane.

Even though Bucky's go-to tactic was to tease his women until they couldn't take it anymore, he had never met you.

Before he knew it, you moved quickly, standing him up and flinging him on the bed face-up, your hips over his face in seconds, your hand stroking his hair gently.

Bucky stared up at you in shock and awe, nobody has ever thrown him around. He certainly wasn't opposed. His shock turned into pure, unfiltered lust, his hands placed on your thighs, hungrily pulling your pussy to meet his lips, where he then ate you like a man starved.

Using his hair and an anchor, you ground yourself over his eager tongue, your moans only queuing him to lick and suck at your precious pearl even harder than before.

"Fuck Bucky! So fucking good, baby," you praised, throwing your head back as your fangs made their presence known with a smooth 'pop'.

Your hands changed tactics as you moved yourself to lean back, one hand gripping at the headboard, the other sat on his textured abs, your nails making the skin under red and sensitive.

Before you knew it, you were on the edge. Your body was screaming for release, your hormones going into overdrive as you went harder—faster— praying that your coil would snap.

"'M gonna cUM— Bucky fuck!!" You gasped as you finally slipped into your state of nirvana, your body buzzing.

You shook in your ecstasy, perfect noises slipping from your lips as you felt Bucky lick up everything you gave him. Meanwhile, he was in heaven, suffocated by your thighs as he lapped at your ambrosia. You were the most delicious pussy he had ever had.

After Bucky finally detached his mouth from your core, he looked up at you lazily, and you moved your hips down, your dripping pussy hovering over his painfully hard erection.

"You're amazing, Bucky...," you muttered, your lips meeting his in a passionate kiss. Something more than lust or infatuation. You were ready to make him completely and utterly yours.

You reached down, lining him up with you, and kissed your way down his jaw and to his neck. You suddenly sunk down, your teeth piercing his skin as he let out a lewd moan, pleasure coursing through his veins as you began to move on him, bouncing your hips at a sensual pace.

You sucked at his life force with volition, your pace never faltering as it increased, your body nothing but a thief, and at this point, Bucky would let you take everything he had.

You pulled away to look at him, smirking as you felt his blood surround your mouth, coating your teeth as you continued to bring him pleasure.

"Mine," you growled, "All mine."

Bucky nodded in his daze, "Yours. Promise."

Your lips met in a sloppy kiss as you felt him tense up, knowing he was close. Mischievously, you took his flesh hand, placing it where you needed him most. You wanted nothing more than to cum with him.

"I can feel you," you groaned out, "So fuckin' deep,"

Bucky was in a submissive daze, nodding to whatever you said as his mind blurred in pleasure and need. His skin was almost electrifying as you felt his blood run through you.

"So come on. Cum for me. Cum inside me," you moaned, Bucky watching as your breasts bounced with every movement of your hips, "Wanna cum for me, Bucky?"

"Yes! Please, I want it! I want it, please," he whined as you smirked, you couldn't have asked for a better response.

"Cum," you commanded, as you felt your body tense up as well, and just like that you came the hardest you had in almost a decade, your world going white.

You felt yourself scream out as you collapsed on top of the man below you, your body limp as he continued to thrust up into you, letting out a guttural, filthy moan as he came inside of you.

You felt him fill you up, your eyes open as you tried to center your vision, your mind scrambled as you listened to Bucky's adorable little noises.

You rode out each other's highs, your lover panting like a dog, his eye closed as he tried to gather himself as well. When he eventually caught his breath, he couldn't help but look down at you in amazement.

"Absolutely incredible," he murmured as he put his hand to your face, stroking gently.

If you had blood pumping in your veins, you would have blushed, "As are you."

"Can you turn into a bat?" Bucky looked up at you with the curiosity of a child as you gently stroked his hair.

You had spent hours taking him apart, so it felt only right that you held him in your arms and on your lap, stroking his hair gently as his eyes hazed over with sleepiness.

You let out a light-hearted chuckle, "No. I can't. Although that sounds fun, no?"

"What can you do?" he continued to question as he held you a little bit tighter.

"I can... move at rapid speeds, but you already knew that, didn't you?" You jabbed, Bucky letting out a hearty laugh, "I'm immortal, I have a strong influence, I can even sense people who have drank my blood."

"Sense as in how?" Bucky didn't know why he was suddenly so worried.

"I can sense your emotions. I'll know where you are so I can find you quickly," you explained.

"What am I feeling now?"

You paused at the question, a sense of slight pity crossing you as you looked down to him. You closed your eyes, closing everything out in a means to feel him. A stream of consciousness crossed you.

"You're...," you paused, "You're feeling affectionate. In love. Vulnerable." you started, "But you're also feeling unsure... skeptical..."

Bucky liked knowing what he felt. Being told what he was actually feeling. Some days he felt as if there was nothing left. A void where his feelings once were.

"How old are you?" he questioned suddenly.

"Exactly or a rough estimate?" you joked.

"Exactly."

You sighed with a smile on your face, remembering the memories of the past.

"I'm 207 years old. I was born in 1813."

Bucky sat up. He had never met anyone that much older than him. He thought he was one of the oldest living fossils on the planet. But you were just full of surprises.

"D-Do you remember Steve?" Bucky questioned, tears welling in his eyes.

"Rogers? I mean... I saw him in posters in the '40s. Even saw one of his performances. But something told me he wasn't a fan of showbiz. Then after he got out of the ice, I saw him on TV. Mostly news channels."

Bucky winced. If you had seen Steve on the news, there was no doubt that you had also seen him on the news, and that-

"I know you aren't a bad man, James."

Bucky winced as you used his name, but nonetheless, the statement brought more tears.

"Say it again...," he pleaded, closing his eyes as he heard your melodic voice say what he had been wanting to hear for centuries.

"You realize I can't let you go now, right?" He cupped your face gently in his hands as if he might break you, but even with his super-soldier status, you were the one who should be worried about breaking him.

"I couldn't imagine you doing any different."

#bucky imagine #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #fatws bucky #vampire!reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #vampire #bucky barnes x reader smut

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simp4lucius · 3 years

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Auntie Maya Part 2

A continuation of ‘Auntie Maya’.

Trigger warnings - alc0h0lism, dr0gs, swear words, mentions of s£xual things. Sad angst.

Schlatt stumbled through the door the next morning hungover with dark bags underneath his eyes and his suit rumpled. Maya supposed he had been in the bar again, talking business with not-so-trustworthy business partners and touching up the women.

She sat at the dark oak dining table, one hand resting flat on the top, the other curled around a champagne fluke, fingers noticeably empty of her wedding and engagement rings. Her clothes consisted of a white blouse, a black pencil skirt, and a royal blue travelling coat with black lace on the hems. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders in perfect curls, accentuated by a small blue hat perched on the side of her head, secured with pins.

Outside, Tubbo sat in the carriage in a matching blue travelling cloak, hair slicked back, as if ready for a party. Next to him on the seat was his suitcase, his mother’s hat box and black travelling case.

---

Schlatt stomped up the stairs and into the dining room, hooves tapping on the hardwood flooring. The silence was unnerving, much different to the loud party with booming bass music and liquor that made the walls move. Men laughing and spilling expensive gin all over their suits, brunette and redhead women in black dresses all over him, handing him drinks-

“Welcome home.” The tone Maya enunciated it in made it clear it was not a welcome. It was pure poison.

“Happy to be here.” Schlatt muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble. He hadn’t shaved in a few days.

Maya’s hand twitched on the table.

“Where’s Tubbo?”

“Outside.”

“Why?”

“We’re leaving.” That slapped Schlatt straight in the face.

He should have seen it coming.

Months of drinking and drugs and switching between clubs and bars to avoid work played through his mind. State money spent on drinking competitions and whores to satisfy his boredom. He knew what he was doing to himself, to his wife and son, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He stood on the red mat, in front of the fire, one hand on the lower half of his face, the other hanging limply by his side. His grey suit jacket hanging off one shoulder, white shirt ripped on one arm. His curved goats horns were unshined and his usually pristine hair was matted on the right side, from alcohol or some other nasty substance that got on it.

He stood there as Maya laughed once, quietly. More of a... ‘pushed-air-out-of-nose-hard-in-amusement’ than laughter. She smiled slightly, top lip curling to show off her pearly white canines. She downed her champagne and put the glass on the table, shrugging on her coat and pulling on her black lace gloves, picture of elegance and sophistication.

“Well, I’ll be off then. Thank you, Jay, fo showing me what a relationship should not be like.” Maya walked past him, patting him lightly on the shoulder as she did so.

She walked, heels clacking, to the carriage outside, climbing in next to her son and tapping the side to make the driver go.

“Maya! Maya, please!” Schlatt ran out of the door. The carriage came to a halt. He caught up.

“Please, Maya.” He panted. Maya smiled slightly, blue eyes filling with crystaline tears.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not the Jay I married.”

“Maya-”

“Goodbye, President Schlatt.” The carriage started up again. Schlatt kept running after it, until the horses began trotting too fast for him to keep up. He fell to his knees on the gravel driveway, watching through the wrought iron gates as his wife and son trundled away, dull horns glinting in the moonlight.

---

In the carriage, Maya rested her had against the window as tears ran down her cheeks, causing her mascara to run with them. Tubbo rested against her side and her hands went to his hair, smoothing the wispy bits back down.

“Mummy-”

“Hush, now.” Tubbo soon fell asleep as Maya watched the scenery blurred by through the window. She sighed, hoping Phil would know what to do.

Part 3?

#Schlatt schlatt x reader schlatt x oc maya tubbo philza philzaminecraft carriage royal blue gravel dsmp mcyt minecraft

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dragon-swords-prophecies · 3 years

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Sacrifice Chapter 1

So I'm trying to edit chapter 1 of Sacrifice because I really don't like it and even I can tell how much my writing style has changed in three ish months but I can't figure out exactly whats wrong with it and since I've never shared anything on here ever thats this long and also I need want someone's opinion on this (Please & thank you very much), here's the first chapter of Sacrifice. I already know a bunch of stuff I'm cutting out the awkward romance part specifically i really should not even attempt to write stuff like that its just awkward but I can't figure out exactly what else is wrong with it so this is my solution instead. You sincerely truly don't have to read it if you don't want to I just thought this might be a good idea. And also its something to do if you're bored.

It's below the cut.

Taglist: @golden-eyed-writer

I grinned. Anne and Enna were arguing over the rules of Gin, while Anne, she was Enna’s twin, anyway, while Anne’s kids played tag with my nephew, Zane. Jen and Zebra collided in the middle of the room, and Zane didn’t stop in time, so they ended up in a pile of tangled limbs. My sister emerged from the other room and sighed, then burst into laughter, her wavy, silver tipped, black hair bouncing up and down. We were nearly identical, same silver blue eyes, silver tipped black hair, and dark skin. Our scales were different though. Ana’s smooth, tear drop shaped, silver scales covered her collarbone and wound down one arm; mine encircled my torso. Mine were easier to hide, but more people knew about them. I cast a lot of wind spells.

Ana only showed her scales to people she trusted, so walking in the room in a black tank top was a statement. Anne and Enna were identical, and their names mirrored each other. Blue black hair, Anne’s in twin buns and Enna’s in a half ponytail. Alabaster skin tinged with blue, and blue eyes. They had wings, but Enna was grounded. There was a knock on the door of Lei’s apartment. Lei, a blond Demonsblood, was standing closest to the door and pulled it open, sticking her head out. Two seconds later a boy dressed in the Barony’s colors entered.

“Uh, is there any person named,” He checked the sheet of paper clutched in his hands, “Anne Jones & Enna Helder-Kromlin here?” The twins stood up from the corner and scowled briefly, then Enna darted across the room, grabbed the paper, read it, and swore in Dragon.

“You can go now.” Said Faith, Lei’s redheaded younger cousin.

“Yes, ma’am.” He mumbled, then scampered away. “What is it? Dennis explode something again?” Asked Anne, striding over.

“There’s a gnome, blond, asking to see us. The note says she’s carrying the seal of the last baron.” Her twin answered in a shocked voice.

“Mae?”

“Maybe.” While they conversed, and Ana shrugged her jacket off after yanking it on when the door was opened, there was a second knock. Emily, a gnome alchemist and a friend of ours, answered this time, and her lavender eyes stared unseeing into the face of a second messenger. This one had a message for Ana. After reading it, my twin turned to me and grinned. Ana’s smile sometimes scared people. We both had pointed, sharp canine teeth, courtesy of our draconic ancestry. And that had the side effect of looking like you were about to murder someone when you smiled.

“Cerea’s alive. She’s here, with the gnome En mentioned. Joshua recognized the name.” A rush of emotions went through me. Two hundred and seventy four years ago mine and Ana’s home had been burned to the ground by Dizerdrat, an ancient red dragon. Cerea had been the name of a half elf with impressive innate primal magic, who had left when she was twenty, three months befor A'sshyse burned, leaving us the only survivors. The name was a bit ironic actually, A'sshyse sounded like Ashes if pronounced correctly, and that’s all it was now. Ashes and memories.

We didn’t bother to say anything, no one did. Two sets of twins walked out the door, leaving confusion, five friends, and three ten year olds behind. Enna twisted around before leaving, threatening, “If anyone touches those cards I will kill you.” Then she ran, and the second she and Anne were outside they broke out into a full out sprint, matching each other pace for pace. When we got to the main hall area, which had a bunch of alcoves off it that served as slightly more private spaces for meetings and the like, Anne and Enna had already tackle hugged a gnome with curly blond hair, and a black haired half elf stood nearby, awkwardly. Enna was whispering,

"Thirty five years Mae. Thirty five goddamn years. Where were you?"

“I was- Thirty five years?!”

“Yes.” Answered Anne. Mae rounded on the half elf, who put her hands up in a sign of surrender. Before the gnome could get a word out Cerea spoke.

“I didn’t know alright? I’m bad with time.”

“Still. You should have told me!”

“I know. I should have done a lot of things.” It was at that moment she looked in our direction, and saw us. Ana didn’t hesitate, rushing in to embrace a woman she hadn’t seen in nearly three hundred years. I hung back a bit. Not because of my sister, but because me and Cerea hadn’t exactly parted on… civil terms. Half a minute later Ana grabbed my arm, muttering Draconic into my ear.

“I don’t care what happened last time. You never got over it, I doubt she did.”

“Erm, okay-”

Cerea interrupted. “You survived?! What in the nine hells happened to A’sshyse?!”

“Dragonfire.” Ana answered. Then I blurted out, in Dragon, before I had to wait another three centuries to apologize.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was stupid, and, and an idiot-” Cerea intterupted in the same language.

“Yes, you were sometimes. But I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said what I said. We were both wrong about the other.” She hugged me tightly, but quickly. As Cerea stepped away I noticed how much toll the last three hundred years had taken on her. She still had raven hair and coffee colored skin, but the freckles that once covered her face were gone. Her eyes still had the same twinkle, but the green was darker, closer to emerald than I’d ever seen them and older than they should be.

“So where were you?” Asked Enna, directing the question at Mae.

“I was petrified. I left right after you guys killed Shallodet, and then it’s a blur until waking up to find my very surprised teacher.”

Enna shuddered at the mention of the name. Shallodet was not a pleasant memory for her.

“Teacher?”

“Yeah. Anne & Enna, this is Cerea Roven. Cerea, these are my sisters. Anne and Enna Helder.”

“Helder-Kromlin. Claimed Mom’s name properly. But I’m not forgetting Helder. It’s hyphenated now. Drove the official crazy.” Corrected Enna. Anne followed with,

“Erm, it’s actually Anne Jones. I might have gotten married.”

“Sorry, what?!”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Hi?” Cerea grinned awkwardly, raising one hand in a half wave for a brief second. “Who’s the Gnome?” Asked Ana.

“I’m Mae Helder. Who are you?”

“Anastasia. Call me Ana. He’s Dash.”

“Hey. So you’re their sister?” I asked, changing the subject as quickly as possible.

“Uh huh. How’d you meet these two?”

“The War.” Answered Ana.

“War? What War?”

“Little sister, you’ve missed a lot. About a decade ago there was a War. Norfolk is gone.”

“Wow. Anything else I need to know?”

“Well, here’s the slight matter of there being a different Baron.”

“What?!”

“His name is Fredrick Falk.”

“Wait. Does that mean?”

“Yeah. He’s gone. Died about two years after you left.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I know how much he meant to you.”

“It’s okay.” The previous Baron had been the first person who had believed in Enna for a long time. When he died she had taken it hard. He had been the latest in a long line of parental figures; and each one had died.

Pike, her adopted mother, had died when she was 10. Her older brother, Zibra, had died when she was nineteen, and everyone thought it was her fault. Everyone except Anne. Her mentor, a half-dragon named Sasha, had died when she was twenty eight. When she was 40 she came back to the capital, only to find Anne missing. She thought it was her fault. Anne had nearly died. Then her Uncle, her mother’s twin, had turned out be her mother’s murder, confessed to killing Zibra and framing her, then he tried to kill both the twins, leaving Enna with thin scars that covered her arms, shoulders, back & torso.

“Anyway, why are you here?”

“Well,” Said Cerea nervously, fidgeting with the hem of her tunic. “Gray has heard some things, concerning things. They’re actually what led to me finding Mae.”

“What things?” I asked.

“The forges, the ones under the mountain, are waking up again.”

“I still don’t understand why he would put forges there, of all locations.” Muttered Anne.

“You need to tell someone.”

“That’s why we came here. Under the Code, you need two high ranking Druids to request a meeting with a ruler.”

“That’s surprisingly smart for a twenty five year old.” Said Enna, perhaps the third time in her life she had judged someone because of their apparent age. Cerea, unsurprisingly, burst out laughing.

“I’m two hundred and ninety ish. Can’t remember the exact number. Not 25.”

“Two hundred and ninety four.” I muttered quietly.

“Two hundred and ninety four, then. Either way, I’m not twenty five.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Twenty five is the oldest anyone’s ever thought I looked. I had a couple friends, a few years ago, they thought I was nineteen. Never got around to correcting them.”

“Uh-huh.” I muttered. Cerea had always looked young for her age, and it, plus her innate and extremely powerful primordial magic and wildshaping powers, had allowed her to get away with more things than the average kid would. Most of these exploits were related to stealing jelly tarts, which Ana stole from her and I then stole some of them from Ana. Yeah, fourteen year old me probably had better things to do than steal pastries from a 7 year old prankster, but it was either that or get possessed again, which is not an experience I’d recommend to anyone.

Yes, you read that correctly. Possessed. It’s a very long story that will probably come to light in time. Probably. Either way, we were interrupted by Joshua, the Baron’s 19 year old half-dragon grandson materializing from out of nowhere. His brown curls were more rumpled than usual, and his blue eyes shown with exhaustion. Joshua’s robes, the outfit commonly worn by wizards-in-training, were rumpled, like he had slept in them. He wasn’t strictly half dragon, closer to a quarter dragon. His dad’s dad had been a black dragon. His Mum, the Baron’s youngest daughter, had eloped with his dad and Joshua had only been raised in the court after his parents died in an Orc raid when he was seven. Before you ask, yes most of us had/have sob stories for backgrounds. Happy people who are mentaly stable don’t go out and hunt literal dragons.

Either way, the top half of his face, on a diagonal from right to left, was covered in smooth, black scales. They continued down his neck, and onto one arm. Joshua asked, “So you guys do know each other. I mean, I didn’t think there were a lot of black haired and crazy powerful half elven druids, but hey. There could’ve been more than one. Anyway, Grandpa’s ready to talk to you two. You know how to get there?”

“Yep.” Confirmed Mae, leading Cerea down the hallway. Joshua stayed, leaning against the stone wall.

“Hey.” Anne raised one hand half heartedly, in a sort of wave.

“Hi.”

“So I know how Ana & Dash know the mildly terrifying druid lady, but how do you two know the Gnome?”

“She’s our sister.”

“But neither of you are two Gnomes in a trench coat. So how?”

“I don’t even own a trenchcoat.” Muttered Enna.

“Exactly.”

“She’s our adopted sister, our foster mother fostered her too, though we didn’t know that then.”

“You had a foster mother?”

Anne sighed. “Yes. Pike Helder. Why do you think we speak Gnome?”

“I don’t know. Figured you just knew a lot of Gnomes.”

“I mean, we do, but that’s not the point.”

“Also, I think we would know if you guys were just Gnomes in trenchcoats.” I remarked.

“Yeah, I think you would.” Said Anne.

“You okay?” Ana asked Joshua, probably in response to his disheveled appearance.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m fine. Just stressed.” Ana scoffed, but didn’t say anything more. Enna turned to me. Her arms were crossed.

“Spill.”

“What?” I asked cluelessly. Anne added, “You and Cerea have history. What is it?,” she asked, her body language the same as her twin.

“Nothing, we just knew each other as kids.” “Uh huh.” “So that’s all?” “Yes,” I lied. Anne laughed.

“It’s almost like he thinks we don’t know that he’s lying.” “Yeah.” I looked anywhere except at the twins.

“It wasn’t anything!” I said, coming way closer to yelling than I should.

“You apologized to each other in Dragon when you saw each other.” I swore under my breath. I had forgotten Enna knew Dragon. I tended to forget she knew a lot of languages, Elven not among them in spite of her heritage.

“That was nothing.” I mumbled.

“It was not nothing. I saw Ana’s expression when she saw Cerea. She looked like her best friend had just come back to life.”

“She has.”

“Please. We all know you’re Ana’s best friend. If it’s not you, it’s Zane. Anyway, Ana looked like her best friend had just come back to life. But you, you looked like, I don’t even know how to describe it. You looked a lot like Anne when she got married to Jones. You looked like you were in love.”

“No-o. Not in love with her. Dated her once, sure, maybe we kissed a couple times, but I’m not in love with her,” I protested, turning redder than Faith’s hair, which was very, very red. “Dash, either I tell them or you do.” Threatened Ana, switching into rapid Demonic. Demonic was the one language we both knew that the twins didn’t speak.

“Can we not do this now?!” I replied, in the same language.

“What, you don’t want all our friends to know that you and Cerea were etinye aka?” She asked, using an Elven word.

“No, I would prefer not. And I really think that Cerea wouldn’t either.” “You’d be surprised. She’s changed a lot in 300 years.”

“And how would you know? You’ve seen her about as much as I have.”

She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip and thinking. “I knew she was alive.”

--------End Chapter 1---------

If you've read this far THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#writeblr #chapter 1 #full chapter #fantasy writing #my writing #WIP: Sacrifice #feedback would be appreciated #feedback wanted #sacrifice excerpt #sacrifice full chapter #WIP: Frost & Fire #WIP: Frost & Fire formerly known as Sacrifice

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mithranqueersmusings · 3 years

Text

The Night Before II

Chapter: 2/15

Rating: E

Summary: Ringo hangs around after the club closes and meets a stranger.

Tags: Smut

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Ringo hadn't been to this club for a while, without John by his side he couldn't help but feel a little nervous. There were only two types of people who dragged themselves to such a questionable establishment so late in the night: people so off their faces in need of a warm place to dance until they could hardly stand upright, and predatory figures looking for an easy target. Ringo and George didn't fit into either category, making Ringo question the distinction entirely, but he supposed a drink or two could get them well on their way. The two of them headed straight to the bar which was littered with a few figures who were struggling to hold their heads up.

"What can I get you?" George asked, getting his phone ready to pay immediately.

"Oh, um... A vodka-coke if you're offering." Ringo once again felt his nerves getting the better of him, part of him still couldn't believe someone like George was even interested in him.

"Gross, how do you drink that shite?" George curled his nose up in mock disgust but ordered one for Ringo all the same, buying himself a gin and lemonade.

With their drinks in hand they moved over to the sparsely populated dancefloor, the music seemed to be the same every time Ringo came here: 80s throwbacks and cringey one-hit-wonders from the 2000s. Not that Ringo was complaining, it was easy to dance to and he almost always knew the words, but it was far from his music of choice.

"You ever been here before?" Ringo asked, having to shout over the music.

"Never." George replied with a smile "Is it always this dingy?"

"Yes." Ringo answered instantly "But it's one of the only places open right now."

"Who says I'm complaining?" George laughed.

The two of them continued dancing through a variety of songs, both of them drunkenly singing along to 'Don't Stop Me Now' and failing to mask their excitement when 'Dancing Queen' came on. Several rounds of drinks passed their lips, each one decreasing the proximity between them as they danced. Ringo wasn't entirely sure who initiated it first, but before he knew it George's back was pressed up against his chest and they were attempting to move with one another without falling over. They were far from the only couple grinding shamelessly like this, but they were certainly the only male duo.

When another song finally ceased, Ringo found himself getting a little worked up from all the friction with George; his jeans were tight, his heart was racing and he was beginning to sweat. The only solution would be to get out to the smoking area for some "fresh air". Ringo moved his hands slowly off of George's body and leaned his face in closer so he could shout in George's ear. George evidently thought Ringo had other ideas, because he turned around quickly and crashed his lips clumsily down onto Ringo's.

Ringo froze for a moment, his hands thrown up in shock before he could register what was happening. It was far from the most romantic kiss Ringo had experienced, but the last thing he was going to do was complain. George was pulling at the fabric of Ringo's shirt to pull them closer together, his sharp teeth poking through occasionally. Ringo felt himself being dipped down by the sheer force of George and had to cling onto his neck just to stay upright.

The kiss didn't last very long, at least Ringo thought so but time was a difficult concept to grasp at this moment. George pulled away, pulling Ringo back up with him, a satisfied grin on his face and a dark look in his eyes.

"Been waiting to do that all night." George slurred, the satisfaction still clear on his face.

Ringo could feel himself blushing, luckily the club was dark enough to hide it "All night?"

George nodded "Was watching you with your mates for a while, couldn't find the courage to say hello."

"Why don't we, uh... Go for a smoke?" Ringo could hardly hear what George was saying over the music, and this was a conversation he certainly didn't want to miss.

"Sure thing." George followed Ringo as he maneuvered through the labyrinthine club until they finally got to the outside.

The wind felt far colder than before, no doubt it was because the club was so tightly packed and humid. A bouncer stood in the corner of the fenced off area with his arms crossed, eyeing George and Ringo as though they were about to cause any trouble. Someone else stood in the corner yelling down their phone, seemingly having an argument with whoever was on the other end. George and Ringo found some relatively dry seating and sat beside one another.

"How you feelin'?" Ringo asked, rather than sobering up the cold air was only making him feel drunker.

"Pretty good." George hummed happily, his eyes were barely open.

Now they'd gotten to be alone together, Ringo had no idea what to say. Looking into George's eyes he could hardly string a coherent thought together. At least Ringo could be certain that it wasn't just the alcohol clouding his mind, George really was something else. Even the way he dressed was attractive, a retro windbreaker with flared velvet trousers, the shirt underneath a mixture of colours and shapes.

"So... You were watching me in the club then?" Ringo asked cautiously.

George let out a hearty laugh "Shit, yeah... Me and my big mouth." He looked embarrassed for a moment or two "I was worried the guy you were with was your boyfriend, even after they left I was still a little too scared to come over."

Ringo chuckled at the thought, dating either Paul or John was amusing to him "What made you come over in the end, then?"

"Felt like I couldn't let you get away." George smiled "You looked so cool, I was certain you were gonna tell me to piss off."

"Me?" Ringo laughed "Not very likely. I'm a sweetheart really."

George leant in a little closer "Something tells me that's not the whole truth." The darkness had returned to his eyes, his lips curling up in a devilish smile.

"I'm afraid I haven't the faintest clue what you're on about." Ringo leaned in too, close enough to feel George's breath on his face.

A beat of silence passed between them.

"This place has got a toilet, right?" George's voice was almost a whisper.

Ringo paused "Yeah, of course. Why, do you feel sick or something?"

George let out a splutter of a laugh "Don't be daft." His voice grew quiet once more, making the hairs stand up on Ringo's skin "But I don't think that bouncer will like it very much if I start blowing you right here."

Breath escaped Ringo entirely, this was far from the first time that he'd been prepositioned in such a way but hearing it from George made his head cloud.

"Well?" George asked, cocking an eyebrow and widening his toothy grin.

Ringo stood up a little too eagerly, but he was past the point of caring by now. Grabbing George by his slim wrist he quickly guided them back into the dingy club and towards the questionable toilets. By this point in the night, one of the cubicles was already out of order and something somewhere had started to flood and pools of water formed around the sinks. It was a ghastly sight, but Ringo hardly noticed it as he pulled George into the furthest stall.

"Charming place." George remarked as he locked the door, luckily the floor was relatively clean.

It was cramped to say the least, Ringo put the seat down on the well-used toilet and sat himself rather excitedly down.

"It's dreadful, I know. But desperate times..." Ringo had no clue what to do with his hands, his head was swimming with anticipation.

"I hope that's not a dig at me." George replied as he wasted no time getting to his knees, it made Ringo sad to see his trousers dirtying with the muck on the floor but George hardly seemed to care.

George quickly got to work, his slender fingers pulling at the zip on Ringo's achingly tight jeans. Ringo let out a sigh of relief as the denim was pulled from his skin, pooling down at his ankles, he only hoped they didn't get too dirty but that was a risk he was willing to take. Next were the boxers, Ringo wished he'd worn a more presentable pair tonight but it wasn't long before they were being pulled down too.

Ringo hadn't realised how hard he'd become until he was staring right at his aching erection, a sight which drew George's attention too.

"Fuck..." George breathed, his hand tentatively gripping the shaft "For a short guy you've got a huge cock."

"I'll skip the insult and take that compliment, thanks." Ringo was struggling to keep his composure as George's slim lips wrapped around the head.

It wasn't the most debauched thing Ringo had ever done, he'd fucked a guy at the back of a club surrounded by overflowing dumpsters once, but it was certainly the most thrilling. George was acting like he was starved, as though all he needed in this moment was Ringo. With George's mouth working up and down Ringo's length, it was hard to believe they'd only met a few hours ago.

"Jesus." Ringo hissed when George lightly grazed his teeth, he swore he could feel George's sharp canines individually on his sensitive skin.

George hummed happily, taking more of Ringo into his throat. The world seemed to be spinning around him, Ringo had to push his hand against the cubicle wall to gain the slightest feeling of being grounded. Maybe it was his bias for George, but Ringo could swear this was the greatest blowjob he'd ever had. He wondered whether George did this a lot, the thought of that alone released a moan from deep inside him.

Ringo ran his hand through George's hair, it had started sticking together with sweat but he still managed to look good. George let out a quiet gasp at the contact, feeling the coolness of Ringo's jewellery was welcome.

George was quickening his pace now, each time being able to take more of Ringo into his mouth, his determination was certainly admirable, but he never managed to take him all the way. Each time he gagged around the thickness, Ringo couldn't stop the moans from pouring out of his mouth.

"Fucking hell, George..." Ringo panted, gripping tightly at his hair "Your mouth feels incredible, just wanna fuck up into it."

The sound that left George's mouth was purely criminal, groaning with his mouth filled with cock. He looked up into Ringo's eyes with a hungry twinkle, it was all the permission Ringo needed to start thrusting upwards. At first he was cautious, testing the waters as he felt George's throat relaxing around him but soon enough he grew sloppy and erratic.

Everything seemed to fade into the background, all that was left was the sensation of George's hot mouth and the wanton noises he was making. The sounds were obscene, wet slapping of skin on skin, George gagging and moaning.

"Shit, shit... I'm getting close." Ringo announced, he could hardly see straight.

George didn't wait for another word, he pinned Ringo's hips down to the seat forcefully and sank his lips all the way down to the base. Hollowing his cheeks and gagging loudly, Ringo came in an instant, shooting down deep into George's throat. It took Ringo a few moments to recover, still gripping at George's hair tightly.

Pulling off suddenly, George licked his lips and swallowed hard. It was purely pornographic, the way he smiled with specks of cum still visible. Ringo couldn't help himself from rubbing his thumb tenderly on George's smooth cheek, he worried it would be too intimate of a gesture but he didn't seem to mind, instead he pressed his face into the hand.

Reluctantly Ringo pulled the hand away, then passed what was left of a toilet roll over to George so he could clean himself up. George accepted it willingly, standing up and assessing the damage of his trousers which weren't as bad as either one had anticipated, although it was pretty clear what he'd been getting up to.

"Sorry about your trousers." Ringo said hoarsely, pulling up his own jeans and shuddering at the wet sensation against his skin.

"Don't worry about it." George's voice was even more wrecked "Worth it."

Ringo laughed nervously, even after all that he still couldn't help the effect George had on him. He could barely stand, his knees were far too shaky. George looked beyond satisfied, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed.

"So... What say we head back to yours?" George asked with a grin, despite all the exertion he was still eager.

"I say the Uber can't get here fast enough." Ringo smirked, managing to get up to his feet to kiss George deeply.

He could taste his cum on George's tongue, mingled with alcohol and smoke. Perhaps it was just the heat of the moment, but he could've sworn it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

#Beatles #the beatles #beatles fanfic #beatles fanfiction #George Harrison/Ringo Starr #george harrisonxreader #george harrisonxringo starr #ringo starr/george harrison #starrison #starrison smut

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drunkenworgen · 3 years

Text

Charmed

Closed starter for @time-lost-exiles with Gin and Gatz, after she's managed to retrieve him from the witch's cabin who enslaved his mind.

Firelight flickered off the cave walls she’d taken shelter in from the rain, now pouring down just outside the entrance. The worgen she’d been hired to track down lay on the other side of the fire, still seemingly unconscious, but bound nonetheless. He’d put up a fel of a fight, and Gin was not about to repeat that this soon.

“Who are ya,” she’d mutter, half-hidden in the shadows just outside the warmth of the fire. Sapphire eyes glowed dimly in the dark of the cave as she watched the other’s still form, ears turned to pick up any change in his breathing - she’d had to use an unusually strong dose of her sleeping serum to get him down.

“Y’smell familiar, an’ ah canno’ ‘elp bu’ t’think ah’e seen tha’ muzzle somewhere afore,” she continued talking to herself as she nursed her own wounds, stitching up the larger cuts the best that she could. Anything not covered by armor (and some things that were) had multiple gashes from the male’s claws, and her armor bore scratches from both his teeth and claws. Her head tilted to the side as he began to stir, hand resting on her poison pouch lightly.

“Could jus’ be some ol’ worgen ah’ve met in passin’, ah s’pose. Maybe inna market or tavern or summat.” Her tongue ran over a long canine as he rolled towards her. “Are y’ feral or jus’...bewitched…” Her voice trailed off as his eyes opened, struck by the familiar look in his eye.

#v; piracy #timelostexiles #ginxgatz #worgen gin meets worgen gatz #they fight #blood is drawn #it's fine #everything is fine

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savannah-lim · 3 years

Text

Sink Your Teeth In || Savannah & Carrington

Timing: Current Location: Teeth Parties: @savannah-lim and @carringtonblackwood Content: Just vampire shit Summary: Savannah goes exploring in dangerous places again.

Savannah’s ex-wife had been a huge Dracula fan. She’d even taken her to Whitby on their honeymoon so they could sit on the very bench Bram Stoker had once occupied. This town reminded her of Whitby, in some ways. It was a seaside town, although in New England rather than England itself, and it had a fascinating obsession with the Macabre. Recently, Savannah had started to figure out that there was a pretty good reason for that.

She wandered through the area she'd come to learn was (affectionately?) nicknamed Freak Alley, looking for somewhere to have a drink. She was sure someone online had told her to stay out of these kinds of places, but curiosity was her best friend and biggest enemy, so she walked right in, heading into what she assumed was a goth or punk themed bar called 'Teeth'.

People looked at her a little strangely as she walked in. Maybe she wasn’t dressed appropriately. “Sorry, I forgot my black leather jacket and velvet top hat,” she said to one particularly gawpy patron as she took a seat at the bar, then she turned to the bartender. “Hi, I’ll have a Gin and Tonic.”

Carrington was having… A Night. Whether it was getting better or worse was still up for debate. Five of his six current clients had called that afternoon to cancel their appraisal walk-throughs, Walter - the fucking ungrateful, orchid-ruining excuse for an oversized Venus fly-trap - had nearly taken his hand off when Carrington had fed the vampire watermelon his biweekly meal. And to top it all off, someone had scratched his Aston. Which would cost an arm and both legs to have fixed. So Carrington was in dire need of a distraction.

Which ‘Teeth’ was more than happy to provide. Carrington was currently enjoying a very good buzz - thanks to a bottle or two of top-shelf fae blood - when something… unusual yet strangely familiar caught his attention. As well as the attention of every other vampire in the room. There was a human sitting at the bar. A human that wasn’t an employee, and therefore not under the owner’s protection. So it didn’t take long for the vultures to start circling.

The woman’s scent finally registered with his intoxicated brain about the time he finished his drink. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Tomorrow's headline was already flashing through his mind: FBI Agent Orders Gin and Tonic in Local Bar, Gets Exsanguination Instead. Of all the fucking nights…

“Hello again,” he said, slipping up beside her and ordering another bottle of blood. “How’ve you been? And why, might I ask, are you all alone in a place like this?”

Savannah had felt several dozen eyes on her. Eyes she had chosen to ignore. The bartender looked at her like she was crazy, but shuffled off to fulfil her order. She looked at the menu on the wall behind him. None of these seemed like normal drinks. Maybe they all just had fancy names. A shiver passed down her spine as someone brushed past her in the crowd, a sixth sense she couldn’t quite explain. But when someone took the seat next to her, Savannah was relieved to see it was someone who wasn’t a stranger.

She paid and tipped the bartender as he returned with her drink. “Carrington, hello.” Nobody was looking at him strangely in spite of him wearing regular clothes as well. Perhaps she was missing something. “I’m well, thanks.” She took a sip of her drink. “A place like this? Just because I’m not covered head to toe in tattoos with painted black fingernails, doesn’t mean I can’t find these sorts of places charming,” she teased, giving him a small grin. “But you can fix the ‘alone’ part if you want.” She cocked her head at him. “Did you just order blood? Was I supposed to use a code word or something, you know, to blend in?”

“That’s good to hear.” He eyed her curiously. The first time they’d met, Carrington had been absolutely certain she knew shit-all about… well… anything to do with the supernatural. It was why he’d compelled her to forget what she’d seen that night. Though things could and did change quite quickly in this town. Perhaps Savannah was one of them. Either way, Carrington’s curiosity was piqued.

He returned her grin with one of his own, one side of his mouth slowly lifting as he realized she was serious. And if one were observant enough, they might notice that Carrington sported a set of rather sharp canines behind his lopsided smile. He likely couldn’t have put them away if he’d tried, considering his current state. But oh well. In for a penny and all that.

“Oh, I think you’ll find the charm goes much, much deeper than just the aesthetic…” Her casual invitation earned her another slow grin. “I think I can handle that.” The asked after drink came a moment later, and Carrington’s fingers paused against the bottle. He glanced at her, trying to decide how to answer in a way that wouldn’t send her running for the hills. Finally, he settled for the truth. She was here wasn’t she? “Yes.” The word was said with a slow, almost lazy candor as he lifted the bottle to his lips. “And no. But... if you wish to blend in…” There were still several sets of eyes on them as his arm slipped idly across the back of her chair. “I could show you how.

Savannah hadn’t even finished her first drink yet, but it was clear Carrington had already had a few. She decided to drink quickly in order to catch up. She had a feeling this was going to be an interesting night. “Fae Blood,” she read from the label. “Well, that’s not very nice.” Savannah waved the bartender down, much to his irritation, and ordered a second gin and tonic and a whiskey on the rocks. “Seems I have some catching up to do.” She finished her first drink almost in one long gulp, eyeing Carrington with curiosity.

“You’re being strange,” she said, but her tone was one of interest and intrigue. She swore she could see the strange shape of his teeth beneath the dim lights. “Blending in, how?” she asked, curious to know what he’d be showing her. “I’d like to find out.”

Carrington was well into his cups. Which explained why he didn’t bat an eye as she read the label on his bottle, other than to give her another playful smirk. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. Besides…” He leaned towards her and pointed to a tiny bit of writing on the label. “‘No Fae were harmed in the making of this willingly-donated, generously compensated, and promise-free product.’” As if that should explain everything. And maybe it did.

“By all means.” He watched her down her drink, raising an impressed eyebrow. The sweet smell of whiskey drifted towards him, and Carrington ordered one for himself, with a shot of A-negative. “Am I?” he asked. Her continued acquiescence was slightly surprising, but Carrington didn’t mind. Not one bit. “By doing what every other human that comes into a vampire bar comes there to do…” He gave her another curious, crooked smile, eyes slightly hooded as the implications of what he was suggesting - along with his sharply pointed teeth - made themselves unmistakably clear. “And I’d be more than happy to oblige.” His fingers drifted up her arm to ghost over the line of her neck. “Do you trust me?”

Savannah had to be dreaming. This whole thing was almost as beyond belief as everything else she’d seen in White Crest so far. The idea of a vampire bar wasn’t strange. What was strange was that he should be so brazen about it, that he should be so open, even clearly a few drinks deep. “Why would I possibly want to try that?” she asked. She wasn’t a vampire, so she could only imagine it would taste awful. “I have my own.” She downed her whiskey and lifted the second gin and tonic. This would catch up with her soon. Maybe once it did, this would feel less bizarre.

“How forward,” she snickered, almost a little embarrassed that this situation was - dare she say it - kind of hot. A therapist would have had a field day with that. “I’m not sure I’m drunk enough yet,” she said, her breath hitching in her throat a little turning her words into something of a sigh. “But you can show me around while I get there.” She leaned into him, whispering. “And no. I don’t trust anyone. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do something foolish.”

Carrington had no reason to hide what he was. Not here. Though his track record of making good choices when partaking of fae blood - he usually avoided it for a reason - wasn’t very good. Outside these walls, however, his identity was no one’s business but his own. And a very few trusted individuals. He opened his mouth to tell Savannah that the comment had been… well, somewhat rhetorical, but his attention quickly slipped to watching the line of her throat as she downed her drinks.

“You asked,” he grinned, letting his fingers play over the slope of her shoulder. The way her breath hitched made Carrington’s fangs ache ever so slightly, but he was more than happy to grant the request to show her around. Before he could start what would hopefully be a very short tour on the way to something far more entertaining, she was suddenly very close. Again, she managed to surprise him with her answer, and again, Carrington didn’t question it. Instead, he laughed, the sound a low, genuinely pleased hum as he turned his head to whisper, “Good girl…” into her ear. He didn’t elaborate on which of her comments he was alluding to (it was both, actually), but pulled her and onto the first leg of the grand tour.

A good bit later, Carrington’s head lolled towards Savannah. “Are we there yet?” he asked, grinning drunkenly, fangs on full display at this point. “Or well… are you there yet? I was there… oh-” He held up two fingers for her to see. “- three drinks ago.”

Savannah swallowed. This was bizarre in a way that somehow made sense. It would have been beyond belief if not for the fact that it was so sensible and obvious. Savannah had no scepticism left in her. Carrington wasn’t trying to hide anything. He wasn’t a stranger trying to lure her backstage. She quivered, almost embarrassed as he whispered the words in her ear.

She decided to see where this went, no commitment one way or the other. She explored with him, danced with him, had a few more drinks with him, and gave a low laugh when he finally asked the question. “I think I’m getting there.” She swung on his arm a little as they danced, twisting herself into his arms. “Tell me something,” she said, figuring now was her best chance to get some honesty out of him. “What do you think would have happened if you hadn’t found me at the bar?” she asked. In spite of being pleasantly drunk now, her curiosity hadn’t shut off. Savannah turned back to him, hands on his shoulders.

“Can you be gentle? Can your friends?” she used the word loosely. There were several humans in the bar. Savannah could see that now. She’d passed the human blood bags and the fang bangers that were either paid to be here or came for their own thrill and enjoyment. They seemed to be having fun, but Savannah didn’t doubt there was a seedier underbelly to all this. Accidents happened.

Her shiver didn’t escape his notice, but Carrington simply tucked that particular tidbit away for later. After that the evening was a blur. A pleasant one, if a bit strange. But only strange because he couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t have to hide a part of himself from a human acquaintance. Whether out of fear of losing a friend, or fear for his own safety. Neither of those things had even crossed his mind this evening. Savannah was… taking it all in stride. Without any evidence of a nervous breakdown in the near future.

So, as was the theme of the evening, Carrington didn’t question it. He simply endeavoured to take things as they came for once. Her laughter vibrated against his chest as she spun around, and he let his other hand slide around her waist, holding her against him as they danced. “Excellent…” he smiled against her ear before letting his lips drop lightly to her shoulder. He stayed there as they danced, enjoying her warmth and her scent along with his own pleasantly drunken state. “Anything…” he murmured to her query. Though when it came, the question wasn’t quite what he expected. Nonetheless, the evening had thus far thrived on honesty, and Carrington was loath to change that.

“Perhaps nothing,” he told her quietly. “Or perhaps someone would’ve fed on you. Without your consent. Or worse.”

Her next question didn’t have a black and white answer. She’d seen the varying degrees of human/vampire interaction around the bar. Though some things weren’t meant for public display. How could she not be curious? “In general? Yes,” he said, and meant it. “We’re all capable of being gentle. We’re not much different than humans in that sense. Some good, some bad. Most somewhere in between. ”

Carrington dipped his head towards her shoulder again. “As for myself… I’m always gentle…” His lips - along with a barely there, feather-light hint of fangs - brushed her skin as he smiled lazily. “Unless you ask me not to be...”

Savannah's next shudder wasn't so pleasant. Fed on. Or worse. Those certainly weren't the most desirable of outcomes. "Well, thanks for coming to my rescue," Savannah teased, her words dripping with irony. She remained close to Carrington, paying specific attention to his lack of heartbeat. His body was a little warm, perhaps from the bottles of blood he'd been drinking like light beers. If she hadn't already known already, she wouldn't have guessed he was a vampire. She'd have to get smarter about that.

She exhaled, continuing to casually dance with him as he explained his species to her, at least in the vaguest of ways. She'd try and find out more later, she was sure, once she wasn't so very distracted by the feeling of his skin on hers and how good he smelled. "Good to know," she murmured against his jawline as he promised to be gentle. She swallowed the lump in her throat as his teeth scraped against the shell of her ear.

Fuck. She was an idiot.

"Then I guess we'd better go back to your place."

#paras #with: carrington

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