#infidelity tw

[dykefaggotry]

that one poll about if you'd be friends w someone who cheated and the comments/tags were an all out blood bath got me thinking so

#infidelity tw #cheating tw #I'm curious bc a lot of ppl on that poll were Very very heated one way or the other #and I'm wondering how that applies to fiction #I myself don't seek it out but I don't mind it and sometimes it can be compelling in a story #it adds some Flavor and it's not like these characters are real yk? #but I get the feeling some people avoid it in a way they might avoid like. dead dove shit

[brain-rot-central]

So, you know Astarion's line when you choose someone else to pursue instead of him, where he tells the player "when you inevitably tire from your decades' old devotion to one another, I'll be here for a candid affair."

That, but Tav/Durge actually take him up on the offer.

#astarion #neech's speeches #ugh #my brain is a battlefield #infidelity tw #i read a fic like this once #tav was marrying gale #and was “just friends” with astarion #they go out the night before the wedding and get trashed #end up sleeping together #oh god it was so good

[realmackross]

PARTIES: @highoctanegem, @realmackross TIMING: After midnight on April 25th SUMMARY: Jade confronts Mack after her shift at Dance Macabre. WARNINGS: head trauma tw, infidelity tw, unsanitary tw

Even at a distance, Jade could hear the slutty bass pumping inside Dance Macabre. She couldn’t recognize the track, (and Shazam didn’t have the keen ears she did) but still, Jade bopped her head from her position anyway, wishing for a second she was out having that kinda fun. It was like a fleeting thought though, cause she knew how priorities worked. How commitment worked. She knew it was more relevant than ever, after the last few Ls she took. Slaying undead always came before grinding against strangers in the club. 

Just like B.E.P said, tonight was gonna be a good night. Jade had been keeping an eye on her favorite archnemesis for about two weeks now. Learning her schedule, scouting the neighborhood. Their next (and final) meeting had to be iconic. Too much time had passed since their goo adventure (which had been wrapped up very loosely in a “To be continued” ribbon), so what better time to circle back than now? (Probably, when she wasn’t like nursing both a stab wound, and a bullet wound, but alas).

Despite the nature of this particular undead, Jade still carried her stakes (there were plenty of vampires tingling her senses in the vicinity after all). But as always, she carried the star of the night on her back. Nope, not the crossbow: A sword. It’d been Ruby’s at one point which was the only reason it had remained in such perfect conditions before it was given to her. And like, decapitation was so not her favorite way of dispatching undead, but she was excited to play with new toys. And the gun was a bust since her encounter with Monty so... Plus, she was gonna look so hot wielding it too.

And then Jade spotted her, the one and only, coming out of the personnel door. She let Mack walk, cause she wasn’t dumb (just a little impatient), she wouldn’t risk getting attacked by a horde of undead if they saw her harming one of their own. When she was isolated enough, Jade came out from where she was hiding, coming face to face with the woman who once stole her boyfriend. (She didn’t approve of going behind a woman’s back) (She was a girl’s girl after all). Her eyes twinkled in the moonlight as her gaze fixed on Mack’s. She was in such a good mood despite recent losses. “Oh wow, look what the cat dragged in…or well, out, technically. Looking good, babe,” she grinned, strutting closer. “You’re missing that goo shine though”.

—

For weeks Mackenzie had felt the odd sensation that eyes were on her. It had honestly been quite a while since she had felt like she was being watched. In Hollywood all eyes were on her 24/7. Camera lenses, fans, paparazzi, but this had felt different. This had reminded her of the one fan she had experienced that had gone too far. The one who she had come home to find lingering in her bedroom waiting for. But ever since coming to Wicked’s Rest, the eyes that followed her had slowly died out as she became just another resident of the small and extremely strange town.

But tonight, she felt it again. Felt it on her way to work and as she was leaving to go home for the night. It was someone lingering in the shadows, and while Mackenzie didn’t like the idea of being followed, at least, in the short amount of time she had been a zombie, she knew she could defend herself in more ways than one.

It wasn’t until she saw the person come out and open her mouth that the young zombie’s guard was finally let down. And with a huff of frustration, the blonde rolled her eyes, “Seriously? Are you the one that’s been following me the whole fucking time? I knew you were obsessed with me, but this is just getting ridiculous, Jade. Am I gonna have to get a restraining order for your dumbass?” Mackenzie shook her head in annoyance, “What do you want? An autograph? A picture? A lock of hair to put with your shrine? Come on, man. It’s been a long night, and I just want to go home…without you following me.”

—

Jade snorted, immediately revitalized by Mack’s reaction. It had been a while since she’d gotten the thrill of arguing with someone. What was up with that? Was that what maturing looked like? Why did it have to be so boring? “I don’t know about this whole time, that might be someone else. I’d say two weeks, maybe?“ She moved her hand back and forth, estimating. Mack’s further annoyance earned her a cackle. One Jade cut short, cause like… she didn’t want to draw too much attention after all. “Oh, babe…I’d go for someone more famous if I wanted to be a creepy stan, you’re totally safe.” Sorta. The sword she was carrying would beg to differ.

But just cause this was her favorite nemesis, and cause this deserved more flare than just getting down to it, Jade decided to answer some questions. “We have unfinished business,” she sighed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Mack’s expression didn’t agree. “And, nope…it’s not Brody. But like, that’s still a thing that happened and makes me a little mad,” she conceded, taking two steps forward. “I’m talking about that whole…chomping on people thing.” There. Now they both knew this was justified. “I knew that first time, when I delivered your food, why even bother pretending? Then little Ariadne confirmed it, but we were pretty busy with the goo at the time, weren’t we?” She tilted her head, wondering if she should be done. If that was enough. But that hadn’t worked with Monty, so maybe she should go back to her regular style. Yapping till they had enough. “I usually like taking the ones with the…” she pointed two fingers down, signaling fangs. “But why not expand my horizons, yeah? Sorry for the exposition, it’s been like a season, I needed to recap for the audience at home,” she pointed behind her, to absolutely no one.  

And, oh… there was more in Jade’s script. “Don’t take this personally though, having a rival is like… so good for the ego. And I’m gonna miss the back and forth. Even if right now it’s a lot of forth. It’s not often I get under someone’s skin so easily,” a beat, then perfectly timed, “eh.” She flashed a smile. There was no need for this to be unpleasant. And Mack should know. “I’ll be good to you, I’m not really one for brutality. I’m here to help end this… curse you’re stuck with,” she narrowed her eyes,  “you want that, don’t you? Not having to crave human flesh. Not having to lose control and become a monster who hurts others,” her voice dropped to something more honest, her brows pinched together in concern. “I will help with that”.  

—

Mackenzie thought about the amount of time for a moment. It had been about two weeks since she had been feeling…off, “Yeah, I’d say two weeks is about right. Of course it would be you. It’s always fucking you.” She looked up to the night sky and let out a growl of frustration, “Please! For once! Can I have a break from Buffy the Fucking Vampire Slayer!?” Mack’s fists were clenched and her jaw had tightened as she looked back down with narrowed slits for eyes. If she was ever judging one to the point that she had hoped they would just disappear into a cloud of glittery smoke, it was Jade right now.

As Jade droned on and on and on, Mack found herself slowly unclenching her fists. In fact, by now she was yawning. Glancing down at her phone to see what time it was. Twiddling her thumbs. Hell, she was almost tempted to run off and grab a drink from inside Dance Macabre and come back, by the time Jade had finished talking, “Are you finished with your Holier Than Thou monologue? This isn’t a fucking movie, Jade. If you’re here to fight, which judging by that big ass sword hanging on your back, you are, then lets fucking fight. I’m probably going to kick your scrawny ass anyways.”

By now, Mack had woken up. She was popping her knuckles and cracking her neck loosening up. It had been a minute since she had actually gotten to fight somebody, and if it hadn’t been Jade she was about to face, she might have been more excited. No, the excitement would come when the bitch was laying on the ground eating her words. “And yes. To answer your question.” She already knew what Mack was anyways, “I would like to be rid of this curse of having to live off of human brains to survive, but you’re not going to be the one to rid me of it. I will help knock that ego of yours down a few pegs though.”

—

“Wow, not even one bit of regret for the people you’ve hurt? Come on… That’s pretty low, even for you. Then again, I should've expected it, after Brody,” she clicked her tongue, genuine annoyance simmering in her chest. It was always disappointing when monsters were content with their atrocities. It made it less exciting, for Jade. She felt way less accomplished taking out someone who didn’t care about what they’d done. Which, it should be the opposite, right? She should find so much joy in disposing of that type of beast. (She knew Ruby did, Jasper too). But how could she find a lost cause delightful? She always preferred helping over executing, the way she’d seen Onyx and Amber do. 

But she wasn’t gonna let Mack’s unapologetic attitude get to her head. She had this. She did. Wicked’s Rest would have one less zombie roaming the streets by the end of the night. That’s what she should be focusing on, not on whether Mack had any guilt over the whole brain eating. “Hey! That’s a step too far, like… we don’t have to lie, you know?” she rolled her eyes as Mack came for her ass. She did make one point (half a point, maybe), calling out the fact that Jade was not the most adept fighter. While Mack had done all those stunts back in Hollywood. “Besides, I’m aware it’s not a movie. Do you think they’d have two female protagonists with agency? You know Twitter and Reddit would be rioting, they’d call it woke trash,” she scoffed, looking to gain a few seconds to consider her first blow.

Mack cracked her knuckles in defiance and like, Jade had to respect that. It wasn’t a movie, no duh! but was there anything more fun than someone willing to rise the stakes and serve the plot? The script might be a little skewed in Mack’s favor, but Jade was nothing if not confident she could make this work. Even after Metzli. Even after the banshees. Even after Monty. And oh! There it was, some remorse (she should’ve skipped a few pages before bad mouthing her rival). “You should be honored, actually. Most slayers would just rip your pretty head off without giving you a chance. I’m at least giving you the time to talk. We’re totally passing the Bechdel test”. She pulled out the sword, at Mack’s request, emulating one of her greatest inspirations, CRJ. The blade shone in the moonlight. It didn’t get much use, considering zombies were relatively new in her repertoire. “Only the best for ya,” her lips curved in a challenge, beckoning Mack to draw closer.

—

She had let Brody’s name slide when she had said something before. But, now, to unknowingly claim that Mackenzie had no remorse for the people she had killed, especially Brody, had turned her annoyance into anger. She wasn’t going to play this cute little IRL simulation of a video game, Jade thought she was living in anymore. No, this was Mack’s undead life. She had to live with all the lives she had taken. Even the people she hadn’t killed, because she still survived off of their brains. The thing that made a person who they were, and everytime Mackenzie took a bite of the graymatter that kept her whole; the most important part of a human being that helped them to survive when everything else in their form was shutting down, she regretted it. Copious amounts of pepper and hot sauce could never make the remorse and guilt taste good. But this was what she was. She was far from perfect, but fuck if she was going to let another cocky hunter come into her life and try to tell her how she fucking felt.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about me or my life, Jade. I’m tired of all you motherfucking hunters coming at me and telling me that how I feel is wrong. That how I choose to live my life and how I’m trying to atone and live with myself is wrong. So you can either take your pretty sword and scurry back to your ragtag team of assholes right now. Or I’ll take your pretty sword and shove it so far up your ass that it makes a shish kabob out of your Pretty. Little. Brain.”

Mackenzie snarled as she began to inch closer ready for a fight. She had needed this ever since Jade had first shown up on her doorstep. And while she could never bring back the people she had hurt. And never apologize to Brody and tell him how much she missed him and loved him and how much guilt she felt with each step she took, she could hopefully get Jade off of her back for good; whether that meant life or death for the latter.

—

Jade took in Mack’s anger, raising her sword just a bit higher in case a raging beast lunged at her. But for now, all the bite was in the other woman’s words. And… Even when it was Mack in front of her, a woman who had stolen her boyfriend, a woman she enjoyed tormenting for the sake of it, Jade felt a soft pang in her heart. Sympathy. That’s where Mack was wrong. Jade didn’t care how every other slayer approached hunting, that was their business, she didn’t dispute other people’s codes. But she was different. Not like other hunters. She was… a good hunter (...wait!). The thought slipped out of her mind before she could cling to it, chew on it for a bit, and get something nutritious out of it, cause Mack needed to be interrupted. “You don’t have to live with yourself, is what I’m saying. Forget for a second that you can’t stand my face. If you want out of the Z-life I can give you that out. You don’t… deserve what happened to you. Or living like this. Whoever did it should’ve been taken care of, way before they got to you”.

And that was it, wasn’t it? What Regan didn’t understand, what Van couldn’t get. It was all a freaking cycle. Why did no slayer get to Mack’s maker? Who failed her? Struck young and in her prime and with so much to live for. Who neglected their oath? Was it a hunter who went soft too? Who added grey into the black-and-white world of protecting humankind? Forgiving a monster that should have never been allowed to go free? Had said monster claimed to be a good monster too, possibly? Jade couldn’t allow herself to become part of the cycle. Jade couldn’t fail Mack, or the people Mack might turn if she lost control (when. Sadly it was always when). Jade could break the cycle –this cycle– tonight. She would. The grip on her sword tightened and… wait, a shish kabob!? “Hey! That is offensive,” She narrowed her eyes, but her mouth betrayed the seriousness in her tone. Cause she totally appreciated her brain being called pretty. (Someone across the ocean would agree with that).

Alright, there was snarling now. Mack was pissed (at the wrong person, mind you), and it didn’t look like they had more pages on the script to go over. Action sequence time. She wished she had warmed up her muscles. She felt a little tight, even if her wounds were close to healing. But if she chopped Mack’s head off quickly, that wouldn’t matter. She mirrored Mack’s stance as she approached, brandishing her sword as she stared into her rival’s eyes. All she could think of before either moved, was the tragedy that was Mack’s life, all too clear in her pained eyes. Not for much longer, Jade promised, before striking.

She wasn’t sure who made the first move, things always happened fast when it came to tussling, but a beat later Jade collided with a hard body, and crap… Her original plan to go for the head went out the window. She dodged a few punches (taking on several of them as well), before finding the right angle to impale Mack with her sword. Right in the abdomen. She twisted the blade before pulling away, shoving the woman back with a kick. She would not repeat the mistakes she made with Monty.

—

Mack refused to listen to Jade’s side of the story. Even if she believed she was doing the right thing, Mack wasn’t going to be some mercy killing that the slayer could write off as a job well done. No. Despite being dead, she was still a living and thriving being with feelings and a life, and she was going to make sure the other woman knew that.

Without giving it any more thought, Mackenzie found herself charging forward towards the hunter. Fists balled, she decided to go easy at first. Punches here and there were sometimes dodged and other times not, but being in a fight with someone who had the advantage of a weapon; especially one with extra length, had always proved costly at one point or another, and unfortunately, Mackenzie met that fate early on.

Feeling the blade being impaled into her thin frame caused Mack to cry out. Though the pain wasn’t as bad as if she had been living, she could feel the pressure of the blade being lodged in her belly and then twisted for added impact. As Jade’s foot came up to meet her, the zombie felt herself stumbling backwards, but had managed to catch herself before hitting the ground.

Her eyes bore holes into the other woman as she put a hand to her stomach and pulled it away barely covered in a slow moving sludge. Now, Mack was pissed. She knew this wouldn’t be the thing to take her out, but it would enrage her, and before she would let the zombie part of her take hold, it was time for her to put her black belt in karate to use, “You’re gonna wish you had never done that.”

Poised in a fighting stance, Mackenzie lowered her head focusing her eyes on Jade, before lunging forward and knocking the sword out of the woman’s hand with a roundhouse kick, returning once more to fighting stance, before sending a blow of well placed kicks and punches in Jade’s direction as hard and fast as she could in order to keep the other woman from having an advantage on her. She knew the more energy she burned, the faster her feral zombie side was going to come out and coordination would soon be lost, but if she could just keep her mind intact long enough to take out Jade, she could deal with the zombing out stuff later.

—

She watched zombie “blood” ooze out of Mack’s abdomen, icky fluid sticking to her shirt, some of it coating Jade’s blade. It was kinda interesting, she couldn’t deny it. She rarely got up close and personal with zombies so to see their full physiology on display had Jade’s eyes going wide. For like, half a second, okay? She was supposed to be a pro. (Onyx would’ve tossed that word around ‘rookie’ if he’d seen her, right?). Speaking of being or not being qualified, her cheek throbbed where Mack had landed a few nasty punches, and she was pretty sure the warmth on her face came from her own busted lip. (That and well, the metallic taste in her mouth). But she was fine, she was cool, those were minor setbacks at most, and she could take down Mack if she wanted to. She was better off seizing the offensive than waiting for the right time to counter-attack. 

So, of course, she inched forward when Mack tumbled, lifting her weapon. Jade readied for an overhead attack, to slice with intent and speed. Hack as much as she could on the first try. She didn’t want to extend this longer than it should. (And risk getting bested in combat, again). Too bad there was no such thing as a one-person fight. Cause Mack surged forward and canceled her attack with a genius move, hitting her wrist and kicking the sword off her hand. It clattered onto the ground and Jade wasn’t quick enough to reach for it, cause again, Mack charged forward with fury. And for a moment (or two) (or three), all Jade could do was block and absorb as many hits as she could. 

But it wasn’t enough. Mack’s kicks and punches were too precise for Jade’s deficient training. If she ducked a fist, a foot hit her belly half a second later. If managed to push Mack an inch away, she returned with a vengeance. This was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. 

A particularly strong kick knocked the air out of her lungs, followed by an arm swinging at her that made Jade lose balance. She tumbled backward to the ground, gasping for air. There was not much oxygen getting in, there was blood. Everything was blood. Her lungs burned. But two feet away: her sword. She crawled the small distance, seizing the handle before a shoe could crush her fingers. She rose from the ground and sliced forward. It didn’t matter how much of Mack she cut, as long as Jade slashed something. As long as Mack backed off enough to gather herself.

— 

Mackenzie was charging forward again hoping to get the jump on the sword that lay on the ground, but it was too late. Jade had pulled another slice through the air, this time cutting into the zombie’s neck leaving her once again pulling back on the defensive so as to not get impaled, but the tip of the sword had done enough damage leaving Mack’s neck wide open and more blood oozing out. And unfortunately for them both, it was the damage needed to send Mackenzie’s body into a panic.

Everything that had been keeping the living dead woman alive was now reverting into emergency mode, and instead of leaving her with enough sense to leave the situation, Mackenzie began stumbling forward towards Jade. Any sense of humanity that had been in the woman’s eyes before was gone, but with the lack in brain cells came an increased strength that left her with one goal in mind, food.

As she stumbled closer, Mackenzie managed to aimlessly send Jade to the ground with an increased blow to the stomach, and instinctively dropping to her knees, she crawled on top of the slayer and began pounding into her chest and face with heavy, limp fists on the brink of taking Jade’s head in her hands with one goal, and one goal only…consuming the woman’s brain.

—

Something shifted. A couple things shifted, actually. Mack’s gaze was hazy now, somehow both lost and focused on Jade. What remained of her… humanity, for lack of a better term, slipped away as she let the monster inside her take the wheel. She knew zombies got rowdy like that when they were hurt, she didn’t need the reminder. Mack’s movements were also different from the black belt martial arts fighter she’d been in the beginning. She stumbled forward, gait all wrong, all feral, looking at Jade the way Regan would look at her sometimes. (Except with none of the gayness). She was a snack, plain and simple.

But Jade wouldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t. Becoming Mack’s meal would be so humiliating after dishing it out. The sword pointed forward as a threat didn’t dissuade Mack this time, cause there was no Mack to dissuade. It was the creature now. She aimed for the neck again, desperate to slash and tear any flesh there, until the neck couldn’t sustain her head anymore. (Her belly was sick just picturing it, she was not a butcher), but when she pounced, she was met with Mack’s response. A tackle that was a hundred percent effective, throwing her to the ground, her head bouncing as it hit the asphalt. Ouch. She saw stars, and she didn’t have to be a genius to know when something was gonna bleed. She couldn’t worry about that. Her hand was still grasping the sword, by sheer stubbornness at this point. She could stab Mack, she could if…

The zombie crawled on top of her, supernatural strength overpowering her own special hunter sauce. Fists pounded on her chest and her abdomen. Like Jade was nothing but a steak to tenderize. Or well, a peach to beat to a pulp (but peaches were a sensitive topic). And oof, she heard a crack, maybe. Jade wasn’t sure anymore. Her sword had slipped off her hand while she tried in vain to protect herself from the beating. She couldn’t breathe. She was coughing out her own blood, trying to clear her airway. She gasped, frantic, almost in vain, blocking one blow to the stomach only to get another savage fist right below her collarbone. 

Was this it? Was she letting Mack take her out? Oh, something was definitely broken, radiating pain all across her ribcage. And nope, it wasn't her heart. (That one still hurt the most, somehow). And that… Regan. Her mind inevitably shifted to the one responsible for the more agonizing pain, as she held onto Mack's wrist long enough to stop the battering. Maybe her brain was supplying comfort images before she kicked it. Kinda nice! It could only be improved if they were accompanied by a sweet saxophone in the background. She would take a highlight reel with the best of Regan if the next punch was the one to end her, thank you very much. 

She wasn’t sure how, (plot armor, maybe), but there was a split second of clarity, where Jade realized she was giving up. Which was actually? So offensive and out of character coming from her, the most determined person on the planet. Come on! She couldn’t bite the dust yet. Regan would know. She said so. Would she scream? Jade wasn’t sure how that worked. Surely there was like, a distance limit, a radio, something for that kinda stuff. A geo-block, like on Youtube. (Ireland would geo-block her death) But nope! She’d never wanna be the one to help Regan test that out. And on a real note, there was a ring on her finger that dictated she had to live for a couple more decades, actually.

Jade hooked her leg behind Mack’s upper thigh, hips bucking forward, letting muscle memory be the MVP as she flipped them over. (It would be her core strength, saving her when nothing else could). She braced all her weight onto her right palm, and for the split moment she had the zombie shook, Jade allowed herself to... well, she couldn’t breathe, but recharge, maybe. She had no punches left in her though, she was positive. Her arm was trembling, not just from holding her weight, but from the wounds she’d picked up last week. But Jade had a knife… she had a knife. She reached the back of her belt, almost dying right on the spot from the sharp pain shooting up her ribs, but her fingers worked diligently to unsheath the weapon. There was no thought behind anything. It was just life or death. It was her hand, a knife, and the promise of salvation. And at last, some survival instinct kicked in. 

She plunged the blade into Mack’s thigh, hilt deep, pouring every drop of energy left, the tendons in her arm bulging from exertion. She retrieved the weapon, going back in again, and again. The monster wailed beneath her, and Jade had to resist the violent shoving against her shoulders attempting to knock her out. And then nails trying to dig into her scalp. (Not her hair, anything but her hair). A knife and the audacity would not be enough against this Mack. She stretched (ouch) to her sword, noticing the Claddagh ring stained with her own blood. Another incentive: She had to go home to clean it. 

So Jade slashed. And she felt sick, bile (or maybe blood, it could be blood) rising up her throat with every desperate wail beneath her. How could Parker ever do this? She was not a butcher. But as long as the sharp end of her weapon met flesh, tore muscle and tendons, and severed the limb to the point where amputation might be the only answer, Jade had a chance to escape and not be chased. Regan would not scream for her tonight. 

Of course, the adrenaline of getting close to victory made her cocky. Jade thought for a second about going for the neck, finishing her job while at it. But not only was Mack clawing and scratching her shoulders, looking to hold her tight enough to chomp on her head, she was also transforming into a more unrecognizable monster. (Weren’t they both?) Nope, how about some self-preservation? She had tested Monty this week already. Jade had to pick her battles. She stabbed with the sword one final time, pinning Mack there while she crawled away from the body. Somehow, she scrambled to her feet. Barely. She felt like fainting. Blood was sticking to the back of her head, her ears ringing, vision blurry. Oh, she was not gonna be able to get too far. (And not to alarm the audience at home, but… would she even make it?). She didn’t need far. She needed away from Mack so she couldn’t hop to her. Away enough for some poor soul to become Mack’s chance at survival instead of her. That was a failure in itself, wasn’t it? Jade was putting her life above those she swore to protect. Great. She might bleed to death alone (the way she always thought she would go, anyway) and be reminded she was nothing but the sum of her mistakes? It was a little rude.

Once she reached safety she’d call Emilio. The rest of her friends would be horrified if they found her beaten to a pulp (and half of them had gone to Ireland on chill vacay, anyway). Her knees buckled and she hit the ground again. Crawling it was. Jade would do what needed to be done, getting farther and farther away from Mack, no mental power to quip a promise of revenge. And when she couldn’t see Mack anymore, when she tucked herself into an alley, back against the wall, everything went black.

#para: last one standing #para: jade #wickedswriting #head trauma tw #infidelity tw #unsanitary tw #thank you for letting mack be a part of this madness!!!! ♥♥♥

[wolfiemcwolferson]

Sol look away.

When Charles said don't call me, he had meant don't call me while I'm still mad at you or don't call me before I leave to go back to school.

He didn't mean never call me again, we're over.

But that's what Pierre thinks he meant because he never calls and Charles is too stubborn to call and it's been a week and then two and then Charles has been at school for two months and Pierre hasn't called and Charles realizes while he's standing in the library waiting on his turn to use the copier that he and Pierre have properly broken up.

Not like the dozens of times they've broken up before - silly, ridiculous fights because they're too immature to talk to each other. No, this is serious. It's real.

He doesn't make his copies. He drops the book on the floor, losing his place so he gets out of line and walks back to where he had been sitting with Alex and George.

"What's happened?" George asks, "Has it broken again? I'll go get a -"

"We've broken up." Charles hears himself say. "We broke up."

"Oh," Alex sighs, "Yes, we were wondering when you would -"

George elbows him and Charles feels like his strings have been cut.

Because Pierre is his and he is Pierre's and that's the way it's always been. Even when...even before they knew what that meant really.

"I think I want to go back to our place." Charles says and then he allows George and Alex to bundle him off and he tries to sleep it off. Unsuccessfully.

He doesn't let it go. He never lets it go.

He moves on - kind of.

There's a frat guy that calls him man while Charles is sucking his dick and Charles hates it, but never says anything about it and he allows it to go on for months.

There's a guy on spring break - because he doesn't go home for spring break. He allows George to drag him home with him and they spend a week at the beach and Charles goes back to a rented house with a guy and it's terrible and Charles has to cry about it the next day to Alex over the phone while George holds him in his bed.

He never moves on because Pierre always calls him and it's stupid because it's been a year and then it's been two and Charles is thinking about applying to grad schools when Pierre calls finally.

Middle of the night, it only comes through because Charles never took Pierre off the list of people that can break his DND and Charles was up studying for the GRE anyway and he considers not answering it for two whole rings, but he does anyway - sliding the phone open and saying immediately, "You're late," because he's pissed as hell still and because he and Pierre have always shoved at each other's sore spots.

"Charles," Pierre whispers. "I fucked up."

"Yeah," Charles snorts, thumping his study guide shut and leaning back in his chair. "It's been two years and -"

"Charles!" Pierre shouts and then curses under his breath, "listen to me."

Charles snaps his mouth shut because he and Pierre might be bastards to each other - woven out of the same cloth or whatever that shit is - but they don't yell at each other.

"I fucked up." Pierre says again. But Charles knows he's not talking about not calling Charles for two years and his heart is in his throat.

"Whatever you need." It's a three hour drive home and Charles has class in the morning, but he's fine. He'll email his professors some bullshit about a fever and then he'll be excused and it'll be fine. He's already shoving his feet into the shoes by the door and calculating exactly how much money is in his bank account. "You know it's anything you need ever."

"I asked her to marry me." Pierre says, so small and so tiny and Charles wants to break things between his hands. Pierre and his...his fucking religion and his beliefs and the pressure to live his life the way everyone else thought it should be.

It's why he had said it two years ago. Don't call me, Charles had spit at him - still uncomfortable from their afternoon fuck in Charles' childhood bedroom, phantom hands on his hips and the echo of Pierre calling him baby in his ear, but then Pierre had been with her at the festival - buying her candy and holding her hand and Charles had said don't call me.

But, he never meant this.

Charles sits down on the floor because if he doesn't, he thinks his legs will give out and then he breathes in and out three times before gathering the strength to ask, "Do you want to marry her, Pierre?"

Pierre sniffles over the phone. "No," he cries. "No, I want - I miss you so badly. I just want -" And then he says, "Please - I'll...I can't. Charles."

Charles stands up. "I'm coming."

"I'm sorry I didn't call," Pierre gasps out between choking sobs.

"I'm coming," is all Charles says.

He doesn't say what they both know. Pierre only ever needed to call.

#infidelity tw #but not between Piarles #piarles #me in a silly goofy summer break mood

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: Mabel Chen Species: Werewolf Occupation: Server at Driftwood Diner Age: 23 Years Old Played By: Lucky Face Claim: Havana Liu Rose

"I just wish people stopped acting like there’s a gold medal at the end of the race when you act like you care."

TW: Parental death, infidelity

There isn’t much to say about Mabel’s early days. She was born to a Russian mother and a Chinese father who immigrated to the States as a couple in their early twenties and found normalcy in odd jobs until they felt stable enough to start a family. Although their dreams of having a big one became stunted when they figured starting over with a second baby was too much work they weren’t eager to sign up for. So they focused their attention on Mabel, and tried their best to give her a plentiful life.

Mabel’s mother was known for having no backbone, and Mabel’s father was known for being a little too particular about everything. Mabel could count in the fingers of one hand the amount of times she heard her mother’s opinion about a subject, be it grand or mundane. She reduced herself to the labors his father was not equipped to do or, in Mabel’s now mature opinion, just decided not to. This was the case for as long as she could remember, and it ended abruptly when she was fourteen.

Recollections of that day seem blurry now. The house was as quiet as it always was when she returned from school, but that day there was an unusual emptiness to it that she picked up as soon as she walked through the door. Going through the rooms yelling out for her parents turned useless when they weren’t there to answer, and when an unexpected knock came to the door she couldn’t help but jump to the inevitable conclusion that something wasn’t right. Behind it was her nextdoor neighbor, her face captured by an anguished look.

Mabel’s father had suffered a fatal heart attack, and her mother fell into an endless denial. Her ineptness had become Mabel’s responsibility, turning the escape from her household into a routine. She found solace in wandering the streets, exploring the city, and discovering new places to temporarily forget the weight of her new reality.

It was during one of these escapades that she encountered an enigmatic older man. Their relationship started innocently enough, filled with illusion and daydreams. Little did Mabel know, however, that beneath this man’s charming exterior lurked a tangled web of lies. One evening, Mabel accidentally stumbled upon the truth about his double life. He was married, a family man with a house full of children too bored to bother about the consequences of seeking entertainment outside of his TV set and the sports channel. The revelation fueled a heated argument that shattered the illusion of happiness she thought they had built.

Furious and betrayed, Mabel stormed out, determined not to accept a ride from the man who had deceived her. Alone and with no money, she began the long walk home, each step fueled by a mix of anger, confusion, and heartbreak.

It was during this fateful journey that she encountered a creature lurking in the shadows.

Without warning, it pounced, sinking its teeth into her flesh. In the chaos that ensued, she fought back, bewildered and terrified. Eventually breaking free, she stumbled her way home, her body pulsating with an otherworldly energy.

You would think fate would be accommodating, but the next new moon was only a few nights away. Mabel didn’t know she would be experiencing pain and insatiable hunger like she never had before.

Searching for answers, she turned to the internet, where a mix of folklore and reality pointed to a shocking conclusion – she had turned into a werewolf.

However, what initially felt like a course soon became the best thing that could happen to her. The full moon brought her a sense of liberation like nothing she had felt before. She began to relish the transformations, savoring the moments when she felt less human, less responsible for her mother’s sanity, less vulnerable to the heartbreak that had come to her not soon before. Every full moon became a dance with the unknown, a symphony of possibilities that resonated deep within her. She felt driven by a new sense of urgency to escape the constraints of her life, so she decided to make an altering life decision.

Fueled by a mix of anger, disappointment, maybe a bit of rebellion, as well as the primal instincts awakening within her, Mabel decided to leave hometown under the cover of darkness to embrace the unknown that laid ahead in Wicked’s Rest.

Once settled, Mabel embarked on a journey of adaptation, to which she began to see no end. Without a doubt, maintaining control of her new nature was not as easy a task as she had initially believed, and the torment did not hide from leaving evidence in her mood.

Character Facts:

Personality: Resilient, impulsive, courageous, stubborn, adaptable, secretive

Although not fluent, she speaks Russian and Mandarin Chinese.

Mabel’s father was a farmer, which meant he used all the help he could get. Mabel learned some things in her childhood while helping him with the upkeep of the land and animals, and although it’s not something she has ever expressed before, she would like to acquire a piece of land in the near future to do the same.

The day she arrived at Wicked’s Rest, she went to an animal shelter in hopes to find a pet. That’s how she found Chimney, the long and orange haired cat. He has black spots of hair all over his body that give him a dirty look, as if he had just gone down a chimney, hence his name.

The wired earbuds in Mabel’s ears at all times are playing everything but music. She often distracts herself with audio books she doesn’t have the attention span to read as there is nothing else she would dread more than to have a moment with her own thoughts.

She is renting a small shed in the back of an old lady’s home in Harborside. She often joins in for Sunday’s dinner with her family when they come to visit from Seven Peaks.

#parental death tw #infidelity tw #retired #unleashed

[hungriestheidi]

70 for sebchal of the angst prompt 😁

*finger guns* got you, babe!

“You never let me go, that’s why you’re miserable.”

The rain falls heavy outside, the thunder lights up the night sky. It’s been threatening to rain for days now, it was about time it happened. Charles feels his world heave, the floor turning into something tender, something so soft he can slide through, fall and crash and burn on the lobby of the hotel.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Charles still smells the ashes on his clothes, like he’d walked out of a house on fire and not just smoked with Seb in the front seat of an electric SUV, discussing whether the songs on the radio were good or not, avoiding the elephant in the room, shining like a little sun in Sebastian’s left hand.

“You don’t let me go either,” he says in return and when he turns, Sebastian sighs, the hands on his thighs falling. He lets gravity pull him, back on the white duvet, clear blue eyes on the ceiling.

Charles can feel the dejected acceptance they both wear like little matching necklaces. It can only ever be like this.

You are in a car with a beautiful boy and he won’t tell you that he loves you because you told him those were words you said in vows under a flowery archway, so you kiss his calloused fears and beckon him to the bed with the same tired hand that bears a golden ring.

---

send me a ship and a prompt for a quick ficlet!

#sebchal #fic asks #infidelity tw #i suppose #lourdes tag #hehe hope u like it muak muak

[vandcrlylecrybaby]

i still owe money...

name: deryn christine adler

nickname: dare, little bird

pronouns/gender: she/her, cis woman

sexuality: bisexual (preference for women)

birthday: august 2

zodiac sign: leo ☉ | aquarius ☽ | gemini➶  

residence: queens

employment: bartender

mbti: ENTJ

enneagram: type 8w7

moral alignment: chaotic neutral

... to they money i owe

TL;DR:

trigger warnings: death, parental death, dementia, infidelity, alcoholism

deryn adler is the only child of two high school sweethearts. her dad was a middle school principal, and her mom ran this little apothecary shop in brooklyn, which is where deryn spent every second of every day she was allowed to.

when deryn was about ten years old, her mom started to act strange – erratic and forgetful, and occasionally more cruel than anyone who had ever known her thought she was capable of being. no one thought too much of it until she accidentally burned down the apothecary shop and couldn't explain what had happened. they took her to the doctor to find out that at the age of 32, she had early onset dementia. deterioration was pretty fast after that. by the time she died six years later, she had stopped remembering the strangers in her house.

toward the end, deryn's dad started to see someone else. it was, for all intents and purposes, an affair. to deryn, it was the final sign that he gave up on her mom. she still hasn't worked her way to forgiveness for that final betrayal.

she started acting out, and her dad assumed she would grow out of it. she didn't. she's spent the better part of two decades years making her best run at running her own life into the ground.

deryn is currently in the phase of regretting wasting a lot of time being angry at everyone and no one at all. she's coming around to the idea of digging herself out of the hole she turned her life into for the better part of two decades.

she drinks more than she wants to and always more than she intended. she started to humor the idea that she might have a problem sometime in the last year, but she's done nothing about it.

very much a ‘just go with it’ kind of person, even if ‘just going with it’ kind of makes her the architect of her own destruction? big fan of blaming the universe for her problems, even if it’s almost always a three-step trace back to ‘the consequences of her own actions.’

she's a loyal friend, though she doesn't always go about it in the right way. deryn has a strong propensity for making things worse when she tries to help. she burns far more bridges than she builds.

i never thought about love...

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

my life for a ride or die friendship 

equally so for someone who she used to be friends with but they had a fallout

drinking buddies

former friends (would really love someone who got sick of her generally high level of bullshit)

former coworkers (she has worked? kind of everywhere and was equally terrible at them all)

exes/flings

an almost something that felt serious and one/both of them freaked and now it’s super weird

... when i thought about home

ESTABLISHED CONNECTIONS:

tbd

VIBES:

pinterest | playlist

#boroughs.intro #death tw #parental death tw #dementia tw #alcoholism tw #infidelity tw

[adoranoia]

a newer/recent hc i've thought up for yuri is--she has a young -er half-sister named hana fujikawa, she's in her last year of junior high school/middleschool. while yuri is very much aware of their familial connection, the other is decidedly not. ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ yuri's father cheated with another woman years ago, and sends them certain amounts of money to keep the mother quiet, and content. yuri had found one of the checks he wrote, while digg -ing through her father's desk for something else he'd asked for.‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ yuri has seen hana out in town, and they've even ran into each other directly once when hana briefly visited the school yuri attends. yuri doesn't have the heart to reach out, scared to make the young girl get involved, considering how sucky the ohnishi parent's are. ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ especially because hana seems so... well, normal. happy. ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

#* && OOC #* && YURI /// DEEP; BROODING ! #anyway back to playing a ddlc mod #i think its neat tho. all my ddlc muses have different flavors of siblings and issues relating to it y'know #sayori is the older sister to a much younger brother who she has to help raise and put on a smile for in face of their bad situation #aka their dad being sick #natsuki has a older sister that left their abusive home and in turn natsuki to deal with everything herself and while she doesn't blame her #she does still resent her a little #and yuri........ gestures #dysfunctional family tw #cheating tw #infidelity tw

[banisheed]

[pm] I can no longer promise you my all bones. Maybe I can promise you one or two, though.

[pm] Who is it? Who did you replace me with? I believed our bond to be sacred, Wynne. I thought I was the only woman who wanted your bones in your life. But it was a lie, wasn’t it? You strung me along….made me believe you would spare me your bones…..

I will never forgive you.

[user is idle]

Which bones? Femur? Skull?

#infidelity tw #not really but that is the reference she is making akfjkskd #c: wynne #pms

[cannotfly]

@soldwrecked's arthur donaldson sent: how long have you known?

there were parties every night. fireworks that made her eardrums rattle. even from across the bay, she could hear the excited shrills of a dance. but what she looked forward to most of all were the birds that were released. the way they fly into the moon made her wonder if she would be able to do the same thing one day. with such celebrations going on, she had the sinking feeling that it wasn't art behind it although he lived in that house. he didn't like parties the last time she knew him. it would be someone else.

it's foolish to be jealous of whoever this faceless person was. here she is, sitting on art's bed as if she always shares it with him. johanna isn't the person he goes to bed with every night. there's someone else. someone for the parties. it isn't exactly jealousy, she thinks. a mere curiosity.

❝ well, there's lily. i had to, well, assume that she has a mother. ❞ she swallows. ❝ are you married? i just never see a woman around here and i told pry -- you know that i don't pry into your things -- but there has to be someone else. i just . . . ❞ her throat clenches. perhaps, if johanna doesn't finish that thought she can live blissfully ignorant for the rest of her life. they both know that she wears the ring of another man on her finger. she can't help but wonder. ( rest of her life -- she said rest of her life instead of for the rest of this affair; she wants this to last forever, doesn't she? ) ❝ who is she? ❞

#we haven't even touched patrick yet hehe #*❈ ‣ have you decided it’s safer in cages‚ singing when you’re told? — ( interaction. ) #*❈ ‣ only we know what we’ve both been through‚ if i save you will you save me too? — ( v: great gatsby. feat. soldwrecked ) #soldwrecked #cheating tw #infidelity tw

[loftylockjaw]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Grit Pit, The Wormhole PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw) & Owen (@apaininyourneck) SUMMARY: Wyatt and Owen reconnect unexpectedly, and the things they'd been hiding about themselves for years are brought to the light. CONTENT WARNINGS: WRspice (dialogue), infidelity (past mentions/implications)

—

Fight night. It always got Wyatt some kind of riled, the shouts of the crowd as he lumbered into the ring sticking with him long after the show had ended. He was the newest addition to the roster of fighters, and seeing as he’d only been in town a few weeks, had only been pitted against mindless monsters so far. Still, management was aware of the reputation he’d built for himself in Boston, and after just one fight, decided that Lockjaw events were going to have to have a splash zone. Which of course cost extra. 

The blood of the poor creature he’d ripped to shreds tonight still sat bitter on his tongue, his reptilian eyes narrowing into slits beneath the lights as they rose to reveal the full beauty of the massacre. Rising onto his feet, the gator-like beast parted his long, toothy jaws and let out a throaty, victorious bellow, tail swishing through the air behind him. The cheer was cacophonous, like a balm on his ego as he bobbed his head in a nod, gaze sweeping through the crowd before settling on the gate that had lifted to allow him to leave the ring. Until next time. 

With some pep in his step, the lamia slipped through the opening and headed for the rear of the venue. He knew better than to shift in front of so many prying eyes, but still riding the high of a hard-won battle, he wasn’t really thinking about it as he paused near the entrance to the employee locker rooms. It wasn’t terribly uncommon to see the occasional patron wandering around back here, maybe hoping to catch their favorite fighter and rope them into a conversation, but the risk was low. Wyatt was a nine foot tall alligator-man, for crying out loud, there wasn’t much that anyone could threaten him with. 

What was unexpected was seeing someone he knew. “Owen?” he barked in surprise, yellow eyes widening. “Remember you bein’ taller—”  Oh. He was still—oh. Clamping his jaws shut, the lamia cleared his throat, hoping that the accent he bore wouldn’t be too telling… as if they were many other Cajuns that Owen Lundkvist was friendly with. “Wrong—wrong Owen, yeah? Sorry—”

—

Frequent flyers at the Grit Pit were a weird sort which is why Owen would have knocked out anyone who tried to lump him in with them. The place was good for a drink and some action but the vibes were still always a little bit off and being surrounded by all those creatures always left his skin tingling for hours afterwards. Still, curiosity generally worked in bringing him back every now and again, especially when there was something new to see. He’d had to wait through a few mediocre fights to finally see the advertised newcomer with a somewhat unfortunate name. The ruthless fighting made up for the name and Owen really had never seen anything like it. 

Regretfully, a phone call pulled him away before the final act of the fight but it was very clear who would come out on top. He’d slipped through the cheering crowd easily, with a few harsh shoves for anyone who didn’t move, taking the call once he’d gotten to the relative quiet of an empty hallway. It was an annoying interruption to say the least, a desperate plea for him to get to The Wormhole due to someone else not showing up. Owen hoped that abruptly ending the call was answer enough. The plan had been to go back, hopefully catching the last of the fight but it seemed to be over. 

Lockjaw’s giant frame was filling out the hallway and in an unusual scenario, Owen found himself needing to tilt his head up. After seeing most of the carnage back in the ring, he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of fighting this beast but he had weapons on him, like always so- ‘Owen?’

What the fuck? The hand that had started reaching slowly underneath his coat halted, head cocking at the realization that there was something human and in control behind those slitted eyes. Something human that knew him. “Fuck that, I don’t exactly look like someone who gets mistaken for other people,” Owen countered when the gator backtracked, which was both surreal and hilarious, hearing a creature of that size and ferocity clear its throat awkwardly. “And I don’t remember meeting a giant lizard man before but something tells me I might know your less deadly form?” His curiosity was banging on the inside of his chest, craving answers his brain couldn’t provide at this moment. Even though that weird dialect was scratching at something…

“You can tell me or I’ll find out. I’m resourceful.” 

—

A low growl slipped free from the beast’s throat and he lowered himself onto his massive, clawed hands to bring them to something closer to eye-level. “Well, glad to see you ain’t changed much in your ways,” the lamia rumbled, somewhat amused by the whole thing in spite of the fact that it meant there’d be at least one person in this town that knew what he was. He couldn’t rightly remember how much of a gossip Owen was, but there wasn’t much to be done about it now. 

Heaving a sigh, Wyatt glanced around them to make sure they were sufficiently alone before leaning his head in close and parting those bloodied jaws once more to stage–whisper to his old acquaintance. “It’s Wyatt,” came the admission, and the gator’s head cocked to the side a bit to stare him down somewhat threateningly. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this li’l encounter to yourself, yeah? The fuck you doin’ in Maine, anyway?” It was clear why he was here, after all—his reputation had preceded him in Boston, and the same could be said here. Or it would be, once he’d proven himself under this new moniker that management had given him. 

—

The growl only made Owen grin, not a smidge of intimidation to be found. If this guy, whoever he was, knew the slayer from a bad encounter, those claws definitely would have been put to use by now. Either way, he was still primed to grab for a weapon if need be. “Change is for people who aren’t interesting enough already,” he retorted, trying to find something familiar in the scaled face, the yellow eyes. The accent was the closest thing he had to a clue but most of his time before Wicked’s Rest was buried along with memories he’d rather not revisit. 

Blood filled his senses as he got a good view of the sharp teeth, air warm on his face and he half expected the menacing jaw to snap shut over his head. Instead, it whispered, finally scratching the itch in Owen’s brain. Green eyes widened in amusement, grin growing in size as everything clicked. Except for the fact that the man he remembered as a friend from Boston was apparently capable of turning into a human-like alligator. “And here I was, thinking we’d shared everything with each other, huh? Or mostly everything since bodily fluids were sadly off the table.” 

Being threatened to keep his mouth shut was amusing but fair. Owen wasn’t above using information for his own gain but he would keep this secret unless he was given a reason to share. “I’ll keep my mouth shut if I get to see whether you kept that caterpillar on your upper lip,” he teased, arms crossing as he leaned back against the wall, alarmingly calm considering his current company. “Things went to shit in Boston. Heard this place was fun so here I am.”

—

Wyatt snorted in amusement, sitting back on his haunches. “Oh, yes. So very, very sadly off the table.” Was it not anymore? His curiosity was piqued, wondering what had happened to the woman that’d always been hanging off Owen’s arm. She was… intimidating, to put it mildly. Even to him. 

He’d be happy to shift, but this was not the place. “Hey, c’mon now, jealousy ain’t a good look on you,” he teased right back, relaxing a bit now that Owen had agreed to keep his silence. They’d never had bad blood between them before, there wasn’t much reason to start looking for it now. “But sure. Wanna hear more about Boston… once I’m prettied up.” That thick tail flicked around behind him again as he rose to his full height, head turning to look at the door to the locker room. It was bigger than average, but the lamia still had to duck and squeeze to get inside. “... give me five.” With that, he excused himself to the locker room, where he shifted back into his human form (caterpillar and all), rinsed off the stink of the fight in the communal showers, and redressed himself. And true to his word, five minutes later, he was rejoining Owen looking more put together than he had been, and… quite a bit shorter. Adjusting the vest he wore, the shifter flashed Owen a grin as he moved toward him, extending a hand to shake, but using it as an excuse to pull the taller man into a jovial, one-armed hug. 

“Still handsome, as you can see.”

—

Even though he was still just looking at blood covered scales and a forked tongue, Owen could so easily see the hint of the man hiding behind the monster now that he knew what to look for. Wyatt had been one of his favorites back in Boston and one of the only humans (or so he’d thought at the time) worth hanging around. Not that she had really approved of Owen’s much too friendly attitude but that hadn’t been explicitly saved for Wyatt - the Cajun man had just gotten more of the slayer’s time than most others. And sure, she hadn’t been completely wrong when she argued that he wanted to fuck the friend who played the trumpet but he never would have, not back then. No, she had made sure to take care of all the infidelity. Owen just teased and flirted and maybe let his hands roam a smidge too far when she’d pissed him off. 

“If you think I’ve ever been jealous of that then you’ve gotten more stupid since I last saw you,” he scoffed, smiling even as his eyes diverted to the flick of movement behind the reptilian body. It was a strange sort of rush, standing this close to something this deadly, while throwing out insults. Owen would have settled for the simple pleasure of just meeting Wyatt again after all this time but this… it was an added bonus in some way the slayer couldn’t quite wrap his head around. The other man excused himself to go change, quite literally, and Owen rolled his eyes. “Fine. I do want to see how this whole thing happens sometime, though, and being self-conscious about your size isn’t going to get you out of it.”

Impatiently, Owen waited, lighting a cigarette that was reluctantly put out after a few smokes when a strange looking woman threatened to throw him out. Finally, someone slightly older than the man he knew once but much more familiar than the gator, appeared back in the hallway. Giving his old friend a once over, eyebrow quirking once he reached the mustache that was most certainly still there, he let himself get pulled in with a chuckle. Out of all the things from his past, this one was actually welcomed, as long as he kept the associated memories at bay. 

Now that he knew Wyatt could take it, Owen gave the hand in his own a rather tight squeeze and clapped him fairly heavily on the back. “Still the less handsome one, though.” As he pulled back, he gave the vest a small tug, eyebrows raised in a clear display of ‘really?’ “Now I have more than one reason to want your clothes off. Come on.” No time for arguments as Owen slipped an arm across the shorter man’s shoulders, leading him towards the nearest exit. “It’s not glamorous but I have the keys to a bar so privacy is guaranteed.”

—

Their friendship had always been an interesting one, Wyatt finding himself on the receiving end of some very mixed signals that never amounted to much. But it wasn’t like he was pining for the guy, so he’d been content to let it ebb and flow as it had, seemingly in tune with however Owen was feeling toward Rosel on any given day. 

Seemed like it was high tide tonight.

“Oh shut up, mon cher. Just because you don’t got no fashion sense—” He let the dig die on his tongue, buttoning it with a roll of his eyes as Owen snaked an arm around his shoulders and led him down the hall toward the rear exit that would dump them in an alley. “Privacy, huh? What you want with that? Gonna bend me over the backbar?” He was laughing as he said it, but it wasn’t exactly an off-base question, given his experience with Owen in the past and the very forward things he’d been saying in the seven minutes they’d been reacquainted. 

As they moved outside, Wyatt ran a hand through his unruly hair, lifting a brow at Owen as he shot him a sidelong glance. “So you’re here alone, then?”

—

Still rolling with the punches, still taking every sharp thing that left Owen’s mouth in stride, reminding the slayer fully just why he had enjoyed Wyatt’s company back in Boston. “Mm, if I feel so inclined then maybe,” came the casual reply, spirits lifted higher than usual with the evening’s surprises and revelations. What the lamia was suggesting wasn’t at the top of Owen’s priorities at the moment but his suggestive comments weren’t just for fun, not anymore. A bit of catching up, something to satiate his curiosity further, was necessary before anything else, though. Privacy was preferable when it came to talk of shifting and shady fight rings. 

Owen released his friend once they were outside, lighting a new cigarette before starting to lead the way to The Wormhole. The curious gaze was singing into the side of his face before Wyatt finally spoke, asking what was presumably his most burning question. Owen sniffed, lips quirking around the cigarette but the smile not quite reaching his eyes. “The bitch is gone if that’s what you’re asking.” Sadly, not as gone as Owen would have liked her to be, if he’d been less controlled by his weak feelings back then, the ones that had made him spare her. Hoping the slightly curt tone of voice was enough to deter further questions about the ‘how’ and ‘when’, he offered the smoke to Wyatt. 

“What about you? Still a lone traveler?”

—

Lifting his hands placatingly, Wyatt pursed his lips with raised eyebrows in a sort of ‘sorry I asked’ expression. “Shoo-ee, well all right, understood,” he conceded, chuckling to himself as he went to take the cigarette from Owen as it was offered. He took a long drag before nodding his head in response to the question, flicking ash onto the sidewalk as they strolled alongside one another. 

“Yeah, you know me. Can’t no one hold me down for shit.” He wasn’t sure if it’d be better or worse to admit to Owen that he’d been doing this sort of thing in Boston, too—supernatural fighting rings, that is. They’d met… god, where had it even been? After a show? He couldn’t remember anymore. There was simply a time before Owen, and a time after. 

Things had certainly gotten spicier after. 

As far as Owen had known, Wyatt was just a handsome, charming chef that liked to moonlight as a trumpet player with his jazz rock band. Clearly that was no longer the case, and the lamia was figuring that he might as well be fully forthcoming. “Just got a cute li’l place out on the lake, one of them A-frames folks on Pinterest are so nutty about. Thought I might stay a while. On account of… work.” Clearly he didn’t mean any kind of cooking or music-making, given his inflection. Taking one more drag before passing the grit back to his friend, Wyatt rubbed at his chin. “Pays good, though,” he mused as he exhaled the smoke. 

—

Wyatt’s reaction proved that ‘curt’ was an understatement in describing the slayer’s delivery of that bitter statement. While any sort of emotion, any shift in tone, was usually calculated and rather controlled, this was something that still fucked him up and Owen still burned with anger at the fact. “Just not worth talking about,” he tried to backtrack, tone casual but probably a bit too much so. Fucking shit…

Latching onto the change in topic, the much easier shift in mood, Owen nodded in understanding. “Sure, that’s the reason you’re still single,” he dragged out the sarcastically delivered word, back to teasing, to a safe area. Not that he believed that, he’d known Wyatt long enough to know that he could have his pick of a partner easy, despite the damn mustache and accent that had in no way diminished in their time apart. 

“Mm, the lake have anything to do with your less friendly side?” Owen mused, accepting the cigarette back, a feeling of ‘just like old times’ passing through. Minus the shit parts. It was a nice prospect, that Wyatt would be staying for a while but it might mean that secret keeping would become a little bit harder. This was a much smaller town than Boston and crawling with things that Owen had nearly killed and other hunters. Not that the man walking beside him would have a problem with the killing, that much had proved fairly obvious this evening but a general dislike for hunters couldn’t be ruled out. It would probably be revealed in time and if Wyatt decided to be a bitch about it, so be it. 

“They better be paying you good, that was almost impressive back there.” Grinning, the compliment hidden somewhere inside the dig, Owen bumped his shoulder into the other man’s. He needed to ask about the things he’d heard about the contracts, know if someone was taking advantage of one of the only few people the slayer still deemed a friend. Later, maybe a few drinks in. Speaking of… “I present - The Shithole.” Digging out the keys he was definitely not supposed to deploy for personal use, he opened the door with a flourish before following Wyatt inside and flicking on the lights behind the bar. 

—

Wyatt didn’t buy the excuse, but he wasn’t going to push it so soon. He was certainly putting a pin in it, though. 

“It’s definitely the reason I’m still single,” he argued with a smirk, pushing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He always looked a little dressed up these days, though he’d admittedly rolled the sleeves of his button up tonight rather than taking the time to reattach the cufflinks. He’d had a captive and impatient audience, after all, and it would have been rude to keep him waiting.

“Hey, I am just as friendly when I look like that as I am right now. I just get a kick out of maiming things once in a while.” The second sentence was said with some hesitation, but not much, considering. “But… yeah. The lake was a conscious choice. Water’s fuckin’ cold, but that’s what I got heat lamps n’ a big woodfire stove for.” 

Scrunching his nose, the lamia pulled one hand out from his pocket and stole the cigarette back from Owen. “That why you left early, cuz it was only almost impressive?” It was late, past the time that a lot of the bars around here would still be open, which was nice. Having one all to themselves was nice. Easier, too… for talking. Et cetera. Keeping the grit hanging loosely from his mouth as he walked into the dark building, the lamia made his way to the bar, circling around to the back of it like he owned the place before hoisting himself up onto the bartop where there wasn’t any other shit in his way. Wearing a self-satisfied smirk, he leaned back on his free hand, taking another drag and plucking the cigarette from his mouth with the other. “Whisky, pretty please,” he cooed, crossing one ankle over the other as he watched Owen move about. “Mm… what a delightfully shitty li’l establishment. Suits you.”

—

The shifter clearly took his job seriously, which was fair considering that he really was good at it - Owen could tell, even after missing the grand finale. If you were going to be sensitive about anything, fighting skill was something the slayer could agree with. Not that he’d be sensitive about it and Wyatt was definitely not going to cry himself to sleep over the comment but the point still stood. Taking a dig at their most precious skill was a gray zone. “Would have left even earlier if I’d have known it was you, trumpet boy.”

Owen followed the other inside, eyes trailing him in a way that was close to predatory, smirk firmly in place as Wyatt made himself at home. “That’s all it took to get you begging? I thought I would have to work a little harder for that,” he sighed but still indulged the other, joining him behind the bar to grab two glasses. The whiskey was, to Owen’s delight, placed right beside where Wyatt had planted himself, giving the slayer a good opportunity to step in close and then closer than necessary to reach for it. At least he didn’t have to tilt his head down now to meet the other man’s gaze. He lingered for a moment before snatching his cigarette back and turning to fill their drinks. 

“I could say the same for you, friend.” Handing one of the generous pours to Wyatt, Owen leaned back against the opposite bar, one foot braced against the counter close to the leg that dangled off. “Not that I mind the fighting, would probably partake in them myself if I hadn’t heard about the shady deals that make it… difficult for people to quit.” His eyebrows raised in question as he took a sip and followed it up with what remained of the smoke, the short bud then discarded into the sink. 

—

“Beggin’ for booze, yes,” Wyatt corrected him with a pointed stare, smiling in spite of himself as the other got very much up in his personal space to retrieve a bottle. The moment was brief and the exhale that followed was almost a sigh, blue gaze wandering toward the ceiling while Owen poured their drinks.

“Oh, what, now you’re worried about me? That’s awful sweet of you, bless your heart,” Wyatt razzed his friend with his thick southern drawl, lifting his own eyebrows in turn as he took a sip of the drink. “Sure, they got contracts they want you to sign… but wanting to leave isn’t really a problem for me.” Clearing his throat, he felt something like guilt creeping in from the edges, and he didn’t like it. He was still getting acquainted with the place and with his fellow sapient fighters, but the details of their individual contracts hadn’t really come up yet. “Why… you know someone who wants out?” He tried to make it sound casual, but the idea of another fighter not liking the position they were in and being unable to leave made him uncomfortable. Upset, even. 

—

Owen shrugged, carefree, at the correction. “I don’t mind having to work a little harder for the other kind.” Invading people’s personal space was far from a rarity in the slayer’s case, even more so when it came to Wyatt who had definitely gotten used to it way back when but there was nothing stopping him now from divulging further into the aforementioned space. Except for the conversation that really did matter just a tiny bit more than all the lost time Owen was currently deep into imagining how to make up for. 

“Force of habit, don’t forget I knew you as a meager chef who played a trumpet out of all things until half an hour ago.” Not that Owen was worried, just… curious. If people were dumb enough to get themselves into shitty situations, it wasn’t his issue to get them out. A mild relief did snake its way through at the realization that at least for now, no one was forcing Wyatt to stay against his will. The thought even made the previously casual attitude his friend usually carried crack just so around the edges. 

“Not personally, heard rumors. Hunters who were fighting, talked about wanting to leave, then never did or just… vanished.” His head cocked, gauging a reaction to the mention of hunters. Maybe that word meant nothing to Wyatt since there hadn’t been an abundance of them in Boston. Owen had no clue how things had been back in the swamp the shifter had moved from, though. 

—

“A meager chef? Mon cher, that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” Wyatt laughed, splaying a hand across his chest, a mock wounded expression settling on his angular features. “Also, I’ll have you know that playing woodwinds n’ brass gives me fuckin’ impressive lung capacity.” He smirked. “Can hold that shit for a while. It’s a neat party trick. Pretty popular in certain circles.” He was deflecting, of course, but he was relieved to hear that there wasn’t some poor shifter bastard that Owen knew that was desperate to get out of their contract. Rumors were one thing, but… huh?

“Hunters?” he parroted the other, giving a curious tilt of his head before taking another sip of the whisky. “What, like these flanneled up idjits you’re servin’ fingers of Jack Daniels to? Why the fuck would some deer hunter be goin’ toe to toe with shifters?” Which, speaking of— “And, wait a minute. How long you known about that sort of thing?” Owen sure as shit hadn’t been going to the fights in Boston, or surely Wyatt would have seen him once or twice. “Shifters, I mean. How’d you hear about the Grit Pit?” For what it was worth, there wasn’t anything accusatory in Wyatt’s tone—he was purely curious. Confused too, maybe, but mostly curious.

—

Chuckling, reveling in the simple pleasure of finding each and every one of Wyatt’s buttons still very pushable, Owen shoved the hand displaying a dramatic amount of fake hurt away. “I know for a fact that’s not true but still, a thank you for being so easily offended. Makes my job of keeping that ego in check less hard.” Not that he wanted a change in his companion’s ego, it was amusing and especially when said confidence came out in comments like these, making Owen’s eyes glint with something unsavory but still a bit premature because oh, boy… 

In a rare display of patience, Owen let the rest of the revelations pass through Wyatt’s brain, sharp blue eyes portraying every bit of discovery and consequent confusion. Sighing heavily as this might take a while and he was already itching to do something other than talking now that his own questions had been answered, Owen drained the rest of his drink. “Not deer hunters, creature hunters. Different types for different creatures. Flanneled idiots is pretty accurate for the ones that go after shifters. My family was more interested in vampires. Which is what I kill.” 

After the briefest moment of hesitation, Owen pulled open one side of his jacket, slipping a stake from its hiding place and offering it to Wyatt. With the amount of bullshit that came from the slayer’s mouth, he figured a little bit of hard evidence might make this easier to swallow. Along with… “Probably easier to digest if you just-” He reached out, pushing at the underside of Wyatt’s glass and guiding it towards his lips. 

—

Creature hunters? What the fuck did that mean? The bewilderment settled firmly into his expression as he listened, eyes widening a bit at the mention of vampires. “What?” Wyatt laughed with uncertainty, his gaze dropping to the object Owen was pulling out of his jacket.

That was a stake. An honest to god, Buffy the Vampire Slayer bullshit wooden stake. 

“What…” It seemed to be the only thing left he could say, and his dumbfoundment apparently inspired his friend to encourage him to drain his glass. Feeling it bump against his lips, the shifter blindly followed the suggestion and threw back the rest of the whisky, his grip on the stake in his hand tightening. 

“Okay, so…” Vampires were real, which was somehow a thing he’d not fucking known until now? And Owen… killed them? “You’re like… Van Helsing?” Wyatt couldn’t help but recall the barfights they’d gotten into back in the day and the confused pride he’d felt on behalf of his lithe friend for taking down men twice his size. Was that… part of it? There was no reason for Owen to be bullshitting him about this, but how had he never met a damn vampire before? 

Creature hunters. “And… I’m a creature?” He looked up from the stake in his hand, catching Owen’s gaze. There wasn’t fear in his eyes, but perhaps some uneasiness. 

—

With a continued air of patience, although very much mixed with amusement, Owen watched his stake in unfamiliar hands. He couldn’t remember a time where he had handed it over like that - Emilio had gotten to use it once under dire circumstances but other than that, the stake was his and his alone. Strangely, he didn’t mind it in Wyatt’s grip. Luckily for both of them, the shifter downed his drink which seemed to help some but didn’t prevent the stupid from leaving the man’s mouth. 

“Van Helsing? Not sure I could pull off the hat but sure, something like that.” Wyatt’s fingers were turning white with the force of gripping the stake and Owen’s hand found the clenched fingers, wrapping around the closed fist. The distance between them gone like before but now without the air of challenge, of teasing. “You are.” Something close to softness tinted his words, sounding a bit unnatural but the effort was still there. “The ones who specialize in your kind, the rangers, can sense you. Just like I can feel when there’s something dead around.”

The discomfort in Wyatt’s eyes made the slayer uneasy - he was used to causing the feeling reflected in those eyes, reveling in it even, but he didn’t want its presence here, now. “Don’t think you have anything to worry about with your fighting skills, though.” His thumb brushed over the back of Wyatt’s hand before he slowly plucked the other’s fingers off the stake. “Another drink?”

—

"Yeah," the lamia answered without any hesitation. So there were people who specialized in killing shifters like him, huh? He wondered for a moment if that had anything to do with the Grit Pit, but quickly dismissed the idea. That was preposterous. 

"And you're right, I sure don't—could rip apart any shithead thinkin' they can take me." His tone sounded slightly less confident than usual, but he did manage to perk back up as Owen vacated his personal bubble to refill their glasses, happy to be rid of the wooden stake that'd been reclaimed by its owner. "That's kinda fucked up though, ain't it?" He paused. "Guess I eat people sometimes, though, so I get it. But man… food chain aside, who'd wanna kill me? I'm amazing. The greatest. And so friendly." He was slipping back into sarcasm, which was probably a good sign. 

Reaching out for the glass that Owen had topped off for him, Wyatt made sure to catch his wrist before he could move away again, instead tugging the slayer back into close quarters. "Guess it's a good thing I ain't a vampire, huh?" he teased, throwing back some more whiskey while allowing his free hand to wander to Owen's side. What were the fucking odds, first of all, that they'd both end up in this town? And moreover, that they both had secrets about their identities… and that Owen apparently had abundant wisdom to share about a world that Wyatt was blind to, despite being a part of it. His ignorance was almost a supernatural skill at this point. Oh well.

—

The drop in confidence was cute and possibly, if - or more likely, when - Wyatt encountered a ranger, might save his scaly ass. Undead that had underestimated Owen hadn’t lived to tell the tale. Considering how easily he’d beaten the shit out of Kaden, the slayer quite liked his friend’s odds. “Would love a front row seat to that,” he agreed, the image of the French ranger with the heart of gold still fresh in his mind, now being torn apart by Wyatt’s teeth and wasn’t that a joyous image? Putting the stake back where it belonged, he then snorted at the very humble proclamation. 

“Scratch that, I would rather watch you try and smooth talk a ranger out of killing you with your friendly swamp charm,” Owen joined in on the joking because that was much less complicated than going through the history of hunters versus monsters throughout time and the way no one could ever convince him that killing vampires was ‘fucked up.’ That thought, coupled with the anger at the prospect of someone trying to take out Wyatt, was the kind of irony Owen did not want ruining this current moment. Wyatt seemed to be in agreement, at last turning the tide of this strange new dynamic they found themselves in. 

Putting down his own glass, Owen nestled in between the legs dangling off the counter. “You sure?” he pushed, head tilting as his gaze dropped to Wyatt’s lips. “I think you might like me being a little bit rough.”

—

All Wyatt could do in response to the jabs was laugh, figuring that he'd probably earned it for being a wise ass. And as Owen settled between his knees, smooth talking in all the old ways he remembered, the lamia could feel his discomfort with the truths his friend was laying out in front of him start to fade. Would they return later, when he was at home laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling? Absolutely. Would they keep him up at night, wondering what else he was unaware of, and exactly how worried he needed to be about one of these rangers deciding it was his time to cross the rainbow bridge? Without a doubt. But that wasn’t right now, and right now he wanted to think about literally anything else. Thankfully, Owen was taking the bait. But could you really even call it bait when it’d been dangling there for years? At this point it was just a natural fixture of their relationship, albeit one that had been… modified recently. Modified in a way that Wyatt was curious to explore, but slowly. To call him ‘easy’ would be doing a disservice to the thoughtful sort of way he preferred to draw people in, but it wasn’t an untruth, either. It was complicated, as were most things when it came to Wyatt.

“Ohh, you think that, do you?” the cajun hummed, smirking as he caught the diversion of Owen’s attention. “Mm… seems to me like my friendly swamp charm you was so quick to dismiss has already been doin’ a lot of work.” His hand traveled up Owen’s chest to settle on his neck, his own gaze falling lower than his friend’s eyes. “But if you think you’re gonna roll back into my life and bed me just like that…?” He let out a breathy laugh, neither confirming nor denying the possibility of where this night might take them, choosing instead to just be here in the now. That was perhaps the only thing keeping him from thinking about how Owen was a hunter—a person who killed nonhumans like him. Vampire specialty or not, it was a freaky thing to discover about someone right before the flirting resumed, and it had him slightly on edge. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Owen, it was just… well… he didn’t trust anyone. Not anymore. How could he? That said, there was something exciting about it, too. Being aware of Owen’s side job, while not necessarily being at an immediate risk, or so he had to assume. 

“It was fun when it wasn’t allowed,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “How you plan on recreatin’ that fun?”

—

Hands settled comfortably on Wyatt’s thighs, eyes focused on the way his lips formed every word, every syllable and strange pronunciation, staring unabashedly because pretending at this point to not want to see his own name desperately fall from those lips would be a stretch, even for Owen. “Anyone can be charming if you give them all the time you’ve had to weasel your way in,” he hummed but both of them knew it was a lie. Owen had been charmed for a long time and had shown it for almost as long, the regular amount of flirting almost everyone received intensified when Wyatt was involved. 

Wyatt’s hand wandered in stark contrast to his words and the simple answer to his stupid question was yes, obviously. Playing hard to get, though, hovering right at the line of what was technically allowed was nostalgic in the best of ways. And Owen usually fucking hated nostalgia but this kind? Where it meant slipping his hands further up toned thighs, practically sharing a breath with someone who made the anticipation almost as good as the final result? The sultry whisper was a dick move, though. 

“Liked the thought of being a homewrecker, hmm?” His voice was low, head drifting until his mouth rested an inch from Wyatt’s ear. “I’ve been known to be… creative,” Owen breathed in response before hoisting the other man off the counter and forcing legs to wrap around his waist, carrying his weight effortlessly. “And I’m sure with your little secret out in the open, we can see just what sort of fun we can make with that.”

—

Bright baby blues rolled in their sockets, but the sass was short lived as he felt Owen’s breath on his ear, warm and still capable of sending a shiver down his spine. “What can I say? The drama, it sustains me,” Wyatt hummed right back before letting out a soft gasp as he was manhandled off the countertop. His other hand came up to brace itself on Owen’s shoulder, body tense as he waited for his friend to drop him back to the floor—he wasn’t light, after all. But to his surprise, the feat hardly seemed to phase the taller but decidedly thinner man. He thought back to those bar fights again, realizing that more puzzle pieces were slotting into place. Lord, okay. That’s how it was, then. Super strength, got it. “Fuck,” he breathed in shock, his nervous energy expelling itself in the form of a laugh. “Okay, showoff…” It took a moment for the other thing Owen had said to catch up to the thoughts in his head and he paused, feeling a bit more stable in the other’s arms, enough to squint down at him in disbelief. 

“Ohh, that’s where this is headed, eh?” He’d never done that before—not even a partial shift. Up until tonight, his secret had had a pretty tight fucking lid on it. Leave it to Owen goddamn Lundkvist to come in with a sledgehammer and start taking down walls and rearranging the furniture. “That’s pretty kinky, I dunno…” The grin that was spreading across his face conflicted with his words, and he settled in to drape his arms over Owen’s shoulders. “Ain’t you worried I might eat you?” he muttered, grasping his own wrist behind the other’s head, leaning in until their lips were practically touching, but still holding back. 

—

Wyatt was correct, he was a showoff and loved every fucking second of it, especially the gasp and soft expletive that were making it really hard to keep building tension - kinda felt like the room for more anticipation was long since running out. But this was a game, a strange version of chicken and he wasn’t sure which of them had started it yet losing was something Owen didn’t like. Did he like it less than not being able to take this man right here on the bar counter after thinking about it for longer than he’d care to admit?

It hadn’t even really been a conscious decision, bringing Wyatt’s other form into the equation, the comment dragged from the deep confines of his brain that were responsible for rash and bad decisions. As of right now, it didn’t feel like a bad thing and recent… experiences had proven just how much more fun things could be with the mildest threat of death or dismemberment hanging over him. “Don’t say that like you’re surprised,” Owen murmured back, tightening his grip to let one hand slide up under that godforsaken vest. Stubborn as he was, self control was in low quantities and that word, with the proximity of those lips, broke him. “Nah, I was kinda hoping for it, actually.” 

His lips found Wyatt’s, stupid mustache somehow softer than he’d imagined and Owen would really need to remember to ask whether the fucker spent time moisturizing it, but right now there were more pressing matters to attend to. Teeth caught his lower lip, biting within an inch of drawing blood, the hand not holding Wyatt’s entire weight slipping up to grasp at the back of his neck instead. 

—

Hungry, hungry. Owen was starved. Somehow, even when he stood in a grand dining hall with a banquet laid out that was fit for a king, the man still found room for second and third and fourth helpings. And while Wyatt hadn’t been back in his company for very long, he knew Owen, probably better than anyone else in this town, and he knew what the fool would’ve been getting up to all this time in the absence of Rosel. She was, frankly, the only thing that had ever stopped them before. And to his credit, Owen was usually the one pumping the brakes, though it was always done in a way that seemed to indicate he’d never wanted it to go any farther than it was, that he was just having some fun and blowing off some steam. 

What an obvious lie. 

Still, even with the door standing wide open, Wyatt felt compelled to keep the tradition alive, though the roles would have to be reversed this time. He permitted the kiss, fell into it, actually, losing himself for a few moments in the touch of another, but—

“Okay, Heracles,” he breathed against Owen’s lips, chuckling in a way that probably tipped the hunter off that he was about to hear something he wouldn’t like. “But I’m not lettin’ you fuck me in this shitty bar. All you’re gettin’ tonight is an hors d'oeuvre.” The ‘deal with it’ that had settled on his tongue went unsaid, but it was implied. Owen was going to have to be patient for once in his life.

—

The kiss broke and Owen let it, expecting some sort of quip from his companion, something to up the stakes, anything except… “That’s funny,” he growled, still not relinquishing the grip on Wyatt’s neck. Alas, although humor shone through in those blue eyes, they were also serious, annoyingly so. It was tempting to take this as simply a test, see how long the shifter’s self control could hold on but Owen knew the other man’s stubbornness nearly rivaled his own. His tongue ran over his teeth, the taste of whisky and Wyatt still abundant, as he mulled over his options for a reply, steely gaze never breaking eye contact. He had the man completely in his physical control, at least while the gator didn’t make an appearance, but Wyatt still held every morsel of power right at this moment. 

It infuriated Owen and made him deeply intrigued at the same time. 

So he gave in, loosening his grip and lowering Wyatt back onto the counter, dropping his weight at the last second just because he could and because he was frustrated. Grabbing his discarded glass before stepping back, Owen huffed, eyes still blown and tinged with annoyance. “I’m charging you for those drinks,” he finally said, tilting back his glass and finishing off the amber liquid. 

#. thread ; #. with ; owen lundkvist #. the ol' razzle dazzle ; #infidelity tw #wrspice

[angiedarling]

— &&  if you’re hearing NORTHERN ATTITUDE by NOAH KAHAN playing, you have to know ANGIE MONROE (she/her; cis female) is near by! the 41 year old CHEF has been in denver for, like, 15 YEARS. they’re known to be quite BOSSY, but being KIND HEARTED seems to balance that out. or maybe it’s the fact that they resemble RACHEL WEISZ. personally, i’d love to know more about them seeing as how they’ve got those FRESH BLUEBERRY PANCAKES, LILY OF THE VALLEY, MOLLY WEASLEY, THE SOUND OF SOMEONE WHISTLING AT HOME, DINER AFTER CLOSE vibes. and maybe i’ll get my chance if i hang out around the RINO long enough!

check out her stats and info below !!

stats

full name: angela monroe  nickname(s): angie (sometimes ang or ella, but angie is the main and favoured one) age: forty one date of birth: the thirteenth of february zodiac sign: aquarius place of birth: corpus christi, texas gender: female sexual orientation: bisexual religion: agnostic by choice, jewish by mother’s family occupation: chef/baker/owner of the Night and Dine

language(s) spoken: english, basic spanish accent: slight to moderate southern accent pet(s): two great pyrenees financial status: lower middle class  tattoos: sunflower on her right hip, a trio of birds of her shoulder positive traits: empathetic, fun, thoughtful, and well-spoken  negative traits: tardy, well-meaningly bossy and a bit of a gossip goals/desires: to do good and help her loved ones, to be happy, to fall in love  fears: acrophobia, monophobia family: youngest child, comes from a big family and had always wanted that for herself as well hobbies:  baking, cooking, painting, dancing quirks: nail biting, whistling,  likes: music, denim, vines, baked goods, dogs dislikes: lime green, quiet, tangled hair, liars myers-briggs:  mediator (INFP-T)  temperament: phlegmatic 

bio

tw: mentions of infertility, mentions of infidelity

angie was a happy kid with a mostly happy childhood, growing up with her mother (father rarely, if ever around), her siblings and a little black cat. her mother was her everything, never letting baby angie and her siblings feel like they were missing anything growing up. she was a curious kid, getting to camp, fishing, exploring and learning about the world.

after graduating highschool, angie (19) was going through a bit of a tumultuous relationship. she didn’t go to college, instead idolizing a stay-at-home mother position, willing to forgive nearly anything from her partner, if it would allow her to have children and give them her everything like her own mother had done. unfortunately (or fortunately, depending who you ask), they were unable to conceive. around that time, her partner had decided to be unfaithful and actually fathered a child with his affair partner. this hurt angie to her core, almost more than the cheating itself.

the baby’s name was kiara, and as much as the precursor to her existence was shocking, angie actually became very close with her partner’s child and it’s mother. after about 3 years, angie decided she couldn’t stay with an unforgiving, untrustworthy man and left, keeping in contact with lea (the unknowing other women) and kiara who had also separated themselves from angie’s ex.

she moved to denver when she was twenty seven, feeling like corpis christi had given her all it could. her family had dispersed over the years and with her ending her 10+ year relationship, she needed a fresh start.

angie had been scared to meet new people and try new things but following her mother’s philosophies, she’s trying her best to live her life to the fullest. when she arrived in denver, the old owner of the night and dine was retiring and looking to sell and she took the chance and bought it. finally embracing one of her life long passions, she threw herself in some minor renovations and some huge menu rehauls. 

now, she’s living peacefully with her dogs, working in and running the diner, sometimes thinking of her potential other life, one where she went to school, had a child, was close with her family. her dreams as a child were just so different, it’s hard not to think about it.

headcannons/fun facts about angie! 

the only person who ever called her angela was her mom so she just doesn’t really use it anymore.

her favourite baked good is a lemon coffee cake and her favourite meal is homecooked soup and corn bread.

she took spanish in high school and fell in love with the language.

she throws herself into her baking and cooking, feeling like she can express her feelings through food.

angie sometimes listens to texan weather channels because the accents comfort her.

she loves nicknames! nicknames for others and for herself, hit her up with any nickname and any sort of pet name and be prepared for her to dote on you with a sweet pet name of her own.

she loves like old art and old photographs.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

we can potentially add a second to any of these if we really feel one of these connections!!

friendship  ✨ 

first friend in denver

best friends

friends from childhood (she grew up in texas though but she did travel a bit?)

bad influence

sibling friendship (like an older/younger sibling relationship)

staff (at the diner)/friends who look out for each other -  ZANE

coworker/staff (at the diner)

friendzoned

breakfast club (total opposites but wind up bonding anyways)

so's sibling (she dated their sibling and even tho the relationship ended, they kept in touch)

mentee / protective kinship (someone who she tries to always look out for, she feels a little 'motherly' over them)

current romance ✨ 

flirtationship

mutual crushes (angie kinda has commitment issues so it could be interesting to see the conflict with these new feelings)

mouse and cat (they just keep chasing each other but nothing really happens)

breakfast club (total opposites)

past romance ✨ 

ex that was a rebound for her when she arrived in Denver (hard feelings, unresolved feelings?)

exes that ended on bad terms (maybe something bad happened to make it end and there is bad vibes/animosity)

exes that ended on good terms 

exes with lingering feelings 

casual relationships ✨ 

next-door neighbours

diner regulars

family ✨ 

older brothers x 2/3 (she grew up in texas but she's the youngest child so they could have grown up elsewhere)

close cousins

ex-husband (bad relationship with manipulation, gaslighting and cheating)

#✧ angie (bio) #chq;intro #infertility tw #infidelity tw

[vanderlylecrybcby]

i still owe money...

name: deryn christine adler

nickname: dare, little bird

pronouns/gender: she/her, cis woman

sexuality: bisexual (preference for women)

birthday: august 2

zodiac sign: leo ☉ | aquarius ☽ | gemini➶  

residence: south hills

employment: bartender at tric/ part-time cashier at nash's

mbti: ENTJ

enneagram: type 8w7

moral alignment: chaotic neutral

... to they money i owe

TL;DR:

trigger warnings: death, parental death, dementia, infidelity, alcoholism

deryn adler is the only child of two high school sweethearts. her dad was a middle school principal, and her mom ran this little apothecary shop in downtown, which is where deryn spent every second of every day she was allowed to.

when deryn was about ten years old, her mom started to act strange – erratic and forgetful, and occasionally more cruel than anyone who had ever known her thought she was capable of being. no one thought too much of it until she accidentally burned down the apothecary shop and couldn't explain what had happened. they took her to the doctor to find out that at the age of 32, she had early onset dementia. deterioration was pretty fast after that. by the time she died six years later, she had stopped remembering the strangers in her house.

toward the end, deryn's dad started to see someone else. it was, for all intents and purposes, an affair. to deryn, it was the final sign that he gave up on her mom. she still hasn't worked her way to forgiveness for that final betrayal.

she started acting out, and her dad assumed she would grow out of it. she didn't. she's spent the better part of two decades years making her best run at running her own life into the ground.

deryn is currently in the phase of regretting wasting a lot of time being angry at everyone and no one at all. she's coming around to the idea of digging herself out of the hole she turned her life into for the better part of two decades.

she drinks more than she wants to and always more than she intended. she started to humor the idea that she might have a problem sometime in the last year, but she's done nothing about it.

very much a ‘just go with it’ kind of person, even if ‘just going with it’ kind of makes her the architect of her own destruction? big fan of blaming the universe for her problems, even if it’s almost always a three-step trace back to ‘the consequences of her own actions.’

she's a loyal friend, though she doesn't always go about it in the right way. deryn has a strong propensity for making things worse when she tries to help. she burns far more bridges than she builds.

i never thought about love...

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

my life for a ride or die friendship 

equally so for someone who she used to be friends with but they had a fallout

drinking buddies

former friends (would really love someone who got sick of her generally high level of bullshit)

former coworkers (she has worked? kind of everywhere and was equally terrible at them all)

exes/flings

an almost something that felt serious and one/both of them freaked and now it’s super weird

... when i thought about home

ESTABLISHED CONNECTIONS:

tbd

VIBES:

pinterest | playlist

#wnc.intro #deryn | intro #alcohol tw #alcoholism tw #infidelity tw #death tw #dementia tw #parental death tw

[sagishii]

it's another night of pleasantries and light banter, faye trying not to squirm impatiently under the touch of her boyfriend's hand on her knee. she didn't miss the way arlo's eyes lingered on her when she first walked in. it was subtle, there one moment and gone the next but she knew. knew that he knew she dressed up for him. it's that thought that kept the smile on her face going, stealing a lingering glance at him when no one else was looking. and if his hand happened to brush up against her thigh under the table? well ... she would take care of it later. by now, it was almost a little game to them. a bad habit neither of them could shake. she was at his door the moment her boyfriend's breathing turned shallow and deep. “i take it you like the dress?” she asked sweetly, leaning back against the wall. with her arms folded over her chest, it almost looked like she was there just to talk. the burning, flushed look in her eyes said other wise. “you can take a closer look if you want. it's all yours.” i'm all yours, she almost wanted to say. but they didn't work like that.

    @vvhimsicals for that plot.

#cheating tw #infidelity tw #vvhimsicals #lets gooooooo #closed. no one has to know what we do. #* your lipstick stain is a work of art / writing.

[hieronymph]

Stay as my mistress and I will pay you. I’ll be your sugar mom

Ok fine. Let's discuss.

How much will you pay me to not expose our affair to your husband?

How much will you pay me to be your sugar baby?

#asks #hotd #my mutuals <3 #morgan #polyamory and infidelity discussions are taking place #infidelity tw #larys strong

[coachbeards]

now do i think beard would ever actually cheat on jane? no. this is a man defined by loyalty, honesty, and his own personal ethics lmao. doesn’t even cheat in wordle. BUT. the angsty potential of him cheating on jane ,,, whew

#Infidelity tw #I DONT LIKE CHEATING PLOTS but i think if your partner is an abuser who flaunts men in front of you #idk…. #i read a fic where every time they broke up beard would find comfort in ted #I DO NOT SUPPORT CHEATING but maybe beard gets a pass bc he’s pookie