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blueroan-equestrian · 3 years

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The Girl with the Hippogriff

Smut warning it’s a more a brush over

So I didn’t know how exactly I wanted to end it so I went with something similar to ‘and that’s how I met your mother’ but not quite

I am a sorceress who live up on a mountain with nothing but a hippogriff to keep me company. I have no need for anyone, my hippogriff, Atlas, keeps me safe catches me meat and the ground fertil. All I could want I can get right here even clothes and shoes from traveling trades men. I have lived like this for a long time, humans are often afraid or jealous of what they are not and provoke violence when they come across a being that is different than themselves. So I choose solitude rather than having to watch my back all the time.

I am gathering wild flowers from the the tall grass in front of my house, when I first heard the dristress cry of my Atlas. “Atlas! Atlas come!” I yelled out as I dropped my basket and began to run back further up the mountain towards his cry’s, “Atlas come!” I called again as I continued to run towards his calls. After what felt like an eternity his strong wings brought him to me. He had a bloody rope around his neck and seemed to be bleeding behind his ear. “Oh no! Who’s done this to you? Come let’s go back to the cabin and get you patched up. We’ll be safe there.” I bring him into his room and onto his nest where I carefully take off the the tight rope that was bound around his neck. I took some potions and began to heal his wounds before wrapping some bandaging around him. “Who would have been so stupid to go after you?” I groaned getting up and going into my living room/ kitchen. “Well you stay there and rest I’m going to see what is out there.”

I headed out to climb back up the mountain. Before I could reach halfway there a very muscular, dark haired man, carrying a sword on his back, and one in his hand appeared from the other side. I only snapped my fingers and he was in front of me, “Drop the sword and I will consider not setting you on fire.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue, he just dropped it, “I didn’t mean to frighten you ma’am, I’m just trying to profill a contract for the town a little ways over for a...”

“Hippogriff...” I finished for him.

“Yes, do you have the same problem?”

“No I have the opposite problem.” I snarked.

He tilted his head, “the opposite?” He questioned.

“Yeah, those fuckin townspeople are going to get theirs. Atlas has never stolen anything from them but you can tell them now they are fair game and if Atlas doesn’t take em I will now! Atlas is my hippogriff and I be damned if you think you can hurt him. I raised him and he would never hurt anyone and you should be ashamed of yourself!” I snarled.

He chuckles and flashes a cheeky smile, “Strong and passionate, I like that in a woman. A woman who has fight is a very attractive woman.” He moved so that we were practically standing chest to chest.

I glared up at the tall handsome man and gave him a quick once over, “Well I wish I could say the same but all I see is a dog with a bark that is worse than it’s bite. Well go on, leave before I decide to turn my fury on you as well.”

He laughed loudly, “You are a feisty little one, but I am willing to bet your bark is also worse than your bite.”

I smirked, “Usually that would be true but this matter involves my Atlas and I am slow to forgive those who harm my beloved Atlas.”

He tilted his head back with a grin, “I understand but I am not disagreeing with you or fighting you with this but perhaps I can convince you to talk about your Atlas with me and why the towns people have such an adversion to him.”

“I presume it’s the same answer to their adversion to you., Witcher.” I contorted crossing my arms.

He laughed heartily, “Girl you’re funny, but I can’t say that you’re wrong.”

His relaxed posture and easy going attitude made it easier to relax and not want to kill him for his crime. I wave for to follow me, “Well come on.”

He followed me but he kept a little bit of distance between us, probably more for my sake than his. I led him to my cabin and stopped at the door and said, “No sudden movements, okay? I mean it, Atlas won’t take kindly to the intrusion. But he won’t hurt you if I’m there but still no sudden movement you got me?” He gives a quick nod before following me into the cabin. Atlas immediately clocked onto the Witcher and looked at me like ‘what the fuck mom!’

“I believe you have something to say to Atlas...unless you’re the rude sort.” I say as I turned to him with an expecting look.

“You’re right,” he says with a little nod, “I am sorry for trying to wrongly persecute you. I am sorry.”

“Thank you... Mr....?” I questioned.

“Eskel, ma’am. And might I ask who might you be?”

“(Y/n), now, you hungry?”

“Yes ma’am.” he hummed as he sat at the kitchen table and I went about making us a meal to share. I am not much of a cook but he ate it up without complaint. We ate together but we didn’t talk we just ate. I cleared the table and go to wash the dishes but Eskel quietly moved in to take over cleaning up. As he washed up I went into Atlas’ room to check on him before returning to the room with the Witcher. “So Witcher, tell me how exactly is my Atlas only maimed and not dead if you got ahold of him? And how exactly is it you got ahold of him?”

Eskel turned to look at me, “Well... your hippogriff is oddly trusting.”

“And yet you continued to try to kill him? Even though he posed no threat?” I questioned as I put a hand on my hip.

He raised his eyebrows, “He’s a monster and I’m a Witcher.”

“Who says so? Who decides who is a monster and who is not? There are plenty who would say you are a monster.”

“Perhaps I should have said beast, instead.”

“Who’s to say it isn’t you who’s the beast!”

“I just can’t win with you can I?” He laughed shaking his head. “But you have to admit your hippogriff is an anomaly.”

“Yes I know. So what happened? Why is he only wounded then, Mr. I am a Witcher.”

“Well once I roped him and he realized his situation... well he is rather strong and even when I striked him, he waisted no time retaliating, he just used all his strength to pull and flew away. I will give you that he is different and I will tell the villagers that I am turning down the contract.” He says as he shifts his weight.

I smile, “Good, then I am glad I didn’t act rashly.”

He smiles back, “I am too, though I suppose when it’s my time, I wouldn’t mind if it was at the hands of a beautiful woman such as yourself.” He takes a step my way and I do the same.

I reached out to touch his chest, “What lies underneath this armor of yours? Why don’t you take it off and let me take care of you?”

He smirks and leans down and plants a deep kiss on my lips, “I have to turn you down, though as tempting as it may be. Perhaps next time we cross paths, but I would have to be foolish to take you up on it now.” He chuckles.

I give him a coy smile, “Maybe, but be careful when you go back to the town empty handed, but I am sure that you can handle yourself in the midst of an angry mob.”

...

A decade goes by before I see him again. I still live on my mountain with Atlas when he came and knocked on the door. “Eskel, what a surprise.” I hummed. “Come in.”

“Still on a mountain with the hippogriff huh?” He chuckles.

“Shut up and get in here.” I remarked back.

He sat at my table and I made us something to eat. He told me about his travels. This time around he said he was in need of lodging and I was more than happy to allow him to stay with me. “You can take my bed, I have no problem sleeping with Atlas in his nest.”

“Oh well I wish you would come warm the bed with me.” He says with a wicked smile.

“Oh? Well I wouldn’t want my guest to be cold.” I purred.

Eskel was surprisingly a snuggly person. He got into bed and laid behind me pulling me close in his arms. Sleeping with me in the most innocent of ways. He stayed with me for a period of time. In that time every night he would wrap me up in his arms. He grew on Atlas. The two now could sit in the sun together at ease as I gather up various herbs and tall grass. Eskel would sometimes go out and hunt. He would let Atlas join him and Atlas just loved tagging along. The sight Eskel with a big ol hippogriff prancing after him like some sort of gigantic dog, holding whatever their kill was in his beak. Atlas no matter what was proud to show off their spoils. Eskel would smile and laugh as Atlas would trot around him and then to me. So when Eskel asked me to come with him to stay the winter at the place he grew up in, I agreed.

Eskel put me up on his horse behind the saddle so that I could hold onto him. Atlas can’t walk great distances so he alternated between walking and flying.

We reached the fortress and I called Atlas to come down and walk with us so that any of Eskels ‘brothers’ would see him alone and try to take him down. But Eskel assured me he would make clear Atlas was not to be harmed. The two he called brothers teased him but it was clear that they cared for one another. At night I slept in an old bed with Eskel. I might live on a mountain but this was by the ocean and it was so much colder. “Are you alright?” Eskel asked as he moved to get a fire started.

Scurrying under the covers of his bed and peaked out, “Freezing, my toes just might fall off.” I giggled.

He stripped down to his underwear and says, “Well let me help you warm up then.”

“Eskel! You’ll freeze, put some clothes on!!!” I giggled girlishly.

Eskel practically jumped on me pressing kisses all over my face and neck. “I don’t know baby girl, I think it might get too hot if you ask me. All we have to do is get a little movement going. What do you say?”

His hands had already started to push up my dress, “Mmm well then what are you waiting for? Keep me warm.”

“Yes ma’am.” He growled as he latched his lips to my neck as began to grind down on me as he pushed my dress far enough up to expose me to him. I reached down to release him. Eskel was the kind of lover that set you on fire with a single touch. He was giving and sweet. He took it slow like he was worshipping my body. It was sensual and meaningful. When we both met our peaks were sweaty messes, we snuggled up and fell asleep.

I woke up to Eskel running a hand through my hair as he softly hummed a melody. “Good morning.” I whispered.

He smiles, “Good morning my sweet.”

“What was that you were humming?”

“Oh.... it’s the lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was little.” He says with what sounded like sadness in his voice.

I smiled and reached out to return the affection, I gently caressing his hair back. “What do you want for breakfast, I can make anything you want.”

He smiles and with out saying a single word Eskel sunk under the covers and moved in between my legs. His warm breath hit my womanhood sending up surge of excitement through me. I moaned at just the idea of what he was about to do. He flicks his tongue out and made contact. I let out a gasp encouraging him to continue his work. The louder I got the more intense he got. He had me screaming his name as I met my end. He crawled back up me with a big grin, his lips and chin covered in my juices. His swiped at his lips cleaning it off. He leans down and kisses at my neck before he rolled over humming, “You’ve out done yourself, best breakfast yet.”

I giggled as I sat up to straighten my dress and then get fully dressed. “Alright, what do you actually want to eat?”

“Eggs.” He says as he stretched out relaxing.

“Alright I’ll be right back.” I promised before portaling home to make us something to eat. Once I had managed collecting what I needed from town I work quickly to cook the meal and get back to Eskel.

Eskels smile is like sunshine. The room was practically lit up by just his smile. “Breakfast, I hope I didn’t take to long.”

“Not at all my sweet.” He adjust himself so that he was leaning on the wall behind the bed, “now get in bed with me gorgeous I’m cold.”

Eskel took our finished plates and set them aside before he rolled over me and initiated another round of gentle and sweet sex.

....

That’s how I met him, my husband, Eskel.

#eskel x reader #witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcher smut #eskel imagine #eskel fic #eskel fanfic #eskel smut #eskel #eskel witcher

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

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Free Me (Series)

Characters: Chris Evans x Reader, Henry Cavill x Reader

Prompt: 1. "I never want to hear your name during my life anymore." 2. "Your lips used to be my sanctuary, but now I feel trapped." 3. "Isn't it time we both stopped pretending we make each other happy?"

Summary: Y/N has been noticing how her husband was slowly slipping away, guessing that another woman was illegally involved and included in the marriage she was in. Deciding that what was best for the both of them is to finally let go.

Warnings: Cheating, some cuss words, No smut so you're good to go. 😉, ANGST. (Y/H/T means your hometown! 😊)

Words: 2,430

A/N: PLEASE DON’T FORGET TO COMMENT AND REBLOG! Thank you, Tater tots! This has a sequel! Just go find it in my masterlist blog located in my blog description. Heehee!

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi.

MY WORKS ARE NOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots

The night sky was more wistful than you thought it would be. Stars were trying to partake in what you were feeling as it wasn't actively twinkling like it used to. That was always your problem, you get caught in the fantasy that you've been dying to live in. Imagining a perfect story without flaws and rabbit holes, with a prince who will stay by your side forever. Dreaming that something lasts forever. That even your love would last forever.

Yet, it didn't.

The clock striked twelve. It was time for Cinderella to come home before it was too late. There she went and ran, leaving a glass slipper behind for her prince to find and return.

The door knob rattled, you began to feel tense, sensing your heart beat in anxiety. Your emotions spinning round and round, only getting to feel two heightened emotions: pain and anger.

You heard the door creak, footsteps can be heard. Hearing the soft taps of his rubber shoes against the tiled floor. It would only take him ten steps before reaching the leaving room where you were sluggishly sitting cross legged.

In 5..4...3...2...........1. Cinderella was finally home at last.

You uncrossed your legs, sipping on your Absinthe, the harsh liquid leaving a fiery trail on your throat, now feeling his presence close as you glared at the man before you. Alas, there he was, standing tall, looking ragged and slovenly. Behold, the man that you once dreamt of and thought who would never break your heart.

Chris gave a smile, but it wasn't as bright as you remembered. He changed, his smile changed, everything changed. Even his heart did.

The glint in your eyes was full of spite, once he began walking towards you. He was going to give you a kiss. A fake kiss that you wanted to spit out, as you began over thinking how he shared saliva with the woman he was just with.

He held a hand on your chin, gently lifting it up as he entirely crouched down, nonchalantly giving you a kiss. A kiss without the love you once had. A kiss that you imagined to be loving and zealous. A kiss that would make you heart jump in utter affection and passion, a kiss that would make your legs weak, but it didn't. It was never the same way as it used to before, and it broke your heart and soul.

"Your lips used to be my sanctuary, but now I feel trapped." Those were the first words that came out of your mouth, his lips left yours with a faded sound. You began to feel your heart beat quicken in rage, feeling the alcohol start to kick in. Giving you the strength to finally burst out your feelings and hidden thoughts.

"That sounded like a line in one of my movies. Where'd you get that, Babe?" He quietly sat beside you, giving you a nervous chuckle before taking your hands in his which you quickly rejected with one hostile push of your hand.

You stood up, the transparent, fragile glass in your hands. Your emotions were starting to bubble up and it was beginning to burst into tears. You love him. You gave him your heart. You gave him everything. Yet, he chose to throw it away. You trusted him. You trusted him to fully give his heart to you. However, you didn't realize Mr. Cinderella left his shoe on his way home, and you didn't know..It wasn't just any shoe. It was already his heart. His heart that was once yours, but was now in the hands of another woman. A woman that was the complete opposite of you. A woman who was sexier, and hotter. A woman he probably ever dreamt of.

A woman who isn't you.

"Isn't it time we both stopped pretending we make each other happy, Chris?" You aggravatingly spoke, biting your lower lip hard in anger. The pain was finally poisoning you alive, and it was time that it did.

"W-What? What are you saying?--" He stood up, daring to even walk close, his face looking so confused, a face that you wanted to slap a million times. His face that could lure you into believing him again with just one snap of his sad puppy eyes, and his beautiful lips that continued speaking words that were full of lies. "--You got to stop, Love. You're already drunk, I know you get emotional when you're drunk--"

"Do you really know me, Chris? Do you? Well, Mr. I-know-everything-about-my-wife..What does my face say right now?"

His baby blue eyes stared downright at you, deeply staring, his eyes turning scared and afraid. "It's the face that I never want to forget. The face that was once full of happiness but is now filled with sadness. A face that--" You cut him off, your eyes turning cloudy as you got the unknown watch from your pockets, your fingers trembling in absolute fury as you harshly pushed the watch on his muscly chest, hard enough to tell that you weren't in your usual state. Hard enough to show him that the woman in front of him wasn't the same anymore. "--A face that isn't hers. A face that isn't the woman you've been secretly dating, flirting and fucking with. This face I have right now? Isn't the face you ever want to see from me!" He grabbed the watch that you furiously pushed, examining it with utmost curiosity before his face fell, like his world fell apart. Pathetic. "That watch. It isn't mine, Chris. It's under our fuckin' bed. We don't have a daughter in this home for God's sake! where would that watch even come from?!" You began shouting hysterically, finally caught up in your inexplainable rage.

You thought you were the princess in your own fairy tale. Turns out you were the knight in shining armor who kept on fighting and protecting the pure love you both had. The love that was now ruined forever because of one unforgivable sin. His infidelity.

"Th-that was my sister's! You know how she loves her watches! I was about to give this back to her but--"

You heavily dropped the glass on your coffee table. Loud enough to startle his dog named 'Dodger' that was currently barking nonstop, however that didn't stop you. "I'M DONE WITH YOUR FUCKIN' LIES, EVANS!" You loudly screamed, glaring up at him with the most wrathful look you could ever give to anyone. Your tears threatening to fall, and one by one it did. They were traitors, just like the man in front of you. He was a traitor of your heart.

"I-I called your sister when I was back in (Y/H/T). That watch isn't the only evidence I have, You weren't being too discreet when you uploaded that fuckin' video of dodger singing because I damn sure heard your ex's voice laughing in the background, you fucking invited her in our damn house!" You sneered, your words coming out like venom. His broad, thewy shoulder fell in surrender. He finally lost because he was caught. The traitor was finally caught red handed.

"You've changed. We've changed. The sweetness turned into coldness, everything's starting to feel fake now.." You frankly said and paused, sniffing loudly. "Wh-what happened to us, Chris? What did I do wrong? Is it me? It has always been me, I know." You mumbled to yourself, tears falling like rain on the newly waxed floor.

Chris began pulling on the strands of his black hair in frustration. Never looking at you in the eye, hesitating to speak or not, "I-I loved you, I still do, (Y/N). I do, I loved you," He trailed off, seeming to be in a baffled state, his eyes shamefully having the courage to stare straight back at you. There, you saw him shedding tears, his blue eyes turning reddish from the cries.

"Loved? Funny how one letter can create a whole new meaning to the word," You gave a broken laugh, saying it with bitterness and with a broken heart. "L-Let's fix this, Babe. W-we can fix this.." Chris walked towards you, grabbing your face with his cold, large, calloused hands. His face turning paler as fear washed away the love it once had. He was scared, probably scared to be left alone and abandoned by the wife that promised to be with him by hook or by crook. You were starting to disappear in his life, slowly staring to fade away, you were ready to let him go and that made him scared for the life he decided to create. A life without you, a life without his wife that he shared vows with.

You angrily slapped his hands away, feeling grossed out because you imagined those hands had obviously just been held by his bitch. "We can't fix something that has already been broken. You broke my trust, and most importantly my heart, Christopher!"

He took a few long, fast strides before wrapping you in a desperate tight hug. One tight hug that wasn't impossible for you to breath in, you could sense his body shake from weeping. You could sense the fear that was wrapped inside of him, the fear of loosing you once and for all. "We-we can fix this..I-I can fix you again..W-we can make this work--"

"Don't try and fix me when all you need is to fix yourself!" You seethed, breath starting to come out deeper and more harsh. "I am not the man who cheated here! I wasn't the person who destroyed this marriage! It's all on you! You committed adultery! You remained unfaithful, yet you want to try and fix this?! What makes you think you would never try and do it again?!"

"Because I would never!! I'm never gonna do it again! I'm sorry! I'm s-sorry! Please!" Chris's cold hands caught your wrists, his hot tears falling from his eyes. He began to violently use your feeble hands to hit him. But, you could never. You just can't physically hurt the man that you used to love. "--Just hit me, slap me, kick me, I fucking deserve it, Babe! I deserve--"

"You deserve to fucking feel the pain I felt! You fucking deserve to feel the regret once I leave you for good!"

Chris fell hard on his knees, weeping so hard, hopelessly wrapping his muscly arms around your weak legs. He began begging when he knew you were ready to jump out of the house without any second thought. Appearing to find that begging can be the only way he could have you back. "N-NO! Please! Please, no! Don't leave me! I can make her leave! I'll leave her, (Y/N)! Just, p-please! Don't leave me! I beg you...I beg you...."

You forcefully untangled his arms that was wrapped around your body, but he was trying not to let you go, no matter how easy it is to leave..It was difficult especially having a heart that never wanted to lose hope in this marriage you were in. "Ch-Chris," You choked up in your own tears, hearing him plead in despair made you not want to leave. Nonetheless, your decision was final.

"It's time for you to let me go, Love. It's time for me to go,"

"N-No...I'm never letting you g-go, (Y/N)...N-Never." He cried, and you could hear him whimper. His arms deliberately loosened. How you did it was a complete miracle. But, now..now you were finally free.

"You began to let me go from the moment you secretly dated her behind my back," You stood in front of him, head held high with fresh tears falling from your eyes. Never planning on leaning down to give him his one last kiss because he didn't deserve it after all.

"I never want to hear your name during my life anymore." You whispered to him, "W-we could've been happy, if you just realized my love could fulfill you,"

"--but you didn't realize that, so you decided to become greedy and chose to find a different kind of love from someone else,"

You spun on your heels, turning your back away from him, you heard him cry more. It was louder this time, The realization began to hit him so hard, like a brick thrown on a wall, finally regretting every stupid decision he made. You turned your back away from the future that you thought you would have. A future with Chris. Things have turned the other way around as Chris was now a part of your past, he was once your future, nevertheless because of one sin, everything turned upside down. Turning everything worse for him, but becoming better for you.

The knight was finally free from the armor she was wearing, now she was a vulnerable knight without a job and her armor to protect the love that she thought was still there. A love that wasn't real and true.

You were finally free.

Now, Mr. Cinderella could finally marry the princess he deserved and wished for.

A princess that will never be you.

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#Chris Evans #christopher robert evans #chris evans imagine #chris evans oneshot #chris evans x you #chris evans x reader #Steve Rogers #avengers #tatasmasterlist #seb-owns-these-tatas #tatasworks #seb owns these tatas #masterlist #angst #chris evans angst

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lovelyteng · 3 years

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Haunted Corruption Chapter 9 - Stronger's Destiny

(Fade as cut to Stronger of Destiny Room where Jose, Sana, Cal, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle walk and looking around.)

Cal: (narrating) When my friends was seperated into 3 ways of room as I'm with Jose, Sana, and Lucy with my brothers and their friends on the one room... Had a pressure as destiny as perseverance... Me and my friends are Stronger as remind of the song about challenge was different level for any kind to destiny... with perseverance.

(Cut to close-up Cal feeling worried while Fortstopher IV and Fortie VI look at him.)

Fortstopher IV: Are you okay, Sir Suresh?

Fortie VI: Yeah, you seems like something... broken.

Cal: (trembling; quietly) Yes, I have broken something... it's my pride... was blinded...

Royal Fortress Brothers: What?

Cal: Yes, I still broken and blind of my pride...

Fortstopher IV: Like Chess Kingdom without your hidden desire to truth anyway?

Cal: Yes, like me and our 11 friends hadn't hidden desire to truth until we had.

Jose: To reason about us to transformed into Nega Bosses which doesn't had hidden desire to truth.

Sana: Then Streetbeat and Fighter fight to Nega Bosses...

Lucy: Then they're defeated to Nega Bosses as we're freed as have a hidden desire to truth.

Cal: Exactly, Madam! For some reason, we're been a transformed when we've been shown our desires in the Wonderworld!

Fortstopher IV: That's right, My Bishop! That's how you gets a Hidden Powers!

Jose, Sana, Cal, and Lucy: A Hidden Powers?

Fortie VI: Hidden Powers was your desires were shown up as being corrupted from last years... For now as semi-corrupted form! You had a Hidden Powers!

Fortstopher IV: Even for you, Sir Suresh! Your Hidden Power was Past Vision!

Cal: (gasps along Jose, Sana, and Lucy; shocked) My Hidden Power was Past Vision?!

Fortie VI: Yes, because you finally your pride was fixed as regain passion of chess while you helped Willy Darren for playing chess at cafe and your chess workshop as he was your first student.

Cal: (shocked confusing) Huh, you're known him?! How?!

Fortie VI: As my brother and I was shadow in your behind as we're knowing other people as started last years when after Streetbeat and Fighter defeated us as outside of Wonderworld.

Barktholomew: Oh! (Rises his hand) Same me!

Cuckoo: (Rises her hand) Same me!

Inkabelle: (Rises her hand) Same to me too!

Jose: Wow! You guys known other people! Even my son and wife!

Sana: Woah! Sounds like my construction workers heard about secret theories of your, Checkered King.

Lucy: Hey, Checkered King? One of your students who friend of Fighter for her birthday in her mansion?

Cal: Tora Taylor, middle of Taylor Sisters who has a red-haired, blue dresses, and wearing yellow bow tie as band on her hair. I was a planned about Fighter's birthday at her mansion with Tora and Holly.

Jose: Holly? You means Holly Brand?

Cal: Yes, Scarecrow. Holly Brand was Bugsy's mother as Fighter's genius maid who she helped me for birthday planning.

Jose: Wow. That's pretty cool. But Fighter getting worried while the maids whispering about her for nobody trusted her as she thought about them until she have a trust as going to birthday as she got realized that. How gets her trust?

Cal: Well, her trust was her desire... I told her for me about nobody trusted as I was hidden my true self at started 24 years-old when being loss of my family until I was shown my true self to Fighter as tell her when after defeated Fortstopher IV... (Sadly) Balan told her about me being trust to you and our friends as shown my true self. I told Fighter's maids doing party decorations while Tora and I doing one gift and bake the cake. Then I wrote the letter to Fighter as it along Tora's gift.

(Cut to Jose, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle shocked to Cal's story about Emma.)

Jose, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle: (shocked) You wrote the letter to her?!

Cal: Yes! I sent to her for birthday party!

Sana: Okay, that's a surprise about you're says it!

Cal: As my biological niece.

Jose, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle: (shocked) WHAT?! You're Fighter's uncle?!

Cal: (whispering in sadly) Yes, my long-lost older sister Cali, she working a chemist and inventor as married to Erwin Cole who founder and owner of his daughter's mansion. (Sods as coming his tears.) She's disappeared when Fighter's birth.

(Cut to Jose, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle sadly to happened of Cal's younger twin sister was gone.)

Jose: We're so sorry about your sister, Checkered King.

Lucy: He's right, Checkered King. You'll see, you always need the new friends as acting like family, your past is making you heartbreak with your false self but for now... You're greatest intelligent person in the world as you getting your true destiny!

Jose: She's right, Checkered King! You're still the best intelligent person yet!

Sana: Yeah! You're coming and see your other side as true self!

Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle: (cheering and applause) Go Checkered King!

(Cut to Cal shocked as his tears coming, then smiles in bittersweet and wiping his tears.)

Cal: Thank, everyone! For my faith is keep gaining on me! You know... That's doing something despite difficulty or delay in achieving success about us... For challenge was different level for any kind to destiny.

Jose, Sana, and Lucy: (sadly) Yeah... That's true.

Fortstopher IV: I thinks you guys have a perseverance.

Cal: (gasps along Jose, Sana, and Lucy; shocked) You're right, Fortstopher! We have a perseverance! Which challenge was different level for any kind to destiny as getting difficulty or delay to us!

Jose: Yeah! That's lot of mistakes to us!

Cal: But let's try again about that which are continued for challenge until success...

Lucy: ...Or until we're stops trying!

Jose: (paused, then shocked) Wow! You're used Trial and Error for problem-solving, Checkered King!

Sana: 'Cause you're a problem-solver!

Cal: Thank you, guys.

Barktholomew: Okay, this is hard issues about your mission getting difficult as starts starving to death! (Paused as looking Jose, Sana, Cal, Lucy, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle who paused to him.) What?

Jose: (stomach growls as grunts) Oh...! I guess you're right, Bark! I need to find the food! (Looks anywhere in panic.) Uh, uh, uh! (Looks the giant corns in amazed as his tail wags in excited.) A-ha! A giant corn! (Breath inhales as start blow as closed his eyes.)

Cal: (starts walks slowly in backward while starts worried) Uh-oh... He's gonna... Take cover! (He, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle run and hide any place as behind giant object while scream.)

(Cut to Jose open his eyes with glowing turquoise, then blows the giant corn with energy fire breath like Dainty Dragon's Fire Attack. Cut to Suresh Brothers hiding as a giant white knight chess piece as they feeling extremely worried, then paused by sounds of eating from Jose.)

Fortstopher IV: (whispering to Cal in worried) He's done it for that, Sir Suresh?

Cal: (whispering in worried) I think. I'm checks to him. (Royal Fortress Brothers nod.)

(Cut to Cal pop slowly in worried from giant white knight chess piece as shaking in fear, closed his eyes, and whining in worried, then slowly open his right eye as looks to Jose in paused, then gasps in horror and then faints while appeared shadow of Jose eating giant corn and popcorns with metal and wood as Royal Fortress Brothers hold on Cal in shocked and horror.)

Fortie VI: Oh no! He thinks horrible about Scarecrow!

Barktholomew: (offscreen) Guys, he's fine about horrible happen! Come on and check this out!

(Royal Fortress Brothers hold Cal who been fainted and they walking to Barktholomew who happy expression along Sana, Lucy, Cuckoo, and Inkabelle joins him as they looking and scream in horror and shock. Cut to Jose who his eyes still glowing turquoise and eating a giant popcorn with metal while background with green fire. Cut back to them as they're all except Cal and Barktholomew have a shocking expressions to Jose.)

Barktholomew: His Hidden Power was Matter Ingestion with Energy Breath! It looks like Dainty Dragon's Fire Attacks!

Fortie VI: (paused) Okay... (shocked) That does make any sense!

Fortstopher IV: When used Hidden Power as your eyes glowing with main theme color!

Sana: Okay, that does make any sense! (Notices Cal still fainted as Royal Fortress Brothers hold him; gasp in horror.) What's happened to him?!

Fortie VI: He's looked to Scarecrow to what he's doing and then... he fainted after looked that.

Jose: (walks to his friends in happily as holds giant popcorn as his eyes was normal for stopped use Hidden Power) Hey, guys! I feeling doesn't painful anymore while eating it with metal and... wood. (Chuckles nervously as notices Cal still fainted as Royal Fortress Brothers hold him; screams in horror.) What's happened to him?!

Fortie VI: He's looked to you to what he's doing and then... he fainted after looked that.

(Jose takes Cal as dog kiss in worried, Cal wakes in disgust and worried, then he looks Jose and scream as let him and back to his brothers in worried and then breaths in deep and wiping Jose's saliva.)

Jose: Sorry about that, Checkered King. I just about...

Cal: Your Hidden Power? Yes, I seen that.

Inkabelle: Wow! His Past Vision was every when for he saw everything of the past! (Sana starts her eyes glowing forest green in happily.)

Sana: (with voice replication) Yes! Yes, he does! (Everyone scream to her.)

Cal: Watcher?! What was that while you speak?! (Gasps) Your Hidden Power! It's Voice Replication! (Jose, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle shocking as Sana's eyes was normal for stopped use Hidden Power.)

Sana: (in semi-corrupted voice as normal one voice) Now, you knows it!

(Jose, Sana, Cal, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle start walking in together as find of out the Stronger of Destiny, then Jose hold up his electric guitar with style and color of Barktholomew as playing it as pop-rock music playing "Remember of The Faithful Past/Cal's True Self Song" while they walking on the path.)

[Jose Gallard] Cal, you know you are a problem-solver You're more than just a passing past You're like a treat from a cafe

(While the song as Cal looks Jose singing in paused, then he looks Sana start sing while Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle start happy for song.)

[Sana Hudson] Oh, Cal, we love you more than our past life We love you more than bugs and birds We love you more than all things mentioned before

(Continued the song as Lucy starts her eyes glowing true magenta in happily as draws petals of a rose with her Hidden Power was Melanokinetic Constructs while everyone surprised to Lucy's Hidden Power as Cal looking in surprised and shocked, then Lucy's eyes was normal for stopped use Hidden Power..)

[Lucy Wong] Oh, Cal, you're extraordinary You're kind of smart and loyalty The feel of a true heart

[Lucy Wong] [With Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle] Yes, Cal!

[Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Lucy Wong, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle] So, you're the best, Cal! You're the best, Cal, the best!

(Cal surprised as realized about song of him and shown his true self. His friends look at him in happily.)

Jose: Hey, Checkered King, why don't sing one?

Cal: Uh...

[Cal Suresh] Oh yes, I think it's kind of scary I can't hide from you It fills me with despair?

Oh yes, I'm getting worried of you I'm gonna move to the home And change my name to Caleb...

(Paused the song as Cal's friends paused about last line.)

Royal Fortress Brothers: Caleb?

Cal: I ran out of rhymes, alright?

(Continued the song as everyone continued singing as come out the little parts of plants from the above while Suresh Brothers surprised.)

[Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Lucy Wong, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, and Inkabelle] (Fortstopher IV and Fortie VI) He'll change his name to Caleb Caleb! (Caleb!)

(Jose, Sana, Cal, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle start running and dancing as they're happily while chorus of song.)

[Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Cal Suresh, Lucy Wong, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle] So, Cal remember the past Cal is the best

So, Cal remember the past Cal is the best!

(Jose playing solo of his electric guitar for almost finish the song while they're start running to walking.)

[Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Cal Suresh, Lucy Wong, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle] Remember of The Faithful Past

(Finished the song as Jose, Sana, Cal, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle stopped the track as made of the metal door with twelve lightbulbs and the two arrows on the center of twelve lightbulbs as looking like of clock called Unlock Clock Door.)

Cal: You knows, the song about my true self as I remembered the good memories.

Jose, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle: Thank you, Checkered King.

Cal: Actually, that's not my name of Semi-Corrupted Form. My name of Semi-Corruption is... Checkered King Cal. But you can called me for my normal name.

Jose: Wow! That's sounds... perfect, Cal! My name is Scarecrow Jose!

Sana: My name's Watcher Sana of the Woods! Or simply Watcher Sana!

Lucy: And I'm Madam Lucy of the Mansion! Or simply Madam Lucy!

Inkabelle: Cool! That's I'm called you, Madam Lucy! (She and her friends laughing.)

Cal: We're Stronger about any challenges from our destination with perseverance!

Sana: Let's dance and sing like same of Balan Theater!

Jose, Cal, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle: Yeah!

(Starts playing "Stronger" while Jose, Sana, Cal, and Lucy walks to Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle as look each other while Jose, Sana, Cal, and Lucy singing intro of song as Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle dancing.)

[Sana Hudson] Sometimes we cry We wait

[Jose Gallard] Sometimes we can't see anything

[Lucy Wong] But don't give up

[Cal Suresh] You are not alone Ooh...

(Instrumental while Jose, Sana, Cal, and Lucy clapping the hands as dancing until the piano and trumpet played as they pointed at each other and start dancing as same moving of the song and Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle dancing like Costumes while they in the chorus of the song.)

[Jose Gallard] (Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Cal Suresh, and Lucy Wong) We can be stronger, 'cause we have this treasure (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Sana Hudson] We will survive, just like we always do (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Cal Suresh] We're gonna level up, 'cause we have this mission (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Lucy Wong] No matter what happens we will stand by you (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Sana Hudson and Lucy Wong] (Jose Gallard and Cal Suresh) Some time will tell (Doo, doo) It's in our hands (Doo, doo) All we need is a little bit... (Doo, doo)

[With Jose Gallard and Cal Suresh] Of love Little love, little love

[Jose Gallard] (Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Cal Suresh, and Lucy Wong) We can be stronger, 'cause we have this treasure (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Cal Suresh] We will survive, just like we always do (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

Sana: We're gonna level up, 'cause we have this mission! (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

Lucy: No matter what happens we will stand by you! (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Cal Suresh, and Lucy Wong] We'll be alright We're now on fire Come and see the other side Let's believe!

(Breaking the song as Instrumental while speaking as Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle dancing.)

Sana: Why do I feel so lonely? Something's gotta give!

Cal: Come on! Let's do this!

Lucy: Life can be tough.

Jose: Heh, pretty cool!

Lucy: Why don't my friends talk to me? Have I done something wrong?

Cal: Hah, pathetic!

Sana: I just want things to be normal.

Jose: See you on the flip-side!

(Turns off the lights as two spotlights to Jose and Cal as they're singing until turns whole lights as reached the chorus.)

[Jose Gallard and Cal Suresh] (Sana Hudson and Lucy Wong) Like hide and seek (Ahh, ahh) Dreams are hard to believe (Ahh, ahh) But we need to keep it up until... The day, the day, the day (Ah, ah, ah)

[Sana Hudson and Lucy Wong] (One, two, three, four!)

[Jose Gallard] (Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Cal Suresh, and Lucy Wong) We can be stronger, 'cause we have this treasure (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Sana Hudson] We will survive, just like we always do (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Cal Suresh] We're gonna level up, 'cause we have this mission (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Lucy Wong] No matter what happens we will stand by you (Ah-ah, ah-ah-ah)

[Jose Gallard, Sana Hudson, Cal Suresh, and Lucy Wong] We'll be alright We're now on fire Come and see the other side Let's believe!

(While Cal sing of long noted "Let's believe!" as he, Jose, Sana, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle make pose as final dancing at end of the song. Jose, Cal, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle cheering, then turn and looking the Unlock Clock Door start light up of four lightbulbs turn on as like clock's number places with Inhabitants' main theme color.)

Cal: It's looks the song make the lights up of the door!

Jose: Yes, but there's only four lights up.

Cal: I thinks four of Inhabitants for that. We're just waiting for light up to complete of twelve.

Sana: Yes, while our friends going make it as light it up.

Cal: Yes, they're realized for based of three songs.

Lucy: Oh, right!

Jose: Which means... Fiona, Haoyu, Attilio, and Bruce on the another room and then Yuri, Cass, Iben, and Eis on the last room! They're along Nega Bosses who in the human forms!

Cal: That's right, Jose. We're wondering for our friends doing to that?

(Jose, Sana, Cal, Lucy, Barktholomew, Cuckoo, Fortstopher IV, Fortie VI, and Inkabelle thinks about their friends on the rooms. Fade out as pitched black screen.)

To be continued.

List of Chapters

First

#Balan Wonderworld #Cal Suresh #Jose Gallard #Lucy Wong #Sana Hudson #Haunted Corruption

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eclecticmiasma · 4 years

Text

Unattended (Fugonara)

Abbacchio gets sick of Fugo and Narancia’s constant fighting.

NSFW

[Warnings: N/A]

*do not re-upload my work without explicit permission

As a member of Passione, rare are the days that one isn’t given some sort of work to be done.

Rarer still are the days that Fugo isn’t endlessly harassing Narancia about his studies.

The boy had barely woken up when his junior came barreling through the bedroom door and tossed a division practice book at his feet. Narancia flailed wildly and groaned about what a wonderful day off he had planned. First, he was going to go to a new French Bistro that Mista wouldn’t stop raving about. Apparently, their croissants melted in your mouth and the girls had to wear little French maid outfits. Then, he wanted to longboard to the beach and work on a nice summer tan. But, his whining was to no avail. Fugo simply stared at his writhing form with utter disdain.

Downstairs, Abbacchio could hear Narancia’s shrill pleas for mercy. He sighed heavily into his espresso and closed his eyes. He thought briefly what his life would be like if he were a more social, outgoing person. Maybe he would have an inkling of how to use his days off rather than spend them trapped inside of Bucciarati’s childhood home with youth that had the emotional capacity of feral orphans. Just as he began to entertain images of a day out in the countryside, the sound of footsteps not unlike those of a stampeding buffalo herd pulled him back to reality.

Fugo emerged into the kitchen. Narancia trudged in behind him like a beaten dog. It would have all been amusing if Abbacchio didn’t know that it would all escalate into yet another brawl between the two. Mista and Bucciarati might have been able to wave away their volatile relationship, but it drove Abbacchio crazy. Always screaming, fighting, stabbing each other with cutlery- he wished desperately that they would either kill each other or fuck each other, anything to get some peace and quiet. Though he secretly hoped they would snap and do the latter, as he and Mista had a pretty hefty bet going.

Unbeknownst to Bucciarati, of course.

The miserable pair made their way through the kitchen and into the living area without so much as acknowledging the silver-haired man’s presence. Fugo plopped himself onto an old, but well-kept sofa and gestured at the pencil and paper he set out earlier. Narancia continued to moan about French maids and new tanning oil before he threw himself down next to the other.

“So, do you remember what we talked about last time?” Fugo inquired, knowing fully well that his teammate didn’t have a clue.

“Division,” Narancia spat back. The green suited man sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Open the damn book,” He ordered, trying not to lose his cool in record timing. Begrudgingly, Narancia followed his instruction and opened to a dog-eared page covered in angry red marks.

And so they continued. Fugo reviewed what he had tried to teach the rambunctious teen nearly three weeks before and then let him try on his own. As he watched shrewdly, he heard the echo of Bucciarati’s words. He may have gone against my wishes, but it is my duty to make sure he gets an education. Unfortunately, fishing didn’t allow me to have an education. But he has a real chance if you’ll help him. He sighed again.

“There!” Narancia threw down his pencil, causing it to bounce off of and roll under the couch. Fugo grabbed his notebook with more force than necessary and looked over the raven-haired boy’s work. Sometimes Bucciarati’s words could bring Fugo comfort, or help remind him of his goals and why he continued to even wake up in the morning.

Sometimes they flew right out the window.

“Narancia!” He barked, furious. Not only was every single problem wrong, but two of the answers were just different angry doodles of maids with their butts showing. Fugo saw red. He threw the notebook behind him and grabbed Narancia by his stupid little neck straps. “Why are you fucking around here you troglodyte?!”

“I had shit to do to day you troglo- trog- what the fuck did you call me?!” Of course, the older boy was at the ready with his signature silver switchblade. He pressed it to the other’s throat menacingly.

“Enough!” Both boys jerked around to face Abbacchio, who had entered the living room and sat in an armchair across from the pair unnoticed. They were ready to continue fighting before his low, threatening voice continued, “I won’t listen to this anymore. You two need to get whatever this is out of your system, and you need to do it today. Before one of you kills the other, or before I kill the both of you.” Narancia made a face but held his blade steady.

“I’ll get it out of my system by coating this smug asshole’s blood all over the couch!” He growled. Fugo rolled his eyes and twisted the other’s neck straps so that they begin to choke him out. His purple eyes bulged out and he made an inhuman gurgling noise out of pure rage.

“The two of you need to fuck.” Abbacchio interrupted. Fugo let go of Narancia’s clothing long enough for him to catch air.

“What?!” The pair hissed, staring daggers in Abbacchio’s direction.

“You heard me,” He leaned back in the armchair and surveyed them, “I saw it all the time in the force. Rage-filled criminals who really just needed to get their rocks off.” Something that the tall man always admired about himself was his ability to lie imperceptibly to most anyone. He could see the gears turning furiously in Fugo’s mind as Narancia just gaped at him, open-mouthed. “Of course, if you kill one another it’s no skin off my back. But, I think you’d rather kiss each other than kill each other.”

“Kiss him?!” Narancia finally broke out of his stupor and spoke, “This idiot’s never kissed anything in his life, why the hell would I want to do that?” Fugo smacked him upside the head.

“You don’t know anything about me, shit-for-brains. You’re the one that has to go to maid café’s to see some ass!” Narancia’s mouth flopped open and closed like a fish.

“T-that doesn’t mean shit! I’ve kissed people before! You’re the one who spent all your time in school, I was on the streets!”

“Yeah? Prove it, you little shit. I bet the only thing you’ve kissed is Bucciarati’s ass-”

Narancia grabbed Fugo’s tie and jerked him forward into a closed-mouth kiss. Abbacchio grinned widely, triumphant. Fugo resisted initially, but Narancia had a surprisingly strong grip for such a small frame. When he finally let go, the taller boy gaped at him, flustered.

“Th-that’s not how you kiss someone! You didn’t even move your lips at all, idiot!” Before Narancia could protest, Fugo grabbed either side of his face and pulled him in for another bruising kiss. This time, Fugo’s golden eyes fluttered closed so he couldn’t see the other’s purple orbs boring holes into him. He opened his lips slightly, and Narancia did the same. Being that close, Narancia briefly noticed that his teammate smelled lightly of coffee and strawberry shampoo.

Abbacchio watched as the kiss intensified. He thought about what he could buy with the money Mista owed him. Fugo tentatively licked at Narancia’s lower lip. A small swipe at first, then another. Narancia followed suit, testing the waters with his own tongue until they finally met in the middle. The smaller boy made a sound that pulled Abbacchio out of his daydream and went straight to Fugo’s dick.

All hell broke loose.

Fugo deepened the kiss, tongue exploring Narancia’s mouth in earnest. The other complied, rubbing his tongue up the length of his partner’s feverishly. It was messy, it was unexperienced, but it felt glorious. Narancia softly moaned again into the kiss and let his switchblade fall to the floor. He gripped Fugo’s shoulders tight and let himelf be pushed flat against the arm of the couch. As minutes wore on, they parted for air only briefly before plunging back into each other’s depths and letting their hands wander over one another’s tense bodies.

It wasn’t long before Fugo realized that the tightness in his pants was nearly unbearable. He brushed his thigh against Narancia’s groin and was relieved, and aroused, to find that the other seemed to be struggling as well. He slid his thigh between Narancia’s legs and groaned aloud at the contact. The two pulled away from each other, flushed and panting.

“F-Fugo…” Narancia pleaded. As Fugo looked down at the boy’s reddened skin and swollen lips, his mussed raven hair and the drool that dripped slowly from his chin to his chest, he thought that his friend was beautiful. He bit his lip and cautiously grinded his lower body into the other’s. Narancia yelped and blushed near the color of the strawberry earrings that Fugo wore, “Don’t stop,” He pleaded, and it was all Fugo needed to grind against the other in earnest, earning a throaty groan and two thin arms wrapped around his neck.

Abbacchio watched the pair frot against one another and came to the very uncomfortable realization that he was painfully aroused. As the scene in front of him continued to unfold, he justified palming himself through his pants by reasoning that if the pair didn’t want him there they would have told him.

When Fugo wanted something, he was quick to get it. Before Narancia knew what was happening his clothes were on the floor and his friend was sucking deep, blooming bruises into his neck and chest. When Fugo’s hand wrapped around his exposed cock, his brain short-circuited and he came instantly with a shrill cry.

Before he could express his shame, Fugo leaned in and kissed him softly. With his other hand, he undid his belt and slid off his ridiculously holey pants. Narancia gasped.

“So you do wear a thong!” The other’s cheeks flared crimson red. He decided to shut Narancia up for good by spreading his legs and sliding a hand around one of his ass cheeks.

“N-Narancia,” Fugo’s own voice sounded foreign in his ears. How long had it been since he sounded so far away, so unsure? How did he have this gorgeous boy writhing underneath him, undone by just his lips and his touch?

Narancia wouldn’t say he was the smartest tool in the crayon shed, but no one would deny he was surprisingly perceptive. “You want to put it in me?” He said matter of fact, turning Fugo into a sputtering mess.

“Well, I mean…I…you…we don’t have…but-”

“Put your fingers in his mouth,” Abbacchio offered, his own member fully on display for his teammates to gawk at, “It’ll make things much easier.”

“J-Jesus Christ, Abbacchio…” Narancia marveled, disgusted at his voyeurism but oddly intrigued by how brazenly he stroked himself at them.

Fugo bristled with anger at such a private moment being ogled at. He readied himself to take his friend’s discarded switchblade and castrate the tall goth himself, but his anger dissipated when Narancia took his hand and lapped at his fingertips. He sucked in a breath as his fingers moved past Narancia’s lips and into his mouth. The smaller boy’s warmth combined with the soft texture of his tongue and the way that he looked at him, purple eyes clouded with lust, made Fugo’s cock throb painfully.

After a few moments Narancia let go of the other’s fingers with a pop, satisfied that they were as slick as possible. Fugo pulled them back hesitantly, shifting his body so that he could see the other’s hole. He felt dizzy staring at it, as if suddenly everything was real and he was really about to fuck his best friend.

He licked his lips and placed one finger at Narancia’s entrance. Narancia squeaked at the sensation, but held his body still. Slowly, gauging Narancia’s face for any signs of pain, he pushed his slickened fingers forward. Once he passed the ring of muscle, the smaller boy’s body nearly sucked him in. It was warm, it was soft. It was so, incredibly tight.

It was a slow and painful process, but eventually Fugo had Narancia rocking his hips against his hand, three fingers buried deep inside him. He began to love the sounds that his small friend made- soft, breathy moans that made him shiver in anticipation. He never knew the other could be so erotic.

“I can’t…I can’t take it anymore…” Narancia mumbled into the air, eyes screwed shut, “J-just do it already!” Fugo removed his fingers and sat up. Heart beating out of his chest, he placed his cock at Narancia’s reddened hole and took a deep breath.

Abbacchio himself nearly groaned as Fugo pushed in. He fisted his own cock, slick with precum, slowly, deliberately, as if he was impaling the boy himself. Fugo groaned as he finally bottomed out. Narancia didn’t make a single sound, confident that if he did his body just might tear in two. Fugo leaned forward and peppered the boy with kisses on his face and chest, uncharacteristically concerned that he might be severely hurting him. Narancia almost laughed at how painful it was, but the thrill of having Fugo inside of him was motivation enough to persevere.

Narancia let out a pained squeak as the other started to move. Fugo kissed his lips apologetically. He reciprocated in earnest, the sensation of being filled from two ends thrilling enough to distract from the throbbing in his spine. Fugo set up some semblance of a rhythm, short, shallow thrusts deepening as time went on.

“F-fuck, Narancia…” He swore, the tightness of the other’s walls almost painful around his dick. He rocked his hips faster and faster into that heat, losing more control as the moments ticked by. Pain slowly turned into pleasure for Narancia, the foreign feeling of cock sliding in and out of his body morphing into something erotic. Spurred on by Fugo’s shaky breathing and soft grunts, and the sound of their bodies smacking together, Narancia felt something sweet like candy blooming in the pit of his stomach.

Fugo leaned down and licked the shell of Narancia’s reddened ear. “I don’t…you feel so fucking good…” He whispered in a low growl that went straight to the other’s core. Praise from the younger boy was so rare that he came again, suddenly, Fugo’s name spilling from his lips. Fugo moaned loudly as the soft walls around his cock contracted. He snapped his hips almost violently into the other, setting a brutal pace.

“Nara…” Fugo nearly whined, fucking into his teammates body like his life depended on it, “I’m so close…” Narancia threaded his fingers into the other’s blonde locks and held on for dear life. He was sure that Fugo’s nails gripped his hips so tightly that he was bleeding. In the haze of arousal, four words tumbled from his lips that he never thought he’d say in his life.

“Fugo, cum inside me!” He pleaded. Somewhere in the room Abbacchio grunted loudly, the boy’s desperation going straight to his dick and causing him to spill ropes of cum into his palm. The pair hardly noticed as Fugo reached his own orgasm, hips stuttering as he released with a loud groan into Narancia’s shoulder.

Narancia himself moaned at the sensation of being filled to the brim, warmth spreading through his core. Fugo collapsed on top of him and gasped for air. For a while the three men sat there, trying desperately to come down from their highs.

Just as Fugo went to pull out, sunlight filled the living room. Mista had opened the front door and was standing there, slack jawed, holding two sacks of groceries. Bucciarati nearly bumped into him from behind.

“Wh-” He peaked around the frozen gunman and was greeted with the sight of his near naked, slick covered underlings. His eyes were wide as saucers, but a devlish grin played slowly across his features. “Well, Mista, guess you owe quite a bit of money.” *all original work belongs to me. do not re-upload without explicit permission.

#jojos bizarre adventure #jjba #yaoi #m/m #pannacotta fugo #narancia ghirga #fugonara #fugo x narancia #leone abbacchio #abbacchio #blink and you'll miss it praise kink #part 5 #vento aureo #fanfic #jjbafanfic #writing #not sfw #fics

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learrianie · 4 years

Text

What We Do in the Past, Echoes in the Future

Given the state of our country right now due to the unjust killings of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and so many others, it reminded me of a short essay I wrote about discrimination last year. It covers from the time of the Harlem Renaissance to 2020. How black people in America continue to face the same prejudice time and time again. This particular essay examines Claude McKay’s poem If We Must Die, Danez Smith’s piece dear white america, and Malcolm X’s speech The Ballot or the Bullet.

Not everyone can be at the protests and it can make you feel like you aren’t doing enough to help. If you’re like me, I constantly question “what can I do? how can I help? We can donate to the organizations, but if you can’t afford it, one of the most important things EVERY ONE can and should do is listen. Stay informed. Learn our history. Change the future.

I’ve included both poems and the speech. The Ballot or the Bullet is long, but I urge you all to read it or listen to it on youtube. It’s a difficult conversation to keep having, but we must keep speaking up for the victims of the systematic racism in this country and continue to fight for justice, by any means necessary.

What We Do in the Past, Echoes in the Future

By Arriana M. Williams

Literature and art have always been powerful tools for expressing and analyzing the human condition. We write as a way to leave something lasting and tangible for the next generation to, hopefully, improve upon society as a whole. When it comes to the marginalized communities of the world, specifically in our country, the role and value of literature becomes essential in understanding the plights and difficulties these people have faced in history and today. By reading the works created by these men and women, we gain a more intimate and personal insight into their struggles, aspirations, and their outlook of the world and their hopes of a brighter future. As cliché as that may sound, it was the ultimate goal of men like Martin Luther King Jr, Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and so many more. While these men followed in the footsteps of men like Claude McKay, who defined his perspective of racism in his poem “If We Must Die”, they also inspired those who came after them. Men like Danez Smith, who in his poem, “Dear White America”, addresses the typical perspectives white people have towards those of color in America. Although reading and writing is not a cure-all for discrimination or injustices in America, it is hard to deny that the old adage is true. That those who do not learn history, are doomed to repeat it.

Take for example Malcolm X’s speech, "The Ballot or the Bullet". Given as a response to congress deliberating about the Civil Rights Act, which would prohibit discrimination based on race, sex, religion, and origin. This speech is considered to be one of his best as it clearly and sophisticatedly describes how people of color in America must demand equality regardless of economic class or political affiliation. His message was not aimed towards any specific group of black Americans, nor religious associations. Malcolm X was a very relatable figure in that, the way he spoke was how common people spoke. He was intelligent, but he was not a politician.

The tone of his speeches touched people because of how passionate he was, but also how he was just like us. A man who wanted a better life for himself and his people, a man who was genuine in his convictions. Some people consider him to have been a radical, because he believed that the disenfranchised should demand equality “by any means necessary”. His goal was to urge black people to use their votes as a way to progress their civil rights. To do this, he used some humor to connect to the masses. His use of Muhammad Ali as a metaphor in this speech may have been funny, stating that we should not be “singing” for freedom or treading lightly in this fight. But he goes on to say, “But you can swing up on some freedom. Cassius Clay can sing. But singing didn’t help him to become the heavyweight champion of the world. Swinging helped him” (Malcolm X 338). His tone grows from humorous to serious because he tries to exclaim that we must come to terms with when enough is enough. Malcolm X gave this speech in 1964, forty- five years after Claude McKay’s “If We Must Die”, but the message remains the same.

Malcolm X was trying to usher his people into a new world, a new way of thinking and living in America. Claude McKay was originally from Jamaica, but when he moved to the United States for higher education, he experienced racism first-hand which inspired him to begin writing poetry. His poem, “If We Must Die”, is written from the perspective of a black man speaking about fighting back when it comes to racism. The final line is the most powerful stating, “Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack/Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!” (McKay 139). The speaker says that their blood will not be shed in vain and this poem goes on to display themes of the frustrations and concerns with discrimination and with the state of the country. Written in 1919, this poem is yet another example of people of color no longer willing to take the horrendous treatment of them in America anymore. This is a pattern in the pieces of literature throughout the Harlem Renaissance, when the dynamics in the country were beginning to change, after slavery was abolished but before the civil rights movement began. Basically, black people were beginning to fight back against oppression, just like Malcolm X explained in his speech, even decades after McKay’s poem, that people of color must continue to fight back by any means necessary.

Perhaps to a layman on the subjects of racial experiences, maltreatment, or persecution, it would seem like things have improved when it comes to inequality in America. So why are we still reading about prejudice and racism? All of the men I mentioned, Martin Luther King Jr, Medgar Evers, and Malcolm X were assassinated in this country. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that there is still room for improvement. Even during the era of our first black president, men and women of color were still living in fear of many threats. In “Dear White America”, Smith uses metaphors for religion and the justice system in our country as examples of how people of color are often the ones left out of “God’s miracles”. He mentions the issue of mass incarceration of black men and says, “I’m sick of calling your recklessness the law” (315) which is a statement of the epidemic of police involved shootings of unarmed black people. Smith goes on to address the typical “white” perspectives towards people of color in America. Like the, “I just don’t see race” and “Why does it always have to be about race” (315).

The poem is written in a way that the speaker is acknowledging the problems with common, white opinions. That they do not understand the harm they cause, but the speaker is attempting to enlighten them from a person of color’s point of view. The piece progresses from just words that are detrimental and hurtful stereotypes, to the ongoing violence black/brown people must endure in this country. The tone of this poem, as in all of the other works, is angry, the speaker does not want to remain silent and in the ends tells the “white audience” that they will create a new world, one that cannot be stolen, sold, beaten, hanged, or shot and that, “this, if only this one, is ours” (315). It is discouraging that from 1919 to 2019 we are still analyzing these types of experiences in literature, because they continue to be relevant. Many people believe that living in a post- Obama America means racism is eradicated, but all it takes is to open a book, watch the news, or check social media to see that notion could not be further from the truth.

What all of these pieces have in common, are the ways in which literature and assembly of like- minded individuals can open up a space for those whose voices might not be heard otherwise. The written word is a medium unlike any other in the way that it can stand the test of time, to be passed down from generation to generation. While some subjects are incredibly depressing to endure, they remain extremely poignant time after time. With something as complicated as racial issues, we need literature to understand the speakers that came before us. To gain more awareness of how far we’ve come, and how much more we have to work on in this country. From Malcolm X, to the poets of today, the similarities far outweigh the differences in their experiences, which is both concerning and comforting in a way. It is unfortunate that people of color are still facing such ordeals today, but that fact that so many before them faced trials and tribulations, it goes to the strength and power they possessed in order to keep fighting. To keep fighting for equality and the advancement of the people.

If We Must Die

BY CLAUDE MCKAY

If we must die, let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursèd lot. If we must die, O let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe! Though far outnumbered let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

dear white america

BY DANEZ SMITH

i’ve left Earth in search of darker planets, a solar system revolving too near a black hole. i’ve left in search of a new God. i do not trust the God you have given us. my grandmother’s hallelujah is only outdone by the fear she nurses every time the blood-fat summer swallows another child who used to sing in the choir. take your God back. though his songs are beautiful, his miracles are inconsistent. i want the fate of Lazarus for Renisha, want Chucky, Bo, Meech, Trayvon, Sean & Jonylah risen three days after their entombing, their ghost re-gifted flesh & blood, their flesh & blood re-gifted their children. i’ve left Earth, i am equal parts sick of your go back to Africa & i just don’t see race. neither did the poplar tree. we did not build your boats (though we did leave a trail of kin to guide us home). we did not build your prisons (though we did & we fill them too). we did not ask to be part of your America (though are we not America? her joints brittle & dragging a ripped gown through Oakland?). i can’t stand your ground. i’m sick of calling your recklessness the law. each night, i count my brothers. & in the morning, when some do not survive to be counted, i count the holes they leave. i reach for black folks & touch only air. your master magic trick, America. now he’s breathing, now he don’t. abra-cadaver. white bread voodoo. sorcery you claim not to practice, hand my cousin a pistol to do your work. i tried, white people. i tried to love you, but you spent my brother’s funeral making plans for brunch, talking too loud next to his bones. you took one look at the river, plump with the body of boy after girl after sweet boi & ask why does it always have to be about race? because you made it that way! because you put an asterisk on my sister’s gorgeous face! call her pretty (for a black girl)! because black girls go missing without so much as a whisper of where?! because there are no amber alerts for amber-skinned girls! because Jordan boomed. because Emmett whistled. because Huey P. spoke. because Martin preached. because black boys can always be too loud to live. because it’s taken my papa’s & my grandma’s time, my father’s time, my mother’s time, my aunt’s time, my uncle’s time, my brother’s & my sister’s time . . . how much time do you want for your progress? i’ve left Earth to find a place where my kin can be safe, where black people ain’t but people the same color as the good, wet earth, until that means something, until then i bid you well, i bid you war, i bid you our lives to gamble with no more. i’ve left Earth & i am touching everything you beg your telescopes to show you. i’m giving the stars their right names. & this life, this new story & history you cannot steal or sell or cast overboard or hang or beat or drown or own or redline or shackle or silence or cheat or choke or cover up or jail or shoot or jail or shoot or jail or shoot or ruin

this, if only this one, is ours.

The Ballot or the Bullet

by Malcolm X April 3, 1964 Cleveland, Ohio

Mr. Moderator, Brother Lomax, brothers and sisters, friends and enemies: I just can't believe everyone in here is a friend, and I don't want to leave anybody out. The question tonight, as I understand it, is "The Negro Revolt, and Where Do We Go From Here?" or What Next?" In my little humble way of understanding it, it points toward either the ballot or the bullet.

Before we try and explain what is meant by the ballot or the bullet, I would like to clarify something concerning myself. I'm still a Muslim; my religion is still Islam. That's my personal belief. Just as Adam Clayton Powell is a Christian minister who heads the Abyssinian Baptist Church in New York, but at the same time takes part in the political struggles to try and bring about rights to the black people in this country; and Dr. Martin Luther King is a Christian minister down in Atlanta, Georgia, who heads another organization fighting for the civil rights of black people in this country; and Reverend Galamison, I guess you've heard of him, is another Christian minister in New York who has been deeply involved in the school boycotts to eliminate segregated education; well, I myself am a minister, not a Christian minister, but a Muslim minister; and I believe in action on all fronts by whatever means necessary.

Although I'm still a Muslim, I'm not here tonight to discuss my religion. I'm not here to try and change your religion. I'm not here to argue or discuss anything that we differ about, because it's time for us to submerge our differences and realize that it is best for us to first see that we have the same problem, a common problem, a problem that will make you catch hell whether you're a Baptist, or a Methodist, or a Muslim, or a nationalist. Whether you're educated or illiterate, whether you live on the boulevard or in the alley, you're going to catch hell just like I am. We're all in the same boat and we all are going to catch the same hell from the same man. He just happens to be a white man. All of us have suffered here, in this country, political oppression at the hands of the white man, economic exploitation at the hands of the white man, and social degradation at the hands of the white man.

Now in speaking like this, it doesn't mean that we're anti-white, but it does mean we're anti-exploitation, we're anti-degradation, we're anti-oppression. And if the white man doesn't want us to be anti-him, let him stop oppressing and exploiting and degrading us. Whether we are Christians or Muslims or nationalists or agnostics or atheists, we must first learn to forget our differences. If we have differences, let us differ in the closet; when we come out in front, let us not have anything to argue about until we get finished arguing with the man. If the late President Kennedy could get together with Khrushchev and exchange some wheat, we certainly have more in common with each other than Kennedy and Khrushchev had with each other.

If we don't do something real soon, I think you'll have to agree that we're going to be forced either to use the ballot or the bullet. It's one or the other in 1964. It isn't that time is running out -- time has run out!

1964 threatens to be the most explosive year America has ever witnessed. The most explosive year. Why? It's also a political year. It's the year when all of the white politicians will be back in the so-called Negro community jiving you and me for some votes. The year when all of the white political crooks will be right back in your and my community with their false promises, building up our hopes for a letdown, with their trickery and their treachery, with their false promises which they don't intend to keep. As they nourish these dissatisfactions, it can only lead to one thing, an explosion; and now we have the type of black man on the scene in America today -- I'm sorry, Brother Lomax -- who just doesn't intend to turn the other cheek any longer.

Don't let anybody tell you anything about the odds are against you. If they draft you, they send you to Korea and make you face 800 million Chinese. If you can be brave over there, you can be brave right here. These odds aren't as great as those odds. And if you fight here, you will at least know what you're fighting for.

I'm not a politician, not even a student of politics; in fact, I'm not a student of much of anything. I'm not a Democrat. I'm not a Republican, and I don't even consider myself an American. If you and I were Americans, there'd be no problem. Those Honkies that just got off the boat, they're already Americans; Polacks are already Americans; the Italian refugees are already Americans. Everything that came out of Europe, every blue-eyed thing, is already an American. And as long as you and I have been over here, we aren't Americans yet.

Well, I am one who doesn't believe in deluding myself. I'm not going to sit at your table and watch you eat, with nothing on my plate, and call myself a diner. Sitting at the table doesn't make you a diner, unless you eat some of what's on that plate. Being here in America doesn't make you an American. Being born here in America doesn't make you an American. Why, if birth made you American, you wouldn't need any legislation; you wouldn't need any amendments to the Constitution; you wouldn't be faced with civil-rights filibustering in Washington, D.C., right now. They don't have to pass civil-rights legislation to make a Polack an American.

No, I'm not an American. I'm one of the 22 million black people who are the victims of Americanism. One of the 22 million black people who are the victims of democracy, nothing but disguised hypocrisy. So, I'm not standing here speaking to you as an American, or a patriot, or a flag-saluter, or a flag-waver -- no, not I. I'm speaking as a victim of this American system. And I see America through the eyes of the victim. I don't see any American dream; I see an American nightmare.

These 22 million victims are waking up. Their eyes are coming open. They're beginning to see what they used to only look at. They're becoming politically mature. They are realizing that there are new political trends from coast to coast. As they see these new political trends, it's possible for them to see that every time there's an election the races are so close that they have to have a recount. They had to recount in Massachusetts to see who was going to be governor, it was so close. It was the same way in Rhode Island, in Minnesota, and in many other parts of the country. And the same with Kennedy and Nixon when they ran for president. It was so close they had to count all over again. Well, what does this mean? It means that when white people are evenly divided, and black people have a bloc of votes of their own, it is left up to them to determine who's going to sit in the White House and who's going to be in the dog house.

lt. was the black man's vote that put the present administration in Washington, D.C. Your vote, your dumb vote, your ignorant vote, your wasted vote put in an administration in Washington, D.C., that has seen fit to pass every kind of legislation imaginable, saving you until last, then filibustering on top of that. And your and my leaders have the audacity to run around clapping their hands and talk about how much progress we're making. And what a good president we have. If he wasn't good in Texas, he sure can't be good in Washington, D.C. Because Texas is a lynch state. It is in the same breath as Mississippi, no different; only they lynch you in Texas with a Texas accent and lynch you in Mississippi with a Mississippi accent. And these Negro leaders have the audacity to go and have some coffee in the White House with a Texan, a Southern cracker -- that's all he is -- and then come out and tell you and me that he's going to be better for us because, since he's from the South, he knows how to deal with the Southerners. What kind of logic is that? Let Eastland be president, he's from the South too. He should be better able to deal with them than Johnson.

In this present administration they have in the House of Representatives 257 Democrats to only 177 Republicans. They control two-thirds of the House vote. Why can't they pass something that will help you and me? In the Senate, there are 67 senators who are of the Democratic Party. Only 33 of them are Republicans. Why, the Democrats have got the government sewed up, and you're the one who sewed it up for them. And what have they given you for it? Four years in office, and just now getting around to some civil-rights legislation. Just now, after everything else is gone, out of the way, they're going to sit down now and play with you all summer long -- the same old giant con game that they call filibuster. All those are in cahoots together. Don't you ever think they're not in cahoots together, for the man that is heading the civil- rights filibuster is a man from Georgia named Richard Russell. When Johnson became president, the first man he asked for when he got back to Washington, D.C., was "Dicky" -- that's how tight they are. That's his boy, that's his pal, that's his buddy. But they're playing that old con game. One of them makes believe he's for you, and he's got it fixed where the other one is so tight against you, he never has to keep his promise.

So it's time in 1964 to wake up. And when you see them coming up with that kind of conspiracy, let them know your eyes are open. And let them know you -- something else that's wide open too. It's got to be the ballot or the bullet. The ballot or the bullet. If you're afraid to use an expression like that, you should get on out of the country; you should get back in the cotton patch; you should get back in the alley. They get all the Negro vote, and after they get it, the Negro gets nothing in return. All they did when they got to Washington was give a few big Negroes big jobs. Those big Negroes didn't need big jobs, they already had jobs. That's camouflage, that's trickery, that's treachery, window-dressing. I'm not trying to knock out the Democrats for the Republicans. We'll get to them in a minute. But it is true; you put the Democrats first and the Democrats put you last.

Look at it the way it is. What alibis do they use, since they control Congress and the Senate? What alibi do they use when you and I ask, "Well, when are you going to keep your promise?" They blame the Dixiecrats. What is a Dixiecrat? A Democrat. A Dixiecrat is nothing but a Democrat in disguise. The titular head of the Democrats is also the head of the Dixiecrats, because the Dixiecrats are a part of the Democratic Party. The Democrats have never kicked the Dixiecrats out of the party. The Dixiecrats bolted themselves once, but the Democrats didn't put them out. Imagine, these lowdown Southern segregationists put the Northern Democrats down. But the Northern Democrats have never put the Dixiecrats down. No, look at that thing the way it is. They have got a con game going on, a political con game, and you and I are in the middle. It's time for you and me to wake up and start looking at it like it is, and trying to understand it like it is; and then we can deal with it like it is.

The Dixiecrats in Washington, D.C., control the key committees that run the government. The only reason the Dixiecrats control these committees is because they have seniority. The only reason they have seniority is because they come from states where Negroes can't vote. This is not even a government that's based on democracy. lt. is not a government that is made up of representatives of the people. Half of the people in the South can't even vote. Eastland is not even supposed to be in Washington. Half of the senators and congressmen who occupy these key positions in Washington, D.C., are there illegally, are there unconstitutionally.

I was in Washington, D.C., a week ago Thursday, when they were debating whether or not they should let the bill come onto the floor. And in the back of the room where the Senate meets, there's a huge map of the United States, and on that map it shows the location of Negroes throughout the country. And it shows that the Southern section of the country, the states that are most heavily concentrated with Negroes, are the ones that have senators and congressmen standing up filibustering and doing all other kinds of trickery to keep the Negro from being able to vote. This is pitiful. But it's not pitiful for us any longer; it's actually pitiful for the white man, because soon now, as the Negro awakens a little more and sees the vise that he's in, sees the bag that he's in, sees the real game that he's in, then the Negro's going to develop a new tactic.

These senators and congressmen actually violate the constitutional amendments that guarantee the people of that particular state or county the right to vote. And the Constitution itself has within it the machinery to expel any representative from a state where the voting rights of the people are violated. You don't even need new legislation. Any person in Congress right now, who is there from a state or a district where the voting rights of the people are violated, that particular person should be expelled from Congress. And when you expel him, you've removed one of the obstacles in the path of any real meaningful legislation in this country. In fact, when you expel them, you don't need new legislation, because they will be replaced by black representatives from counties and districts where the black man is in the majority, not in the minority.

If the black man in these Southern states had his full voting rights, the key Dixiecrats in Washington, D. C., which means the key Democrats in Washington, D.C., would lose their seats. The Democratic Party itself would lose its power. It would cease to be powerful as a party. When you see the amount of power that would be lost by the Democratic Party if it were to lose the Dixiecrat wing, or branch, or element, you can see where it's against the interests of the Democrats to give voting rights to Negroes in states where the Democrats have been in complete power and authority ever since the Civil War. You just can't belong to that Party without analyzing it.

I say again, I'm not anti-Democrat, I'm not anti-Republican, I'm not anti-anything. I'm just questioning their sincerity, and some of the strategy that they've been using on our people by promising them promises that they don't intend to keep. When you keep the Democrats in power, you're keeping the Dixiecrats in power. I doubt that my good Brother Lomax will deny that. A vote for a Democrat is a vote for a Dixiecrat. That's why, in 1964, it's time now for you and me to become more politically mature and realize what the ballot is for; what we're supposed to get when we cast a ballot; and that if we don't cast a ballot, it's going to end up in a situation where we're going to have to cast a bullet. It's either a ballot or a bullet.

In the North, they do it a different way. They have a system that's known as gerrymandering, whatever that means. It means when Negroes become too heavily concentrated in a certain area, and begin to gain too much political power, the white man comes along and changes the district lines. You may say, "Why do you keep saying white man?" Because it's the white man who does it. I haven't ever seen any Negro changing any lines. They don't let him get near the line. It's the white man who does this. And usually, it's the white man who grins at you the most, and pats you on the back, and is supposed to be your friend. He may be friendly, but he's not your friend.

So, what I'm trying to impress upon you, in essence, is this: You and I in America are faced not with a segregationist conspiracy, we're faced with a government conspiracy. Everyone who's filibustering is a senator -- that's the government. Everyone who's finagling in Washington, D.C., is a congressman -- that's the government. You don't have anybody putting blocks in your path but people who are a part of the government. The same government that you go abroad to fight for and die for is the government that is in a conspiracy to deprive you of your voting rights, deprive you of your economic opportunities, deprive you of decent housing, deprive you of decent education. You don't need to go to the employer alone, it is the government itself, the government of America, that is responsible for the oppression and exploitation and degradation of black people in this country. And you should drop it in their lap. This government has failed the Negro. This so-called democracy has failed the Negro. And all these white liberals have definitely failed the Negro.

So, where do we go from here? First, we need some friends. We need some new allies. The entire civil-rights struggle needs a new interpretation, a broader interpretation. We need to look at this civil-rights thing from another angle -- from the inside as well as from the outside. To those of us whose philosophy is black nationalism, the only way you can get involved in the civil-rights struggle is give it a new interpretation. That old interpretation excluded us. It kept us out. So, we're giving a new interpretation to the civil-rights struggle, an interpretation that will enable us to come into it, take part in it. And these handkerchief-heads who have been dillydallying and pussy footing and compromising -- we don't intend to let them pussyfoot and dillydally and compromise any longer.

How can you thank a man for giving you what's already yours? How then can you thank him for giving you only part of what's already yours? You haven't even made progress, if what's being given to you, you should have had already. That's not progress. And I love my Brother Lomax, the way he pointed out we're right back where we were in 1954. We're not even as far up as we were in 1954. We're behind where we were in 1954. There's more segregation now than there was in 1954. There's more racial animosity, more racial hatred, more racial violence today in 1964, than there was in 1954. Where is the progress?

And now you're facing a situation where the young Negro's coming up. They don't want to hear that "turn the-other-cheek" stuff, no. In Jacksonville, those were teenagers, they were throwing Molotov cocktails. Negroes have never done that before. But it shows you there's a new deal coming in. There's new thinking coming in. There's new strategy coming in. It'll be Molotov cocktails this month, hand grenades next month, and something else next month. It'll be ballots, or it'll be bullets. It'll be liberty, or it will be death. The only difference about this kind of death -- it'll be reciprocal. You know what is meant by "reciprocal"? That's one of Brother Lomax's words. I stole it from him. I don't usually deal with those big words because I don't usually deal with big people. I deal with small people. I find you can get a whole lot of small people and whip hell out of a whole lot of big people. They haven't got anything to lose, and they've got every thing to gain. And they'll let you know in a minute: "It takes two to tango; when I go, you go."

The black nationalists, those whose philosophy is black nationalism, in bringing about this new interpretation of the entire meaning of civil rights, look upon it as meaning, as Brother Lomax has pointed out, equality of opportunity. Well, we're justified in seeking civil rights, if it means equality of opportunity, because all we're doing there is trying to collect for our investment. Our mothers and fathers invested sweat and blood. Three hundred and ten years we worked in this country without a dime in return -- I mean without a dime in return. You let the white man walk around here talking about how rich this country is, but you never stop to think how it got rich so quick. It got rich because you made it rich.

You take the people who are in this audience right now. They're poor. We're all poor as individuals. Our weekly salary individually amounts to hardly anything. But if you take the salary of everyone in here collectively, it'll fill up a whole lot of baskets. It's a lot of wealth. If you can collect the wages of just these people right here for a year, you'll be rich -- richer than rich. When you look at it like that, think how rich Uncle Sam had to become, not with this handful, but millions of black people. Your and my mother and father, who didn't work an eight-hour shift, but worked from "can't see" in the morning until "can't see" at night, and worked for nothing, making the white man rich, making Uncle Sam rich. This is our investment. This is our contribution, our blood.

Not only did we give of our free labor, we gave of our blood. Every time he had a call to arms, we were the first ones in uniform. We died on every battlefield the white man had. We have made a greater sacrifice than anybody who's standing up in America today. We have made a greater contribution and have collected less. Civil rights, for those of us whose philosophy is black nationalism, means: "Give it to us now. Don't wait for next year. Give it to us yesterday, and that's not fast enough."

I might stop right here to point out one thing. Whenever you're going after something that belongs to you, anyone who's depriving you of the right to have it is a criminal.

Understand that. Whenever you are going after something that is yours, you are within your legal rights to lay claim to it. And anyone who puts forth any effort to deprive you of that which is yours, is breaking the law, is a criminal. And this was pointed out by the Supreme Court decision. It outlawed segregation.

Which means segregation is against the law. Which means a segregationist is breaking the law. A segregationist is a criminal. You can't label him as anything other than that. And when you demonstrate against segregation, the law is on your side. The Supreme Court is on your side.

Now, who is it that opposes you in carrying out the law? The police department itself. With police dogs and clubs. Whenever you demonstrate against segregation, whether it is segregated education, segregated housing, or anything else, the law is on your side, and anyone who stands in the way is not the law any longer. They are breaking the law; they are not representatives of the law. Any time you demonstrate against segregation and a man has the audacity to put a police dog on you, kill that dog, kill him, I'm telling you, kill that dog. I say it, if they put me in jail tomorrow, kill that dog. Then you'll put a stop to it. Now, if these white people in here don't want to see that kind of action, get down and tell the mayor to tell the police department to pull the dogs in. That's all you have to do. If you don't do it, someone else will.

If you don't take this kind of stand, your little children will grow up and look at you and think "shame." If you don't take an uncompromising stand, I don't mean go out and get violent; but at the same time you should never be nonviolent unless you run into some nonviolence. I'm nonviolent with those who are nonviolent with me. But when you drop that violence on me, then you've made me go insane, and I'm not responsible for what I do. And that's the way every Negro should get. Any time you know you're within the law, within your legal rights, within your moral rights, in accord with justice, then die for what you believe in. But don't die alone. Let your dying be reciprocal. This is what is meant by equality. What's good for the goose is good for the gander.

When we begin to get in this area, we need new friends, we need new allies. We need to expand the civil-rights struggle to a higher level -- to the level of human rights. Whenever you are in a civil-rights struggle, whether you know it or not, you are confining yourself to the jurisdiction of Uncle Sam. No one from the outside world can speak out in your behalf as long as your struggle is a civil-rights struggle. Civil rights comes within the domestic affairs of this country. All of our African brothers and our Asian brothers and our Latin-American brothers cannot open their mouths and interfere in the domestic affairs of the United States. And as long as it's civil rights, this comes under the jurisdiction of Uncle Sam.

But the United Nations has what's known as the charter of human rights; it has a committee that deals in human rights. You may wonder why all of the atrocities that have been committed in Africa and in Hungary and in Asia, and in Latin America are brought before the UN, and the Negro problem is never brought before the UN. This is part of the conspiracy. This old, tricky blue eyed liberal who is supposed to be your and my friend, supposed to be in our corner, supposed to be subsidizing our struggle, and supposed to be acting in the capacity of an adviser, never tells you anything about human rights. They keep you wrapped up in civil rights. And you spend so much time barking up the civil-rights tree, you don't even know there's a human-rights tree on the same floor.

When you expand the civil-rights struggle to the level of human rights, you can then take the case of the black man in this country before the nations in the UN. You can take it before the General Assembly. You can take Uncle Sam before a world court. But the only level you can do it on is the level of human rights. Civil rights keeps you under his restrictions, under his jurisdiction. Civil rights keeps you in his pocket. Civil rights means you're asking Uncle Sam to treat you right. Human rights are something you were born with. Human rights are your God-given rights. Human rights are the rights that are recognized by all nations of this earth. And any time any one violates your human rights, you can take them to the world court.

Uncle Sam's hands are dripping with blood, dripping with the blood of the black man in this country. He's the earth's number-one hypocrite. He has the audacity -- yes, he has -- imagine him posing as the leader of the free world. The free world! And you over here singing "We Shall Overcome." Expand the civil-rights struggle to the level of human rights. Take it into the United Nations, where our African brothers can throw their weight on our side, where our Asian brothers can throw their weight on our side, where our Latin-American brothers can throw their weight on our side, and where 800 million Chinamen are sitting there waiting to throw their weight on our side.

Let the world know how bloody his hands are. Let the world know the hypocrisy that's practiced over here. Let it be the ballot or the bullet. Let him know that it must be the ballot or the bullet.

When you take your case to Washington, D.C., you're taking it to the criminal who's responsible; it's like running from the wolf to the fox. They're all in cahoots together. They all work political chicanery and make you look like a chump before the eyes of the world. Here you are walking around in America, getting ready to be drafted and sent abroad, like a tin soldier, and when you get over there, people ask you what are you fighting for, and you have to stick your tongue in your cheek. No, take Uncle Sam to court, take him before the world.

By ballot I only mean freedom. Don't you know -- I disagree with Lomax on this issue -- that the ballot is more important than the dollar? Can I prove it? Yes. Look in the UN. There are poor nations in the UN; yet those poor nations can get together with their voting power and keep the rich nations from making a move. They have one nation -- one vote, everyone has an equal vote. And when those brothers from Asia, and Africa and the darker parts of this earth get together, their voting power is sufficient to hold Sam in check. Or Russia in check. Or some other section of the earth in check. So, the ballot is most important.

Right now, in this country, if you and I, 22 million African-Americans -- that's what we are -- Africans who are in America. You're nothing but Africans. Nothing but Africans. In fact, you'd get farther calling yourself African instead of Negro. Africans don't catch hell. You're the only one catching hell. They don't have to pass civil-rights bills for Africans. An African can go anywhere he wants right now. All you've got to do is tie your head up. That's right, go anywhere you want. Just stop being a Negro. Change your name to Hoogagagooba. That'll show you how silly the white man is. You're dealing with a silly man. A friend of mine who's very dark put a turban on his head and went into a restaurant in Atlanta before they called themselves desegregated. He went into a white restaurant, he sat down, they served him, and he said, "What would happen if a Negro came in here? And there he's sitting, black as night, but because he had his head wrapped up the waitress looked back at him and says, "Why, there wouldn't no nigger dare come in here."

So, you're dealing with a man whose bias and prejudice are making him lose his mind, his intelligence, every day. He's frightened. He looks around and sees what's taking place on this earth, and he sees that the pendulum of time is swinging in your direction. The dark people are waking up. They're losing their fear of the white man. No place where he's fighting right now is he winning. Everywhere he's fighting, he's fighting someone your and my complexion. And they're beating him. He can't win any more. He's won his last battle. He failed to win the Korean War. He couldn't win it. He had to sign a truce. That's a loss.

Any time Uncle Sam, with all his machinery for warfare, is held to a draw by some rice eaters, he's lost the battle. He had to sign a truce. America's not supposed to sign a truce. She's supposed to be bad. But she's not bad any more. She's bad as long as she can use her hydrogen bomb, but she can't use hers for fear Russia might use hers. Russia can't use hers, for fear that Sam might use his. So, both of them are weapon- less. They can't use the weapon because each's weapon nullifies the other's. So the only place where action can take place is on the ground. And the white man can't win another war fighting on the ground. Those days are over The black man knows it, the brown man knows it, the red man knows it, and the yellow man knows it. So they engage him in guerrilla warfare. That's not his style. You've got to have heart to be a guerrilla warrior, and he hasn't got any heart. I'm telling you now.

I just want to give you a little briefing on guerrilla warfare because, before you know it, before you know it. It takes heart to be a guerrilla warrior because you're on your own. In conventional warfare you have tanks and a whole lot of other people with you to back you up -- planes over your head and all that kind of stuff. But a guerrilla is on his own. All you have is a rifle, some sneakers and a bowl of rice, and that's all you need -- and a lot of heart. The Japanese on some of those islands in the Pacific, when the American soldiers landed, one Japanese sometimes could hold the whole army off. He'd just wait until the sun went down, and when the sun went down they were all equal. He would take his little blade and slip from bush to bush, and from American to American. The white soldiers couldn't cope with that. Whenever you see a white soldier that fought in the Pacific, he has the shakes, he has a nervous condition, because they scared him to death.

The same thing happened to the French up in French Indochina. People who just a few years previously were rice farmers got together and ran the heavily-mechanized French army out of Indochina. You don't need it -- modern warfare today won't work. This is the day of the guerrilla. They did the same thing in Algeria. Algerians, who were nothing but Bedouins, took a rine and sneaked off to the hills, and de Gaulle and all of his highfalutin' war machinery couldn't defeat those guerrillas. Nowhere on this earth does the white man win in a guerrilla warfare. It's not his speed. Just as guerrilla warfare is prevailing in Asia and in parts of Africa and in parts of Latin America, you've got to be mighty naive, or you've got to play the black man cheap, if you don't think some day he's going to wake up and find that it's got to be the ballot or the bullet.

l would like to say, in closing, a few things concerning the Muslim Mosque, Inc., which we established recently in New York City. It's true we're Muslims and our religion is Islam, but we don't mix our religion with our politics and our economics and our social and civil activities -- not any more We keep our religion in our mosque. After our religious services are over, then as Muslims we become involved in political action, economic action and social and civic action. We become involved with anybody, any where, any time and in any manner that's designed to eliminate the evils, the political, economic and social evils that are afflicting the people of our community.

The political philosophy of black nationalism means that the black man should control the politics and the politicians in his own community; no more. The black man in the black community has to be re-educated into the science of politics so he will know what politics is supposed to bring him in return. Don't be throwing out any ballots. A ballot is like a bullet. You don't throw your ballots until you see a target, and if that target is not within your reach, keep your ballot in your pocket.

The political philosophy of black nationalism is being taught in the Christian church. It's being taught in the NAACP. It's being taught in CORE meetings. It's being taught in SNCC Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee meetings. It's being taught in Muslim meetings. It's being taught where nothing but atheists and agnostics come together. It's being taught everywhere. Black people are fed up with the dillydallying, pussyfooting, compromising approach that we've been using toward getting our freedom. We want freedom now, but we're not going to get it saying "We Shall Overcome." We've got to fight until we overcome.

The economic philosophy of black nationalism is pure and simple. It only means that we should control the economy of our community. Why should white people be running all the stores in our community? Why should white people be running the banks of our community? Why should the economy of our community be in the hands of the white man? Why? If a black man can't move his store into a white community, you tell me why a white man should move his store into a black community. The philosophy of black nationalism involves a re-education program in the black community in regards to economics. Our people have to be made to see that any time you take your dollar out of your community and spend it in a community where you don't live, the community where you live will get poorer and poorer, and the community where you spend your money will get richer and richer.

Then you wonder why where you live is always a ghetto or a slum area. And where you and I are concerned, not only do we lose it when we spend it out of the community, but the white man has got all our stores in the community tied up; so that though we spend it in the community, at sundown the man who runs the store takes it over across town somewhere. He's got us in a vise. So the economic philosophy of black nationalism means in every church, in every civic organization, in every fraternal order, it's time now for our people to be come conscious of the importance of controlling the economy of our community. If we own the stores, if we operate the businesses, if we try and establish some industry in our own community, then we're developing to the position where we are creating employment for our own kind. Once you gain control of the economy of your own community, then you don't have to picket and boycott and beg some cracker downtown for a job in his business.

The social philosophy of black nationalism only means that we have to get together and remove the evils, the vices, alcoholism, drug addiction, and other evils that are destroying the moral fiber of our community. We our selves have to lift the level of our community, the standard of our community to a higher level, make our own society beautiful so that we will be satisfied in our own social circles and won't be running around here trying to knock our way into a social circle where we're not wanted. So I say, in spreading a gospel such as black nationalism, it is not designed to make the black man re-evaluate the white man -- you know him already -- but to make the black man re-evaluate himself. Don't change the white man's mind -- you can't change his mind, and that whole thing about appealing to the moral conscience of America -- America's conscience is bankrupt. She lost all conscience a long time ago. Uncle Sam has no conscience.

They don't know what morals are. They don't try and eliminate an evil because it's evil, or because it's illegal, or because it's immoral; they eliminate it only when it threatens their existence. So you're wasting your time appealing to the moral conscience of a bankrupt man like Uncle Sam. If he had a conscience, he'd straighten this thing out with no more pressure being put upon him. So it is not necessary to change the white man's mind. We have to change our own mind. You can't change his mind about us. We've got to change our own minds about each other. We have to see each other with new eyes. We have to see each other as brothers and sisters. We have to come together with warmth so we can develop unity and harmony that's necessary to get this problem solved ourselves. How can we do this? How can we avoid jealousy? How can we avoid the suspicion and the divisions that exist in the community? I'll tell you how.

I have watched how Billy Graham comes into a city, spreading what he calls the gospel of Christ, which is only white nationalism. That's what he is. Billy Graham is a white nationalist; I'm a black nationalist. But since it's the natural tendency for leaders to be jealous and look upon a powerful figure like Graham with suspicion and envy, how is it possible for him to come into a city and get all the cooperation of the church leaders? Don't think because they're church leaders that they don't have weaknesses that make them envious and jealous -- no, everybody's got it. It's not an accident that when they want to choose a cardinal, as Pope I over there in Rome, they get in a closet so you can't hear them cussing and fighting and carrying on.

Billy Graham comes in preaching the gospel of Christ. He evangelizes the gospel. He stirs everybody up, but he never tries to start a church. If he came in trying to start a church, all the churches would be against him. So, he just comes in talking about Christ and tells everybody who gets Christ to go to any church where Christ is; and in this way the church cooperates with him. So we're going to take a page from his book.

Our gospel is black nationalism. We're not trying to threaten the existence of any organization, but we're spreading the gospel of black nationalism. Anywhere there's a church that is also preaching and practicing the gospel of black nationalism, join that church. If the NAACP is preaching and practicing the gospel of black nationalism, join the NAACP. If CORE is spreading and practicing the gospel of black nationalism, join CORE. Join any organization that has a gospel that's for the uplift of the black man. And when you get into it and see them pussyfooting or compromising, pull out of it because that's not black nationalism. We'll find another one.

And in this manner, the organizations will increase in number and in quantity and in quality, and by August, it is then our intention to have a black nationalist convention which will consist of delegates from all over the country who are interested in the political, economic and social philosophy of black nationalism. After these delegates convene, we will hold a seminar; we will hold discussions; we will listen to everyone. We want to hear new ideas and new solutions and new answers. And at that time, if we see fit then to form a black nationalist party, we'll form a black nationalist party. If it's necessary to form a black nationalist army, we'll form a black nationalist army. It'll be the ballot or the bullet. It'll be liberty or it'll be death.

It's time for you and me to stop sitting in this country, letting some cracker senators, Northern crackers and Southern crackers, sit there in Washington, D.C., and come to a conclusion in their mind that you and I are supposed to have civil rights. There's no white man going to tell me anything about my rights. Brothers and sisters, always remember, if it doesn't take senators and congressmen and presidential proclamations to give freedom to the white man, it is not necessary for legislation or proclamation or Supreme Court decisions to give freedom to the black man. You let that white man know, if this is a country of freedom, let it be a country of freedom; and if it's not a country of freedom, change it.

We will work with anybody, anywhere, at any time, who is genuinely interested in tackling the problem head-on, nonviolently as long as the enemy is nonviolent, but violent when the enemy gets violent. We'll work with you on the voter-registration drive, we'll work with you on rent strikes, we'll work with you on school boycotts; I don't believe in any kind of integration; I'm not even worried about it, because I know you're not going to get it anyway; you're not going to get it because you're afraid to die; you've got to be ready to die if you try and force yourself on the white man, because he'll get just as violent as those crackers in Mississippi, right here in Cleveland. But we will still work with you on the school boycotts be cause we're against a segregated school system. A segregated school system produces children who, when they graduate, graduate with crippled minds. But this does not mean that a school is segregated because it's all black. A segregated school means a school that is controlled by people who have no real interest in it whatsoever.

Let me explain what I mean. A segregated district or community is a community in which people live, but outsiders control the politics and the economy of that community. They never refer to the white section as a segregated community. It's the all-Negro section that's a segregated community. Why? The white man controls his own school, his own bank, his own economy, his own politics, his own everything, his own community; but he also controls yours. When you're under someone else's control, you're segregated. They'll always give you the lowest or the worst that there is to offer, but it doesn't mean you're segregated just because you have your own. You've got to control your own. Just like the white man has control of his, you need to control yours.

You know the best way to get rid of segregation? The white man is more afraid of separation than he is of integration. Segregation means that he puts you away from him, but not far enough for you to be out of his jurisdiction; separation means you're gone. And the white man will integrate faster than he'll let you separate. So we will work with you against the segregated school system because it's criminal, because it is absolutely destructive, in every way imaginable, to the minds of the children who have to be exposed to that type of crippling education.

Last but not least, I must say this concerning the great controversy over rifles and shotguns. The only thing that I've ever said is that in areas where the government has proven itself either unwilling or unable to defend the lives and the property of Negroes, it's time for Negroes to defend themselves. Article number two of the constitutional amendments provides you and me the right to own a rifle or a shotgun. It is constitutionally legal to own a shotgun or a rifle. This doesn't mean you're going to get a rifle and form battalions and go out looking for white folks, although you'd be within your rights -- I mean, you'd be justified; but that would be illegal and we don't do anything illegal. If the white man doesn't want the black man buying rifles and shotguns, then let the government do its job.

That's all. And don't let the white man come to you and ask you what you think about what Malcolm says -- why, you old Uncle Tom. He would never ask you if he thought you were going to say, "Amen!" No, he is making a Tom out of you." So, this doesn't mean forming rifle clubs and going out looking for people, but it is time, in 1964, if you are a man, to let that man know. If he's not going to do his job in running the government and providing you and me with the protection that our taxes are supposed to be for, since he spends all those billions for his defense budget, he certainly can't begrudge you and me spending $12 or $15 for a single-shot, or double-action. I hope you understand. Don't go out shooting people, but any time -- brothers and sisters, and especially the men in this audience; some of you wearing Congressional Medals of Honor, with shoulders this wide, chests this big, muscles that big -- any time you and I sit around and read where they bomb a church and murder in cold blood, not some grownups, but four little girls while they were praying to the same God the white man taught them to pray to, and you and I see the government go down and can't find who did it.

Why, this man -- he can find Eichmann hiding down in Argentina somewhere. Let two or three American soldiers, who are minding somebody else's business way over in South Vietnam, get killed, and he'll send battleships, sticking his nose in their business. He wanted to send troops down to Cuba and make them have what he calls free elections -- this old cracker who doesn't have free elections in his own country.

No, if you never see me another time in your life, if I die in the morning, I'll die saying one thing: the ballot or the bullet, the ballot or the bullet.

If a Negro in 1964 has to sit around and wait for some cracker senator to filibuster when it comes to the rights of black people, why, you and I should hang our heads in shame. You talk about a march on Washington in 1963, you haven't seen anything. There's some more going down in '64.

And this time they're not going like they went last year. They're not going singing ''We Shall Overcome." They're not going with white friends. They're not going with placards already painted for them. They're not going with round-trip tickets. They're going with one way tickets. And if they don't want that non-nonviolent army going down there, tell them to bring the filibuster to a halt.

The black nationalists aren't going to wait. Lyndon B. Johnson is the head of the Democratic Party. If he's for civil rights, let him go into the Senate next week and declare himself. Let him go in there right now and declare himself. Let him go in there and denounce the Southern branch of his party. Let him go in there right now and take a moral stand -- right now, not later. Tell him, don't wait until election time. If he waits too long, brothers and sisters, he will be responsible for letting a condition develop in this country which will create a climate that will bring seeds up out of the ground with vegetation on the end of them looking like something these people never dreamed of. In 1964, it's the ballot or the bullet.

Thank you.

#george floyd #ahmaudaubrey #justiceforahmaud #protest #malcolmx #georgefloyd #black lives matter #i cant breathe

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yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere · 4 years

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Epilogue Two

“They say they love her. Even so, we remain cautious. There are still many around the globe who would love to bring back to life the emaciated remains of The Reestablishment, and assassinating a beloved hero would be the most effective start to such a scheme. Though we have unprecedented levels of privacy in the Sanctuary, where Nouria’s sight and sound protections around the grounds grant us freedoms we enjoy nowhere else, we’ve been unable to hide our precise location. People know, generally, where to find us, and that small bit of information has been feeding them for weeks. The civilians wait here—thousands and thousands of them—every single day. For no more than a glimpse.

(….. )

I look up, ready to say something— “Don’t worry.” Kenji locks eyes with me. “Nouria upped the security. There should be a team of people waiting for us.”

“I don’t know why all this is necessary,” Ella says, still staring out the window. “Why can’t I just stop for a minute and talk to them?”

“Because the last time you did that you were nearly trampled,” Kenji says, exasperated.

“Just the one time.”

Kenji’s eyes go wide with outrage, and on this point, he and I are in full agreement. I sit back and watch as he counts off on his fingers. “The same day you were nearly trampled, someone tried to cut off your hair. Another day a bunch of people tried to kiss you. People literally throw their newborn babies at you. Plus, I’ve already counted six people who’ve peed their pants in your presence, which, I have to add, is not only upsetting, but unsanitary, especially when they try to hug you while they’re still wetting themselves.” He shakes his head. “The mobs are too big, princess. Too strong. Too passionate. Everyone screams in your face, fights to put their hands on you. And half the time we can’t protect you.”

“But—”

“I know that most of these people are well-intentioned,” I say, taking her hand. She turns in her seat, meets my eyes. “They are, for the most part, kind. Curious. Overwhelmed with gratitude and desperate to put a face to their freedom.”

(……) “

You will,” I say. “I’ll make sure you have the chance to say all those things. But it’s only been two weeks, love. And right now we don’t have the necessary infrastructure to make that happen.”

“But we’re working on it, right?”

“We’re working on it,” Kenji says. “Which, actually—not that I’m making excuses or anything—but if you hadn’t asked me to prioritize the reconstruction committee, I probably wouldn’t have issued orders to knock down a series of unsafe buildings, one of which included Winston and Alia’s studio, which”—he holds up his hands—“for the record, I didn’t know was their studio. And again, not that I’m making excuses for my reprehensible behavior or anything—but how the hell was I supposed to know it was an art studio? It was officially listed in the books as unsafe, marked for demolition—”

“They didn’t know it was marked for demolition,” Ella says, a hint of impatience in her voice. “They made it into their studio precisely because no one was using it.”

“Yes,” Kenji says, pointing at her. “Right. But, see, I didn’t know that.”

“Winston and Alia are your friends,” I point out unkindly. “Isn’t it your business to know things like that?”

“Listen, man, it’s been a really hectic two weeks since the world fell apart, okay? I’ve been busy.”

“We’ve all been busy.”

“Okay, enough,” Ella says, holding up a hand. She’s looking out the window, frowning. “Someone is coming.”

Kent.

“What’s Adam doing here?” Ella asks. She turns back to look at Kenji. “Did you know he was coming?”

If Kenji responds, I don’t hear him. I’m peering out of the very-tinted windows at the scene outside, watching Adam push his way through the crowd toward the car. He appears to be unarmed. He shouts something into the sea of people, but they won’t be quieted right away. A few more tries— and they settle down. Thousands of faces turn to stare at him. I struggle to make out his words. And then, slowly, he stands back as ten heavily armed men and women approach our car. Their bodies form a barricade between the vehicle and the entrance into the Sanctuary, and Kenji jumps out first, invisible and leading the way. He projects his power to protect Ella, and I steal his stealth for myself. The three of us—our bodies invisible— move cautiously toward the entrance. Only once we’re on the other side, safely within the boundaries of the Sanctuary, do I finally relax. A little. I glance back, the way I always do, at the crowd gathered just beyond the invisible barrier that protects our camp. Some days I just stand here and study their faces, searching for something. Anything. A threat still unknown, unnamed.

“Hey—awesome,” Winston says, his unexpected voice shaking me out of my reverie. I turn back to look at him, discovering him sweaty and out of breath as he pulls up to us. “So glad you guys are back,” he says, still panting. “Do any of you happen to know anything about fixing pipes? We’ve got kind of a sewage problem in one of the tents, and it’s all hands on deck.”

Our return to reality is swift.

And humbling.

But Ella steps forward, already reaching for the—dear God, is it wet?— wrench in Winston’s hand, and I almost can’t believe it. I wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her back. “Please, love. Not today. Any other day, maybe. But not today.”

“What?” She glances back. “Why not? I’m really good with a wrench. Hey, by the way,” she says, turning to the others, “did you know that Ian is secretly really good at woodworking?” Winston laughs.

“It’s only been a secret to you, princess,” Kenji says.

She frowns. “Well, we were fixing one of the more savable buildings the other day, and he taught me how to use everything in his toolbox. I helped him repair the roof,” she says, beaming.

“That’s a strange justification for spending the hours before your wedding digging feces out of a toilet.” Kent saunters up to us. He’s laughing.

My brother.

So strange.

He’s a happier, healthier version of himself than I’ve ever seen before. He took a week to recover after we got him back here, but when he regained consciousness and we told him what happened—and assured him that James was safe—he fainted. And didn’t wake up for another two days. He’s become an entirely different person in the days since. Practically jubilant. Happy for everyone. A darkness still clings to all of us—will probably cling to all of us forever—

But Adam seems undeniably changed. “I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up,” he says, “that we’re doing a new thing now. Nouria wants me to go out there and do a general deactivation before anyone enters or exits the grounds. Just as a precaution.” He looks at Ella. “Juliette, is that okay with you?”

Juliette.

So many things changed when we came home, and this was one of them. She took back her name. Reclaimed it. She said that by erasing Juliette from her life she feared she was giving the ghost of my father too much power over her. She realized she didn’t want to forget her years as Juliette—or to diminish the young woman she was, fighting against all odds to survive. Juliette Ferrars is who she was when she was made known to the world, and she wants it to remain that way. I’m the only one allowed to call her Ella now. It’s just for us. A tether to our shared history, a nod to our past, to the love I’ve always felt for her, no matter her name. I watch her as she laughs with her friends, as she pulls a hammer free from Winston’s tool belt and pretends to hit Kenji with it—no doubt for something he deserves. Lily and Nazeera come out of nowhere, Lily carrying a small bundle of a dog she and Ian saved from an abandoned building nearby. Ella drops the hammer with a sudden cry and Adam jumps back in alarm. She takes the dirty, filthy creature into her arms, smothering it with kisses even as it barks at her with a wild ferocity. And then she turns to look at me, the animal still yipping in her ear, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. She is crying over a dog. Juliette Ferrars, one of the most feared, most lauded heroes of our known world, is crying over a dog. Perhaps no one else would understand, but I know that this is the first time she’s ever held one. Without hesitation, without fear, without danger of causing an innocent creature any harm. For her, this is true joy.

To the world, she is formidable.

To me?

She is the world.

So when she dumps the creature into my reluctant arms, I hold it steady, uncomplaining when the beast licks my face with the same tongue it used, no doubt, to clean its hindquarters. I remain steady, betraying nothing even when warm drool drips down my neck. I hold still as its grimy feet dig into my coat, nails catching at the wool. I am so still, in fact, that eventually the creature quiets, his anxious limbs settling against my chest. He whines as he stares at me, whines until I finally lift a hand, drag it over his head.

When I hear her laugh, I am happy.”

#Imagine Me #shatter me #shatter me series #aaron warner anderson #aaron warner #kenji and warner #warner and kenji #juliette ferrars #ella sommers #tahereh mafi #nazeera ibrahim #kenji x nazeera #Kenji Kishimoto #shatter me finale #warnette

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lexilucacia · 5 years

Text

Sick Of Losing Soulmates

Title: Sick Of Losing Soulmates

Relationships: Moxiety, background Logince

Words: 1800

TW: Non-binary, self-deprecation, kissing, mentions of shirtless, crying, coming out

Based on: a prompt by @dysaniadisorder

(Not based on dodie’s song, I’m just in love with dodie currently)

I am so sorry this took so long, I'm just dealing with some shit with family and illness and stuff like that. Apologies if this is not too good and sorry if I refer to Virgil as a he accidently because that is what I am used to hearing/reading. Anyway I hope you enjoy!

Virgil was feeling depressed. Not that, that wasn’t normal, but they were feeling more depressed, sick and angry than usual. They wanted to sleep more frequently and seemed to linger more when one of the sides touched them.

They didn't know what was wrong. They couldn't understand why this was happening to them. On top of that, they still hadn't come out to the sides as non-binary. All in all, they were not feeling good. But their troubles hadn't even begun yet.

…

It was a Thursday morning at 7:37am when they realised. Virgil hadn't had their morning cup of coffee yet and was feeling tired and gross. They were rubbing the sleep out of their eyes when they accidentally bumped into someone.

They go to apologise when suddenly a voice speaks up. "Sorry kiddo. Do you want some coffee?"

They look up at Patton's face blushing and manage to stammer out "sure."

Sitting at the kitchen table playing with their thought. This was a dangerous pastime for Virgil, but they did it anyway.

"Virgil. Virgil? Hey bud. I've got your coffee!" Virgil looks up in a daze blushing furiously once again.

What was wrong with them? Why did they keep blushing? They couldn't like Patton, could they? They lov -- cared for Patton. That was all.

They chug their coffee, trying to rid themselves of any and all thoughts of the chubby, freckled boy from their mind.

They must have been thinking for a while, because when they looked up Roman and Logan were sitting at the table conversing about something.

Then the topic of Disney comes up, the little emo seems to come out of hiding to discuss Disney with Roman and Patton can't help but stare at the little glint in their eye. How they came up with different arguments and reasoning for why Peter Pan was evil, or how Anna was really the bad guy, because Virgil was so passionate and it was nice to see them so happy.

Patton is staring for a long time, not even realising it when it clicked. He had felt this before. But it couldn't be, could it? Love.

…

That night was fam-ILY game night and everyone came down in their onesies. And gosh darn it, Virgil looked so cute!

"We all have the same face." Logan drawls out for the 7 millionth time.

Shoot, did he say that out loud? "I meant his onesie is cute…" (nailed it).

Virgil was just left in the corner blushing. They were thinking of coming out tonight. Maybe? Would it be a good idea?

So halfway through the game of 'intense' (as Roman described it) Monopoly, Virgil clears their throat.

What if they laugh? What if they hate me? What if…? What if…? Virgil came up with 3,000 different what ifs in their head before Patton lays a hand on their back.

"Hey, it's okay. You don't have to tell us, and if you do we swear to not laugh or judge." And god damn it, how did Patton always know what to say?

"I'm not a guy. But I'm not a girl either. I'm non-binary." Virgil says, trying to remain calm.

Patton leans over and kisses them on the cheek, causing them to blush.

"Okay. So what pronouns do you use? And do you have preferred name?" Logan inquires.

Virgil stares at him.

"I of course knew about gender identity from research and such." He clears his throat awkwardly. "Anyway." He continues.

"Virgil is okay and my preferred pronouns are they/them."

Patton leans over and encases him in a hug before pulling them into his lap. Virgil curls up while Patton whispers in their ear.

"Hey, hey. Don't worry. We love you regardless of your gender. You're perfect in our eyes. Okay your majesty?"

Virgil smiles, they had never felt more accepted. They lay in Patton's lap for the rest of the night curling into him and getting as much contact as possible.

While Roman and Logan just smiled. Nodding to each other Logan took Roman's hand and led him to his room, leaving Virgil and Patton their space.

The sides stayed with each other the whole night. Roman stroking Logan's hair telling him what a brave Prince he was and Patton whispering in Virgil's ear all night.

…

The next morning Virgil wakes up in Patton’s bed. They are really confused until they remember the previous night’s events.

Virgil smiles, remembering the acceptance they had felt the night before. Still smiling and thinking, they hadn't realised Patton was awake.

"Hey sunshine." Virgil turns acting confused.

“You talking about yourself? 911. Mental ward?”

Patton smiled fondly at them. “You’re too cute. Now what would Sanders royalty want for breakfast?”

Virgil smiles. They don’t do anything else, just smile before uttering two words. “Thank you.”

Now it was Patton’s turn to act confused. What was Virgil thanking him for.

“Breakfast? No problem kiddo.” He says unsurely.

Then suddenly he hears a bark of laughter coming from the usually reserved and quiet one in the corner. “No.” Virgil is grinning like a lunatic. “For remembering my pronouns, for not treating me differently, for -- for just being there.”

Patton walks over, scooping them up and placing a small kiss on their forehead. “Of course. Nothing changes, just what I call you. You’re still the same person. Although, I might not be as gay.” He giggles. “Only for you though.”

That’s the breaking point for Virgil and suddenly a choked sob is emitted from them, causing Patton to look around anxiously. (That’s Virgil’s job, stupid).

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He rubs Virgil’s back.

“Baba? Can you tell me? Please?” He pleads with Virgil and through hiccups and sobs he is able to make out Virgil repeating two words.

“Thank you.”

“For what baby?” He coos at Virgil, trying to convince the broken shell the broken shell in his hands to say something other than ‘thank you’.

“For accepting me.” They sniff loudly.

“For holding me. For being there for me. For not making fun of me. For treating me no differently. For…” They are cut off by Patton pressing his lips against theirs.

He wipes the tears from Virgil’s face. “You never have to thank us for being decent humans. Or treating you no differently. Or holding you. You can always ask for a hug. Or come sit with me. I am always there.”

Virgil tries to interrupt but he shushes them. “Never say thank you for treating you with respect.”

Throughout this whole piece Patton’s voice is stern leaving no room for disagreement.

“I love you.” Virgil’s small voice calls out.

When Patton doesn’t answer straight away Virgil assumes the worst. Holy shit what if he doesn’t like me? What if he just kissed me to toy with my feelings? Patton’s not like that, is he? What if he…?

Their para -- anxiety is cut off by another press against their lips. “I love you too.” He then proceeds to pick Virgil and place them on the counter.

Walking over to the fridge he calls over his shoulder. “Eggs do? Babe?”

“Y-yeah.” Virgil stutters out going red.

Patton chuckles throwing his head back and Virgil curls more into their hoodie, silently admiring how hot Patton looks.

The rest of their day is spent with movies, snacks and blankets. Patton making Virgil blush way too much and Virgil silently thanking the gods for giving them someone who called them Sanders royalty/your majesty instead of King (though he thought Patton was a King and deserved to be treated as such).

Roman and Logan mainly stayed with each other for the rest of the day, not really doing anything.

…

Patton didn’t notice anything off with Virgil for the first few weeks of them dating. It was a Friday evening and Patton had noticed Virgil was more clingy lately - not that he minded - but he wanted to be sure Virgil was alright. Later that evening in Patton’s room, he questions Virgil about it.

After hearing this statement, Virgil starts muttering apologies again. All the while Patton reassures that he doesn’t mind but he wanted to make that Virgil was alright.

Virgil looks down at Patton’s baby blue blanket, the fluffy one Virgil had taken a liking to. Snuggling in further Virgil mulls over the confession they’ve made in the last few weeks.

After a few moments of silence Patton speaks up. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to make my cutie uncomfortable.”

“No.” They mumble out.

“No you deserve to know.” Virgil speaks with more confidence this time.

“According to the research I have done I am suffering from touch deprivation, more commonly known as skin hunger or being touch starved. It came from the period when y’all didn’t know me well and I didn’t like asking for hugs.”

Patton recalls what they are talking about. He remembers, all the signs. How did he miss them? He was a bad boyfriend. He doesn’t notice the tear rolling down his cheek before Virgil wipes it.

“Hey, hey. This is not your fault.” Virgil whispers.

“But if I had known, or done some-”

“Not your fault.” They state more firmly this time.

“I was closed off, didn’t talk. Didn’t communicate and am a master at hiding my emotions. Please don’t beat yourself up about this.” Virgil says.

Or I will physically fight you.” They smile, mocking Patton with one of his famous lines.

Patton giggles before pulling Virgil towards him and pulling off his shirt.

“Trust me, my little emo.” He pulls Virgil’s hoodie off, grabbing their shirt in the process too. He then proceeds to pull Virgil closer to his chest.

At this point Virgil is beet red and stuttering things like “Give back my hoodie. Stop. Please?”

They even try to pull a puppy dog face. Patton ignores them until one comment.

“I’m ugly. Please?”

He turns to Virgil with an angry expression. “Who told you that?”

“No one had to, I just know.”

“Where? On your cute tummy? Your strong arms? Where?”

Virgil shrinks a little and Patton recoils. “I’m sorry, but you are beautiful. You just need to see that.”

After lying in silence for a while Virgil speaks. “Patton, why did you take our shirts off?”

“Well I remember hearing once that touching someone’s skin can help with touch starvation. Also you’re cute.” He shrugs looking down at a blushing Virgil.

“Just remember, you can tell me anything and I will move a mountain to help you.”

Then Patton starts singing a melody that Virgil knows too well. It was their favourite (though they would never admit it).

“What a strange being you are, God knows where I would be

If you hadn't found me, sitting all alone in the dark”

Taglist:

@illogicallyinclined

@wowimsogoddamnoriginal

@rxndxm-stuff

#logic background #non-binary #moxiety #touch starved #sanders sides #tssides #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #morality #anxiety #my writing #fan fic #fanfic

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shellbilee · 5 years

Text

Classic - A Henry Cavill FanFiction

This story happened because I decided to watch Mission Impossible: Fallout and found myself falling crazily in love with the man that is Henry Cavill. Chapters coming slowly but have written a few already. Let me know what you think! B x

Chapter 1

I awoke with a start, the blaring sound of my phone alarm ringing in my ears. Ugh mornings, I thought with an inward groan, reaching over and feeling around blindly for the source of the noise. I gave up after a few seconds of failed attempts, unwillingly opening my eyes and finally locating my phone. I silenced the incessant noise and dropped my phone back onto the bedside table, letting out a deep breath and dropping my face back into the pillow.

What I wouldn't give to be a morning person.

I felt a soft pressure on the mattress beside me and a cold, wet touch against my arm. I opened one eye to find Kyah’s big liquid eyes looking back at me expectantly, her white fluffy tail wagging happily. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her, her big fluffy bear head resting on the bed and her nose only inches from my face.

“And what do you want Miss?” I asked softly, knowing full well what she wanted, her tail wagging faster as she let out a soft whine.

I sighed.

“But it’s cold outside Kyah!” I whined back to her, as if she had a clue what I was saying to her.

That’s it, I’m actually becoming one of those crazies that talks to their pets.

I closed my eyes and dropped my head into my pillow with another tired groan.

Ugh.

Kyah let out a second insistent whine that trailed off into a soft bark and I rolled away from her and spread out my limbs like a starfish. It was way too early and way too cold to get up for a walk.

Sorry Kyah, not today babe.

As if she could hear my thoughts, Kyah jumped up so that her front two paws were on my bed and nudged me with her nose.

“Kyah!” I groaned again, putting a pillow over my face, “Not now”.

It was 5.30am - if I went back to sleep now I could still have a solid hour and a half sleep before I had to get up for work. I smiled at the thought of extra sleep and snuggled into my blankets, relishing the cozy warmth.

Mmmm, who needed mornings?

I jumped when Kyah let out a loud bark moments later, shaking me from my thoughts and disrupting my sleepy stupor. I let out a frustrated groan knowing that she wouldn't stop - a trait that she definitely got from her owner.

Ugh. Okay.

No longer able to fight it, I threw off my blankets and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“Alright, alright I’m up!”.

I could see my breath in the cold morning air, the smoke plumes wispy, as if I was smoking. I pulled the zip of my slim black running jacket all the way up to my chin, bouncing on the spot in an effort to warm up my frozen feet.

Jesus it was cold!

Goosebumps rose on my arms under my jacket and I shivered, sniffing loudly. I let out a heavy sigh, annoyed that my nose had started to run despite the fact that I'd only been outside for less than two minutes.

Great.

I readjusted my aqua blue beanie making sure that my ears were covered, shielding them from the cold as I looked out at the frost covered street. It was a typical March morning in London, the first rays of weak, watery sunshine peaking out through the thick grey clouds, the overnight frost just starting to melt.

Kyah sat patiently by my feet, looking up at me with bright, expectant eyes. I looked down at her as I plugged my white airpods into my ears, smiling as she wagged her tail happily.

"You ready pup?" I asked, touching the Spotify app on my phone and selecting the first playlist that popped up. I smirked to myself when I saw that I'd chosen one called 'Morning Motivation' - fitting since my motivation for the morning was basically non existent today. Kyah stood up on all fours and let out a sharp bark, a Jess Glynne song starting in my ears as I glanced down at her. I tucked my phone into my pocket and bent down to pick up my travel mug full of tea, it's warmth instantly melting my frozen hands.

Mmm.

"Alright miss, let's go".

The streets were cold, wet and empty as we walked, both mine and Kyah's breath visible in the chilly air. I took another sip of tea and closed my eyes as I swallowed, the hot liquid sending a comforting warmth spreading throughout my body. Kyah stopped to sniff a plant and I tried not to think about the fact that I could still be in bed right now, instead trying to think about how guilty I'd feel if I didn't take Kyah out in the mornings. While I loved living in London, I hated that my little townhouse only had the tiniest bit of outdoor area, with an even tinier section of grass. It meant that it was that much harder to own a dog, let alone one that was the size of Kyah. With their big bear size, double coats and high activity requirements, Alaskan Malamutes weren't exactly the best suited breed for unit living.

I pulled Kyah along and found myself thinking about work, my mind trying to remember how busy my schedule was for the day. I was a vet at a local clinic in Western London. Born in Australia, I'd moved over to the UK with my mum and older brother after finishing high school, later enrolling at the University of London's Royal Veterinary College. Five never ending years later I'd graduated with my Bachelor of Veterinary Science and had later gotten a job at the Riverside Veterinary Clinic. It was a small clinic situated in the small leafy suburb of Churchill Gardens, expansive views of the Thames river visible from almost all of the treatment rooms. I'd been a part of the Riverside team for almost six years now - the longest-serving employee second only to my boss, senior veterinarian Ben Middleton. He'd hired me straight out of university as a new graduate and was one of the most dedicated, passionate people that I'd ever met. He had an incredible natural kinship with both animals and people that was impossible not to admire, a trait that made him one of the most well known and respected vets in all of London. Over the years he'd been an incredible boss and an even better mentor, teaching me everything he knew about the practices of animal medicine and care. To say I was grateful to have Ben as a boss was an understatement to say the least.

We came to a stop as we reached the end of the street, Kyah sitting down at my feet with her body angled towards the left and her ears standing to attention. I smiled, we walked the same route almost every morning and she always knew exactly which way to go. I knew that I'd have no problem walking her off lead if I'd wanted to - and I had on several occasions, but her size did make it difficult. I'd lost count of how many people quickly crossed the street whenever they saw us walking, even when she was on the lead. How many times parents pulled their children behind them whenever we passed, as if Kyah were a vicious animal that was going to take a bite out of a toddler just because. I chuckled to myself knowing that that couldn't be further from the truth. Kyah was quite literally a one hundred pound ball of fluff, a lovable teddy bear that just wanted a cuddle. And food. She ate anything and everything.

"You know what Kyah?" I asked as I took another sip of my tea, looking down at her as she turned to look up at me, panting happily. "I think we'll change it up today" I said as I pulled her to the right, deciding to go a different way.

Normally we walked up towards Hyde Park, into the busier part of town, usually getting there just in time to watch the city wake up. Office workers hurriedly rushed to early meetings, cafe's opened up for the morning coffee rush and the wheezing sounds of the subway could always be heard as we walked past Kensington station.

Not today, I thought as we crossed the street, walking down in the direction of Thames river instead. It was time for a different route.

I could see Kyah's nose working overtime as she took in all of the new smells, pausing momentarily as she stopped to sniff a very bare looking rosebush. I took another sip of my tea and hummed along to the Sam Smith song that had just begun to play in my ears, idly wondering if there were any parks nearby where I could let Kyah off her lead for a run. I always loved watching her run off lead, her ears tall and her tail wagging as she excitedly explored her new freedom. We turned down another street that was filled with old brownstone townhouses, the antique looking buildings lining either sides of the street. Bare looking hazel trees were placed strategically down the road, their empty branches stripped of their leaves from the frigid cold. For a moment I couldn't help but imagine how this street would look in the full bloom of spring - with the trees full and green and the morning sun shining down through them, it would be picture perfect, like something out of a movie.

A chilly breeze momentarily blew past sending a frozen shiver down my body, as if the weather was listening to my thoughts and reminding me that no, it wasn't quite Spring yet. I looked down jealously at Kyah knowing that the chill would barely register to her, her thick, woolly fur stopping any sort of cold from touching her skin. We reached the end of the street and I took another grateful sip of my hot tea, trying to determine which way to go next when my eyes fell on a green, lush-looking park in the distance. Deciding it was the perfect place for Kyah's run, we started down the pavement towards the park.

As we reached the park I could see that it was about the size of a football field, the entire area covered in thick green grass. Several giant oak trees dotted the expansive area, a paved walking track snaking through and around the field. Looking around I found that the park was completely empty, not a single person was around - no one walking their dog or going for their morning run.

Perfect.

I looked down at Kyah who was looking out at the field expectantly, her ears to attention and her tail wagging furiously.

"What do you think girl? Want to have a run?".

She looked up at me with liquid eyes and barked in response, her adorable face making me smile instantly. I bent down and put my travel mug on the ground, reaching around to un-clip Kyah's lead from her harness. I ruffled the soft fur of her chest and dropped a quick kiss on her head, smiling as I folded her lead in my hand and moved to stand back up again. Just as I opened my mouth to tell her to run, Kyah let out a deep, rumbling growl - the same growl that she made whenever she felt threatened, and looked up just in time to see a huge black and white American Akita bounding towards us.

---

Chapter 2

#henry cavill #superman #cavill #cavilledits #fanfiction #henrycavillfan #clark kent #henry cavill fanfiction #smut #love #romance #kal #august walker

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crossroadsimagine · 5 years

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💐hi! can i get a tokyo ghoul, fma, and naruto matchup? male please ♥️. im 5'1, hate my height, have blue and purple hair, a lil chubby. i am an anxious mess around new people but open up as an annoyingly excited and cheerful person. im a huge animal lover, i have cats, bugs, a dog, and a toad as pets. i tend to talk a lot and ramble about my passions and dream job(mortician) i can be a great listener and i tend to be the mom friend in groups. (sorry for my english, my mother tongue is german!)

☰ Matched with Kiba

Kiba will show an almost immediate interest in you romantically and he really won’t even try to hide it, though he doesn’t flat out ask you out but he will show a real interest in wanting to get to know you better, this means he’ll try to spend more time around you, go on more missions with you, train with you, or try to get you to do things like go out for lunch or just to walk you home.

He won’t come on too strong but enough to grab your attention especially if you have an easy time noticing when someone is trying to flirt with you, because he will lightly flirt with you but he will wait to ask you out until he knows you better which means it could be a few weeks before he acts you out and when he does he is clearly shy and embarrassed about asking you out but he will just kind of ask you bluntly and won’t waste time once he decides to ask you out.

Once the two of you do begin dating he is extremely loyal and faithful to you immediately, you will never have to worry about him straying or looking at others because when he falls for you he falls hard and will want to plan a future with you within weeks or months of dating. However, he won’t push you to talk about a future together because he won’t want to actually bring it up with you too soon and make you uncomfortable, but he won’t see a future without you.

You are relatively short though Kiba isn’t on the really tall side so there isn’t a huge gap in height difference, in fact it’s not a big enough difference for Kiba to really even say anything about so you will not have to worry about him teasing you for your height.��

He will compliment you on occasion especially for special occasions such as any time that the two of you are dressed differently or dressed more fancy, like if he doesn’t see you in a dress very often he will tell you how beautiful you look when he sees you in a dress. He adores your appearance and loves your unique hair colors and the way you look as a whole but your looks don’t matter to him nearly as much as your personality, that’s what truly makes him fall in love with you.

You can be an anxious mess around new people but he’ll have seen this side of you when he first meets you and finds you adorable and just wants to help and comfort you when you are feeling shy or anxious. When you do open up you can be excited and cheerful almost to an annoying extent at times but you will never annoy him or bother Kiba in the slightest because he loves to see you happy and cheerful, he’ll want you to be comfortable around him and feel safe and comfortable enough to be yourself when you are with him.

You are a big animal lover which is important because he does have Akamaru who will be very loving and affectionate towards you, and very protective over you as well and can even act protective over you and bark or growl at people that could be dangerous to you. Kiba can be a good listener when he wants to be but he can also talk a lot and ramble at times too especially when he’s annoyed or mad about something, he can also be affected by how you are feeling relatively easily. Like if you are angry about something, he can become mad about it too, or if you are feeling happy and enthusiastic, he can feed off that energy and feel the same way too.

He’ll love listening to you talk about your day, things you love and what you are passionate about, and you can be the same way and tend to be a great listener and often act a bit like a mom friend in a group, which can also help to keep him from doing something stupid at times.

He is very loving, supportive and encouraging because he wants you to be happy and fight for anything you want to achieve in life, whether it’s your dream career or smaller goals like learning a language or learning a skill like cooking. He will help to encourage and motivate you however he can, he is a life time partner who stays by your side no matter what happens and will love you through thick and thin.

☰ Headcanons between the two of you

■ Has a habit of teasing you or being sarcastic with you but at the same time he can be over protective of you and get annoyed if anyone else teases you in any way. He can be very quick to jump in and defend you or get snippy towards anyone who tries to tease you or be sarcastic with you.

■ Is very affectionate and can easily unintentionally embarrass you if you are shy to PDA because he doesn’t mind PDA one bit and can hug, cuddle, lean against you or hold hands with you in public, he really doesn’t even mind kissing in public but won’t push things too far if you get uncomfortable or embarrassed.

■ Has a tendency to touch your head and your hair pretty frequently especially when he’s trying to instigate some affectionate or loving acts with you, especially when the two of you are alone and he can almost become offended sometimes if you don’t like to be close or cuddly with him from time to time.

■ Can go out of his way to try and impress you or gain your attention especially if you’ve been busy lately or preoccupied with others, such as going out with friends a lot lately or spending more time with family, because he can get a bit jealous and needy for your attention but also won’t stop you from spending time with others.

☰ Other Possible Matches

◐ Renji

He is calm, caring and respectful he will also always be very supportive of things you want to do or goals you have, willing to help you however he can and very comforting when you are going through rough times. He tends to give very good advice when you need it and encourages you to talk about your problems or frustrations even if you just need to vent about something annoying that happened during the day. He enjoys talking with you and listening to you talk about your interests and passions and won’t mind one bit if you ramble on and on for hours. He is affectionate but really only when the two of you are alone because he really won’t like PDA much and doesn’t really care to make the relationship too public either.

◐ Roy

He is very protective, dedicated and caring and sometimes worries about your safety a little too much which can make him seem a little secretive at times or even possessive because he won’t want to tell you something that he feels could put you in danger simply because of his line of work. But he is very open and honest with you in other regards and has no problems telling you or showing you how he feels about you when the two of you are alone. He is not very interested in PDA and will only really respond to or be affectionate with you when the two of you are alone. He is a good listener and likes to hear you talk about things you like or what you are passionate about.

#Naruto #Fullmetal Alchemist #Tokyo Ghoul #Match up #Match ups #Naruto match up #Kiba #Kiba Inuzuka #Kiba Match up

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queerspeculativefiction · 5 years

Text

Old stuff

Got talking with Alien, and remembered Cameron, so here are some old snippets from a book that’s never finished.

Probably some trigger warnings in there. A lot of them. Cameron is not nice. It is also old, like... 6 years old by now.

SNIPPET ONE - The whale problem

The park was nearly empty at this time of the day, the gravel paths a darker brown between the yellowed lawns. The sun was out, spring was here but the green had yet to follow, leaving a world of beiges and browns. The pond was empty of any ducks, the fountain dry and not yet running. It was desolate image, painted in subdued colours by the dust of nearby roads, but Cameron thought it almost peaceful. Sitting there, he could imagine that the world was dying the way he was, slowly aging into monochrome.

You never planned to be a part of the beige army, but one morning you woke up and found yourself there. Everybody put their pants on one leg at a time they said, but even those days were behind him. Now, he sat on the edge of the bed and gently eased his swollen feet into them. Then he rose and pulled, and with a bit of luck he just about managed. Maybe he should have help, but when you lived the life he had, you didn't take time off for raising a family. He probably had children somewhere, but had never stuck around to make sure. Prison tended to make a mess of any relationship, and after a while you just stopped trying.

Unlike some.

The woman had passed him twice now, a sharp young thing, all angles and shadows. She was leading a dog, a confused looking poodle that kept pulling at the leash.

"Either shit or get off the pot, girl." He spoke up because she disturbed him, made him remember, brought him back into a past he tried to forget

"You got a foul mouth for a wrinkled old prune," she replied, but her shoulders did the hunch of the guilty. He had not been wrong about her.

"I didn't know they let pakis in the force," he retorted, giving her a grim smile. At least he still had his own teeth, yellowed though they were.

"The name's Noor, not paki, they should have warned me you were an arse as well as uncooperative." She was standing with her arms folded now, the dog pulling on its leash with a whine.

"I'm only an arse to coppers," he said, looking up at her breasts. Smaller than he liked them, but still, beggars couldn't be choosers. "I'm kind to kids and animals. Unlike you."

"Oh, the dog?" She looked down at the struggling dog. "It's not mine; I borrowed it from a woman in the park to have an excuse to scout the place. They told me you'd bolt if you figured we were around."

"Look at me," he said, and both the dog and the girl did. He held up a finger and the dog sat down obediently, ears attentive. "You think I could run very fast?"

"You know what I mean." She looked increasingly uncomfortable but finally managed to look away.

"Say that I do. Say that you got me talking. It's still only for the pleasure of turning you down."

"Let him who has understanding reckon the number of the Beast, for it is a human number." Her voice had gone hard, insistent. "He's back. The Beast."

That made him fall silent. The dog started barking again, sensing the building tension.

"Last month there were three murders down by the banks," she started, voice hushed. "Like he used to do them. We hushed it up, nobody cares about dead Devkies. But the whispers started. He's moved in again, cleaned out the riverside, set up his own people there."

"He doesn't have any people anymore; he's been gone too long."

"Really? He got new ones then. Don't tell me that you haven't seen the signs. The rain of pigeons? The crows circling the city hall?"

"Don't tell me you've got the Sight, girl."

"Maybe I do. Runs in the family. And I know the law didn't stop him last time. You did."

"I had turf to protect then. An organization. I didn't need any jumped-up hellspawn trying to muscle in on my operation. These days I'm happy if I can have a decent piss."

"People will die."

"People always die."

"Not if I can help it."

"Girl... don't be an idiot. You'd be chewed up and spat out if you went up against him. You're hardly out of diapers; you even gave me your bloody name."

"Did I?" She looked straight at him, mouth curved in familiar displeasure.

"You... ah, clever girl. I suppose the vagueness of the wording would suffice. I was always fond of 'Call me Cameron' myself."

"I could never say that without thinking of Moby Dick."

"And yet you want me to go and hunt your white whale?"

"It's not really mine, is it? It's yours."

And the damn thing was that she was right.

...

The city felt so quiet, but the undercurrent of terror was already there. The murders plastered over the newspapers. The shadows you spotted on the way home after a late night out. The increase in looted stores and arson. Cameron had seen it all before, forty years ago when he was younger and the world was a different animal. He'd been in and out of prison since he could remember, and every time he got out, the world had made another turn. Things didn't change when you were away; you were locked inside the grey, preserved like a specimen in a jar until you were dumped out into a world that no longer needed you.

It had been bad enough during shorter stints, but when you were in for five, ten years you became a stranger in your own skin. Oh he'd learned things in there, in many ways more than he ever had in school. But it changed you all the same, and there came a time when he had seen enough and decided to retire to a life of feeding pigeons and watching young women jog past. A harmless old kook they called him, because age wiped away everything. Even a bad reputation. Once he had been a force to be reckoned with, now he was just a weak old man.

Still, there were worse things he could be. Like dead.

Was seriously considering this? Had the girl put the whammy on him? He thought not, she had the sight but he wasn't one to be talked into anything. Maybe it was just unfinished business. Maybe he was just picking a better spot to die than a bench in the park surrounded by a corona of pigeons. Of course there were worse ways too, and the Beast knew all about those. What was the old saying? 'And may you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.' He'd be lucky.

But he had always made his own luck.

...

"No, you can't get in old man. Just move along." The man was young and skinny and with a hungry look in his eyes, like all the Beast's thralls.

"Oh bugger off," Cameron said with enough force to make the man take a step back. "I want a chat with your boss."

"Let him in, Alfie." The drape had been pushed to the side, and an old woman popped her head out. Still striking despite her age, with pale skin pulled tightly against her skull. "He's expected."

Alfie stepped aside, still looking staggered, as if he'd got something stuck in his teeth that wouldn't budge. Cameron shuffled inside, trying not to lean on his cane too much. Honestly, he'd rather have his walker, but he guessed that would give a bad impression. The thought nearly made him laugh.

As if the Beast would care.

"So I am expected," he said, words sounding the waters as they shuffled down the corridors of the crack house. There were no doors here, the Beast did not approve of them. They held power, an older power than even he controlled. So as they walked, Cameron would get glimpses of what was going on through tattered drapes and curtains, things that might have blocked sights but never sound. If his skin wasn't so wrinkled it'd crawl.

"If you've ruined Alfie, I will be most cross," the woman said. "He's a hopeless druggie, but he's got a talented tongue."

"Ruined?" For a moment Cameron had no idea what she was talking about, and then he laughed. "Oh, the 'bugger off' bit? Not sure if it actually works that way. That'd be a laugh, wouldn't it?" If it had, he regretted not using it more. He could remember a few coppers who would have been well served by a long, hard fuck.

"No laughter here, Mr Cameron. I thought you'd remember the rules." She walked them upstairs, which was a slow process since his aging knees protested every step.

He did remember the rules. No laughter, another thing that held power. He'd watched the Beast do unspeakable things to a man's tongue for that particular transgression. Towards the end it had looked like a mouthful of worms writing in a bloodied nest, and he had to swallow hard to keep the memories down.

"I never was much for rules," he said with a shrug, more to keep his courage up than anything. "Who are you anyway? I feel like I should know your scrawny arse."

"You mean you don't recognize me? Shame on you Mr Cameron, you'd think you'd remember someone who's had your dick in her mouth."

"Nooo, little Sally Fielding?" He could see it now, when he looked. The teenage girl, all limbs and eyes and dark, dark passions. "I never thought he'd get to you of all people."

The shrug was nearly imperceptible. "He gets to everybody in the end. You should know that Mr Cameron."

They walked the rest of the stairs in uncomfortable silence.

...

The room was swathed in shadows, hundreds of candles making the heat almost unbearable. At least it would have been unbearable back when he was a younger man, but with age came the chills, and the need for electric blankets and warm sweaters. This, Cameron thought to himself not without irony, was probably the closest thing to warm he'd been in years.

"It's been a while," he said, because starting the conversation gave him the illusion of control. "Thought you'd decided to have a vacation in warmer climates."

"What can I say," the Beast said in his raspy voice, torn from the throat of his recent host. "Even wars get boring. I've missed the smaller, dirtier vices."

"And here I thought you missed me," Cameron said, fighting not to turn away from those piss-yellow stains that masqueraded as eyes.

"Maybe I did," the Beast admitted with an amused hum. "It is always a pleasure to see the mighty fall so far."

"As I recall, you took a bit of a tumble last time yourself." Where did he get the guts? No, he shouldn't be asking himself that. He had always been ready to piss in God's eye if it got him what he wanted. This was no different.

"I did," the Beast admitted, licking his lips. "Another thing I owe you."

Up until that point Cameron had hoped that maybe Noor would have been mistaken. There were any number of creatures that could have masqueraded as the Beast after all. Any number of terrors that went bump in the night. He had come here to make sure that she was wrong, that there was no need for new nightmares. But here, faced with the Beast, he had to admit the truth to himself. This was the real deal, or at least the same deal as the one he'd banished all those decades ago. This was the Beast, and he was back, and worse... he was smiling.

"Now, no need to talk old memories," Cameron said, hoping his voice sounded steady. "I'm just here to tell you that there's no need to unpack your bags. You won't be staying."

"Oh won't I? No attempt to even put some power into your suggestions, old man? Have you lost the knack for it?" The Beast had risen and was looming now, leaning close.

"Wouldn't do much good now, would it? Besides, I'm just the messenger this time." Just a worthless old man. Cameron willed himself to believe it.

"I see... then perhaps I should make sure to send a message back." The nails on the hand caressing his chin were as sharp as claws.

"Trust me; you really don't want to see me naked these days." He vividly remembered the message tossed on his own doorstep all those decades ago, the mutilated body naked and covered with marks of unspeakable torture.

"As if we cared about your looks," the Beast said, breath rancid. "You're all disgusting sacks of meat; it's the soul that matters. And I have been waiting for yours a long time."

"Mom lived past a hundred; you might have to wait longer yet." Cameron's knuckles were white over the hilt of the cane.

"I am patience."

"And I need to take a slash. The perils of old age you know. Bladder problems." He didn't look down, willed himself to keep looking into the inhuman eyes. "So if you're gonna torture, get on with it."

"I suppose there is no skill inherent in making an old man piss himself," the Beast admitted. "Begone and tell the people that sent you here that this town is mine now."

"I'll make sure to tell them that," Cameron assured, backing out of the room until the drapes fell shut and he could turn without having those yellow eyes eating away at his back.

Well, that could have gone better. And worse.

Once he had limped down the stairs, past the hollow eyes and swollen veins, past the used needles and wasted flesh, he pulled up his phone and called the number Noor had given him.

"You're right," he said curtly, foregoing even insults in the face of what we had just seen. "We've got ourselves a whale problem."

-------

SNIPPET TWO - A History Lesson

Noor pushed back the phone in her pocket with an unmuttered curse. Her contact at the hotel has just told her Cameron had arrived, but about an hour later than needed. What the old man had been up to in the meantime was anybody's guess. Unfortunately, there was no allowance for guesswork in this, but neither was she in any position to call up the old man and yell at him. Not that he would listen.

"Bad news?" Sergeant Williams looked up from his screen, the blue light flickering over his weathered face.

"Just annoyingly expected ones." She resumed rifling through the archives, then caught herself and looked over at him again with a softer smile on her lips. "Thank you for letting me have a look through the dustbin, it's appreciated."

The dustbin was what people affectionately called the deep archives of the Met, the place where things that didn't quite fit ended up. Over the past century it had collected what others would call 'curiosities', cases and items that never showed up in the official files. Who had first started it was a matter for debate, but it was being quietly curated by the Sighted few, the ones that knew that there was more to the world than the police operational handbook told you.

"Just be quick about it, I could get in a lot of trouble if someone found you here. The super's not the forgiving type. As you might remember."

"I do." She realized how defeatalist her voice sounded and quickly added. "I still don't regret what I did. No matter the consequences."

"A lot of us agree with what you did, you know."

"I know." The words were without sarcasm, and she added a smile to drive the point home. "But thank you again all the same."

"Don't thank me, just finish up in a hurry."

"I would be finished if you'd got these files organized by now."

"Yeah, yeah. You and me both know that's not going to happen. What year are you looking for again?"

"1981. That's when it started."

...

1981

The riots had torn through the city all through the summer, fuelled by anger and desperation. The air had turned electric with frustration, the streets humming with anger, spending itself against storefronts and riot shields. Anybody with a uniform was a target, and Brixton had been a name that brought fresh fears and horrors to the headlines. But the riots had been beaten down and a sullen august arrived, unreasonably hot, with the moon hanging low and pregnant in the skies.

And then the river had caught fire.

Cameron was standing by the banks, feeling heat curl his thinning hair. It wasn't fair that a man in his thirties should be growing bald already, but this was one war he couldn't win so he had just shaved most of it off to hide the casualties.

"This is insane," he muttered, watching the flames leap and the heat dance mirages in the air above. "Where is the damn fire department?"

"The fire doesn't burn for everybody, Boss." Eelis lit up a cigarette, tossing the spent match in the flames to let it be consumed. "It's just like the maniac on the platform, ennit? Now you see it, now you don't, and before you know it they have slipped away and hidden in the urban legends. This can't be seen without Sight."

"Bullshit, I know what the Sight does, but I can feel this." Cameron reached out and pulled back his hand with a snarl, blisters forming on his hand where the flames had leaped up to bite. "And it sure as hell ain't no stinking urban legend, those pissants work in the shadows, reaching out to maybe two or three people at the most. This is a bloody river through the centre of the city! This is bold."

"Not just bold, Boss, it's for you I reckon. He's pulling you close. 'Only for the ones the Beast has marked, will the flames have bite as well as bark.' Remember that? Turns out the old nutter was right on the money." Eelis reached out, running his hand through the flames, it turned opaque, surrounded by the flame mirage, but did not burn.

"That's not the Beast out there," Cameron snapped, sucking on a blister.

"If you say so, Boss." Eelis shrugged. It was never wise to argue with a man that had climbed to where he was today over the gravestones of his predecessors. Organized crime was a dog eat dog world, and right now Cameron was working his way towards being the biggest, meanest dog of them all.

"It's just a bigger, nastier version of the Bloody Mary, and we dealt with her when we were bloody teens."

"Like you said, Boss. Bigger. Nastier."

"Still something that can be dealt with. Just got to find its weakness." Cameron rubbed his scruffy chin, mesmerized by the dance of the flames. Did he really smell the cooked meat and the sulphur? Did he imagine the pained moans and crackling fat?

"Not sure if it has any," Eelis said after considering it for a moment. "Well, except God. Could always try a priest."

"I don't believe in God," Cameron said firmly, turning his back on the flames at last.

"That's probably a good thing, Boss, since you've been pissing in his eye for years."

"Oh go fuck yourself and get Swan to come back in. We've got work to do. I'll be at the flat, call me when he gets here and not a moment sooner." Cameron yanked open the door to his car hard enough that Eelis flinched a little.

"Swan? What if he starts up some more trouble?" he asked cautiously.

"Grow a fucking spine and deal with it."

...

"Do you remember someone called Swan?" Noor put down the file she had been reading, checking with her notes. "Most likely a known associate of Joachim Cameron or Eelis Jones?"

"Swan, Swan... Roger Swan? Could that be the man?" Williams rose to join her, his stocky frame crowding her away from the cabinet. "Have you checked the Cameron file?"

"There is a Cameron file?" Noor gave the older man a stern look. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because you never mentioned that you wanted it." The shrug was amused, the moustache wiggling. "You've been going on about 1981 and the riots there, next time be a bit clearer my dear."

"I went through the computers about him, not much came up. I didn't know he was down here in the dustbins as well."

"Got one of the fatter files down here, at least of the recent ones. Old Nichols had a hard-on for Cameron for years, he collected every scrap no matter how out there. The sarge even threw a party once they'd finally nailed him. Fifteen years in Belmarsh.The old bastard will be a pensioner when he finally gets out."

"He is out. For a few years now. Retired from the looks." Noor took the file once that Williams had located it, the thick bundle somehow weightier than it should be. What was it about the old man that had given tbe Beast pause? Was it even him, or just his associates? She needed to know. "Swan, Swan," she mumbled as she leafed through the pages, then paused and reread. "Huh. Did you know Cameron had a girlfriend? I didn't think he was the type to settle down."

"Don't think he ever did." Williams smiled a little. "Men like him never cared where they stuck their dick, pardon ma'm, even if they happened to be in love."

"Love." Noor shrugged as she pulled out the picture of the young woman in question. "I very much doubt that ever ventured into it. That man doesn't have a soft bone in his body." If he had, he would have been less than useful to her cause.

...

1981

Dawn came early to the flat, situated at the top floor as it was. The previous owner had tossed himself out the window after seeing apparitions in the living room, and Cameron had always thought it gave the place a nice, quaint atmosphere. The woman next to him might have kept him awake all night, but she was blissfully Sightless and thus never noticed the shadows still haunting dark corners, waiting for easier prey.

"Strange," she said, running her fingers over his furrowed brow. "Usually you've stopped scowling by now." The sheets were tangled at the foot of the bed, the room too warm in the sweltering heat.

"Got a lot on my mind, babe," Cameron let his fingers trace the curve of her brown hip, the rounded little pot of a stomach. Everything was so soft and sweet about her, no sharp edges, no nasty hidden truths. She was a rarity for him, a woman that wanted nothing more than what he would give her, asked for nothing more than for him to just be himself. Not the big man. Not the tough guy. No masks.

"Don't call me babe," she chided, leaning in to kiss his nose, broken and healed too many times already. "My name is Maria."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he flinched, pulling her on top of him so she lay draped there like a comforter, peering down at him with that amused little smile under the unruly afro.

"Do what?" she asked, shifting slightly to make herself comfortable, the smile widening as his hands kept trailing down her shoulders and spine.

"Give your name that freely. You shouldn't. It could be dangerous." But she walked in none of the hidden worlds; Maria was just Maria, a local girl, a convenience store clerk from down the block. She knew nothing of drugs or murder, of midnight beatings or the things that lurked behind mirrors or in alleys.

"You're such a worrywart," she said with the softest of laughs, running her fingers over his short hair. "No wonder you're growing bald."

"You told me that was testosterone." Cameron couldn't help but answer the smile though; she was the only one that he allowed to tease him like that. Like he was just a normal bloke, the dealer of luxury cars that he pretended to be. And maybe that was her particular magic, that right here, pressed down into the bed under her soft, curvy body, he felt at peace. Content. Like the rest of the world could go fuck itself, like whatever burning need for more he had always nursed in the pit of his stomach had grown content, at last.

"Well, maybe I lied," she teased, rubbing the tip of her nose against his.

"I'd like to see you try." Cameron wasn't even kidding there, he had seen her try to lie before, about the little things, and it had always ended in mumbled excuses. He couldn't call her innocent, not with the things they were up to in bed, but there was a sweetness to her that utterly disarmed him.

Was he in love? He'd considered it before, and every time he said goodbye to her he talked himself into believing otherwise, but there was no denying the effect she was having on his greedy heart. Like always, when he lay here happy, sated, he promised himself that maybe he should quit the others. Stay faithful. Be a good man.

It never lasted. He was not a good man, very, very far from one in fact. She just made it possible for him to pretend differently, just for a little.

"Don't tell people your name anymore," he said to her, putting every ounce of conviction, of talent, into that whispered order.

"Don't start being weird again," she chided, sliding off to the side so she could rest her head on his shoulder. "Dawn's here, we should get some sleep. Lucky for you I'm on an afternoon shift today."

"Yeah, lucky me" Cameron sighed, wrapping an arm around her. Nothing. He could talk a nun out of her knickers, and all his suggestions slid off her like mere words. She wasn't just Sightless, she lacked even the rudimentary senses that made people heed his words and look over their shoulder when something wicked came their way. She was for all intents and purposes immune to the world he half lived in.

Maybe that was why he treasured her so. That he could know she was with him because she wanted to be, he could not coerce her, could not talk her into things she might never have done otherwise. She was here by choice, with him. And there was nothing more powerful than that.

...

"Got him." Noor grinned and pulled out a picture of the man named Swan, a skinny, bespectabled blonde with a menacing look to him. She had been certain he had heard him refered to before, and if she was planning to have a hope in hell of succeeding with the task she had set herself, she would need every ace in the hole. From the look, he'd be the same age as Cameron now, was he retired as well?

She leaned back and chewed a pencil, then checked and rechecked her notes. Swan had been a shadow to Cameron's light, the power behind the throne whispered some. Nood didn't believe that, after having met the man she couldn't imagine Cameron playing second fiddle to anybody. No, Swan must have been useful to him, in other ways than mere muscle. Someone that walked the hidden paths? Someone with more magical clout than the former mob boss? Possibly, there had been rumours of a falling out and she had failed to locate the man when she had tried. And that was what she did after all. Finding things. Finding a way. And right now she was assembling the pieces of the puzzle that had been the Beast's bane once before.

Not that her task didn't make her crack a smile, she hadn't really imagined people powerful enough to worry the Beast being that... well, old. The charge of the pensioners didn't really have much of a ring to it, and most of the people she was tracking down came up dead. Cameron however was still very much alive and as nasty as ever. But back in the day he had help, and those were the clues she was hunting for in these old case-files, notes scribbled down by scruplously honest (and Sighted) officers who knew nothing they put down would ever be believed. Maybe they hoped for someone like her to come around one day, someone that knew enough to connect the dots. To read their story and make sense of it.

They themselves were long since dead. Another reccuring theme in her research. It made her wonder about the wisdom of her retirement fund.

...

1981

Cameron was in a cab, stuck in traffic, when the pigeons started to fall from the skies. At first there was one, a feathered body thumping softy on the hood. Then came the next, a soft impact on the roof, and then the rain started. Broken bodies, broken wings, feathers fluttering, small bodies ground to paste between the slowly moving wheels. The cab drove a few yards, and then stopped again while the thumping continued. People on the sidewalk had stopped and stared, dodging into stores to keep out of the birdfall. Setting his face in a deeper scowl, Cameron stuck a few bills to the driver, and then stepped out in the middle of the road, causing cars to stop and swerve.

"You think this scares me?" he bellowed to the skies, ignoring the looks he got. "Well, fuck you too assholes."

It took him fifteen minutes to make his way to the pub on foot, sweaty and cursing every inch of the way. Swan and Eelis was already there when he arrived, nursing their beers.

"Looks like someone didn't get fried sunny side up today," Swan said lightly, the alchemist looking insufferably smug. They hadn't seen each other since Cameron banished him from the boroughs, and to be called back now had apparently left him in the most pleasant of moods.

"Watch it or I'll make sure it's your balls that gets fried," Eelis said, elbowing the man in the side.

Cameron said nothing, just sank down in the chair, locking eyes with the alchemist. Swan was a clever little prick and he had great use of him in the past, but he was too clever for his own good and had dipped too deeply into funds he shouldn't have access to. The mere fact that he was still alive was testament to his talent, because while Cameron might be a vindictive bastard he was not stupid. And people like this little shit were too rare to kill unless you had no other choice.

"You can say it, you know," Swan said, easily keeping Cameron's gaze while most men would have looked down already. "In fact, I think you have to say it."

There was a moment there when the silence grew thick enough to cut, and then Cameron took a deep breath and shrugged.

"You were right."

"That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

"Don't rub it in. I broke your fingers last time, I could just as easily cut them off, and then where would you be?"

"Now, now, you never had a sense of humour, Mr Cameron. No need for violence."

"I'm not here for that. I'm here for answers."

"I gathered, word's been spreading, Hell is seeping into the city and that little exile you sent me on suddenly seems like a smart idea."

"There is no Hell."

"People might disagree, some might say life is hell, but this city has been hell for enough people that it tends to stick around. Like lice and cockroaches it lurks in the dark corners just waiting for the spark."

"The Beast."

"That's what he calls himself now, and who am I to argue?"

"A bloody superstitious cunt. He's nothing more than another Ripper or a Spring Heeled Jack. Find the right angle and he's just smoke in the wind."

"And mess this up and we might have another Masque of the Red Death, or the Mistress of Smog."

"Or another Great Fire of London," Cameron admitted grudgingly. "Like back in 1666, the blighter's been alluding to it. The burning river, the number of the Beast. I'm not stupid, Swan, tell me what I don't know."

"Anything is bound by rules, even him. If he plays at being the Beast, might consider finding faith." Swan shrugged and chugged the beer.

"Not gonna happen. And if I start playing by his rules, then he's already won." Cameron heard the words spilling from his mouth while his mind was reeling from what he had just realized he was planning to do.

"Why do I have the feeling you didn't call me back here for my sage advice? You already have a plan, don't you?" Swan's bleary eyes had grown sharp behind his glasses, the jovial mask slipping.

"I do," Cameron admitted while his guts slowly churned. "This is my bloody town, or will be very soon, and I have no plans to let some hellspawn get the better of me. My town, my rules, and he's going down."

"You planning on being a bigger bastard than he is?" Swan asked, bemused. "Good luck with that."

"Eelis," Cameron said, causing his subordinate to straighten a little in the chair. "Go get Maria, take her to the flat and keep her there. Tell her that it's important. That it will be a surprise."

"Done, Boss." Eelis rose, hesitated for a moment, but then left quickly, objections unvoiced.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Swan asked, emptying the beer that Eelis had left behind.

"Not particularly. Just useful." Cameron's words were clipped now, down to the bare minimum to get the point across. "I need you to forge an Echo for me. In the form of a blade. A small one, I need to be able to hide it."

"I... can do that," Swan admitted. "If you have the tools, but I figure you wouldn't call me back unless you were ready."

"You're right. I wouldn't."

"Of course it'll be next to useless against the Beast, you know. One, he's not stupid enough to confront you openly. Two, no matter what you quench it in, it's unlikely it's gonna do more than smart. Unless you've got the most pious saint in Britain stacked away somewhere."

"I haven't. Got something better. Don't worry about it; just do your fucking job."

"If I do..."

"Then you're allowed back. Just don't piss on my property without me saying yes first."

"I'll be a good boy, I've missed the City."

"Now get to work."

...

"This doesn't add up." Noor sighed and stretched a little. Swan was an alchemist and a tool maker. He didn't do banishments, there weren't any indications of faith or that he'd ever been a priest. Demons, or djinns, or whatever you would call them followed rules and strictures as harsh as the laws of men. Swan had no authority there, and neither did Cameron. And yet the Beast had been banished. Was she wrong about her approach? What was she missing? Her brain felt sluggish in the dusty room, the lack of air and fans lent the stillness a tomb-like quality. She needed a break and turned to Williams for advice. "What are the chances that someone will spot me if I do a detour to the coffee maker?" The coffee here was legendary bad, the kind that turned your gut to acid. The best kind in her opinion.

"You're a wee bit recognizable in that getup," Williams replied with the faintest of smiles.

"Are you making fun of my religion?" Her smile echoed his, you had to learn to grow a thick skin when you choose to wear the hijab as part of your uniform.

"No, just your dress sense." Williams kept a straight face.

"Says the man with that moustache. But I suppose you're right. Wouldn't want to get you into trouble."

"Me? How about yourself?"

"I know what I'm doing."

"That I don't doubt. Just the wisdom of it. Just sit tight and I'll bring you back a cuppa, how does that sound?"

"Heavely. I've got what... twenty pages of handwritten interrogation transcript notes to go through here, and I'm not sure where the original tape is."

"If it's not down here, probably lost for good. You and me both know that the dustbin is the last stop for most of the oddities. Someone propably managed to save the notes when the tape was destroyed."

"But this is from a murder investigation, they can't just disappear those, can they?"

"They can, and you know it. If it wasn't used against Cameron in his trial, it's probably..." Williams hesitated a little.

"Someone buried it." Noor was surprised at how hard her voice sounded, she knew that Cameron had murdered people, and yet to have that laid out in front of her stung like a slap. Could good be done with evil tools? Was she doing the right thing?

The truth was that she didn't know.She just knew that she was running out of choices fast. The Beast was not a patient creature. And if she'd be damned in the process, at least that was her own choice. She knew what she was getting into.

So she kept on reading.

...

1981

On the rooftop, the wind stole both words and breath, but nobody was in a mood to talk. The rain had started falling, hiding the tears running down Maria's cheeks, to be absorbed by her gag. Cameron didn't meet her gaze, just kept running his hand over the Echo that Swan had forged, twisted silver lined by runes, a black hole waiting to be filled with Meaning. The alchemist was busying himself with the runes, thick swathes of black tar making bold patterns on the concrete rooftop, untouched by the growing downpour.

"You sure it's gonna hold him?" Eelis asked, one arm around Maria, restraining her, though she was securely tied.

"For a few seconds maybe," Swan said with a shrug. "If we're lucky and he shows up at all."

"Oh he's gonna come," Cameron said, willing himself as hard as the concrete under his feet. "I'm gonna cut out my own heart, there ain't no way he can resist showing up to fucking piss on it. He's nothing but a big, fat buzzard, out to feast on the suffering of man."

"It's done then," the alchemist said and stepped back. "I've done what I can. The rest is up to you."

"Good," Cameron said, pooling all his frustration and grief into the words. "Then step over the ledge and take the quick way down."

"You bastard," Swan said, face whitening as he slowly started walking towards the ledge despite himself. "I cu..."

"Silence!" Cameron shouted, and the alchemist's mouth snapped shut, his eyes growing wide. "Didn't know I could do that, could you? I've not been complacent while you were away. No way am I letting you run roughshod over my city, not after witnessing this."

There was no triumph in his voice though, just tired grief and power. Swan had been a tool, but someone needed to pay for this, and part of him felt slightly content when they saw the wispy man step over the ledge and fall to his messy death in silence.

"I hope you're not gonna do that to me, Boss." To his credit, Eelis's voice didn't waver.

"You would jump off the ledge from sheer loyalty to me, wouldn't you?"

Eelis's nod was small, almost imperceptible. "I'd rather not, though."

"Don't worry, such loyalty is a precious and rare thing. Should be preserved. Now bring the girl to me."

Anne. Her name was Maria. Not the girl. Not babe. He could see her eyes telling him that. No anger, not yet. Confusion. A bit of fear.

"I'm sorry, babe," he said, running a hand over her cheek. "You should never have told me your name. And you should never have fallen in love with me."

She was struggling now, but her arms were tied, and her legs had just enough stretch in the ropes so she could tiptoe. Did you never love me, her eyes kept asking as he pulled her close? Was it all pretence?

"I did really love you, Maria," Cameron whispered, not bothering to hide the tears now. "This would never work otherwise."

The blade made no sound when it slit her throat open, blood gushing over them both, eyes widening, then growing dim. He held her gently in his arms as she died, felt the blade drink her essence, the Echo of her spirit caught, his own pain amplified by the surrounding runes. He wanted to kill himself. For the first time in his life he truly contemplated doing what the shadows in the apartment below had urged him to and jump of the edge. Face the fall. End this. Wash away the eyes, worse than accusing... confused. Hurt.

He never wanted to hurt her, the one good thing in his life that wasn't tied to misery and death. And now he had killed her. It was only when he heard the laughter that he opened his eyes, looking into the triumphant gaze of the Beast.

Yellow. Like pissholes in the snow. Mocking. Inviting. Burn or bend, serve or be consumed, this was an appetite that dwarfed his own. Or so he had thought. Had feared. But he had been wrong. The beast had been wrong.

The blade slid into the beast's gut as easy as it had slit Maria's throat. He twisted and yanked upwards, seeing eyes widen and grow green, then blue.

"What... are you doing?" the Beast gasped.

"Ending you," Cameron replied. Maria's body had sagged to the ground between them, he was embracing the Beast now, as it was shrinking from threatening creature to the shrivelled Devkie it had invaded in the first place.

"You... can't..." flies dying by the hundreds filling windowsills through the distant city.

"I can because I will it." Cameron yanked the dagger again, felt the edge scraping ribs. "First rule, do what thou wilt. Second rule, any great act of power demands an equal sacrifice."

"But I..." the crows that had been circling the rooftops had taken flight, rain and feathers the same faded grey.

"Am the Beast? She never believed in that bullshit. Or in magic. To her you're just a Devkie cunt. And I am ending you." The blade was as immune to the power as Maria had been, immune to healing, to destruction. The natural laws were for once immutable, and there was nothing special about the man that he was killing. Nothing special at all. The eyes grew wide, stared blindly, and then the man that had been the best sank down to his knees, then fell over. Dying. Dead.

All was silent now as the rain poured down, mixing with the blood. The oppressive august heat had broken at last, the city sated, the madness spent.

"Want... want me to get rid off the bodies, Boss?" Eelis spoke nervously, and got the briefest nod in return.

"Yeah... do that." Cameron ran a hand over his face, then looked at it to see whether it was steady. It was. "Do that and then contact the boys. The Beast's territories should we wide open. We're moving in immediately."

It was done. Both the terror of the Beast and this illusion of a different fate for him. Now only the hunger remained. The hunger and the City.

...

"Shit." Noor let the word slip out as she looked at the notes spread out in front of her, the grainy pictures of what had once been a man that fell from a building, and a woman found burned beyond recognition a week later. A suicide and a murder with an unknown assailant.It had been tagged as a possible British Boys deed, a black supermarket cashier ending up with her throat slit and no enemies.

"Was that a curse?" Williams put down the cup in front of her, and she drank it down despite the burn. As if the pain had somehow been her salvation.

"I'm wondering if I'm heading down the wrong track or not," she admitted with a pained smile. "These notes... Eelis Jones was it that testified? Why wasn't this brought to trial?"

"I guess people had their reasons to bury it. As had this Jones for telling what he did. Maybe he thought his boss had gone to far."

"You can't go too far in that business, Jones would know that. Maybe this was bragging." She couldn't be sure, but part of her wondered if Cameron wasn't the kind of man who wanted his story told. Wanted recognition of his victory. She had used men that before, but it was a risky prospect.

Nevertheless she had to do something. And now she knew what.

#snippets #old stuff #from thief of nightmares

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luxover · 6 years

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is there more perfect vampire & werewolf au duo than webster and liebgott? au where they are roommates in uni for monsters or sth and web is a werewolf of course, with his body hair and stuff, and on his no-full moon down time he is annoyingly pedantic, not wolf like at all. and joe is a vampire with his sharp angles and sharper tongue and he is a mess. just imagine them fighting and making jabs at the other's kind but when someone else tries it then it's on. only they can insult each other.

Omg, yesssss anon, can you imagine? Joe walks into his dorm room Day One, excited because his roommate is supposed to be another vamp named Henry Jones, only there must’ve been some mix-up because when he walks in the door, the guy setting up shop is certainly not a vamp. Joe can tell that right away, can peg him as a werewolf just by looking at him and his general hairiness, and the way his eyes are so goddamn big.

“Hi, I’m David Webster,” the guy says. His nostrils flare and then Webster scrunches up his nose and adds, “Blutsauger?” like that’s the worst thing Joe could be. Bloodsucker. So first thing’s first: fuck that guy. Joe tells him as much back to his face, and in perfect fucking German no less.

Joe hates him from that moment on, and everything else he learns just makes him hate Web more, from how he corrects Joe’s grammar to how he raises his eyebrows when he sees Joe reading comic books. Even the way he’s so fucking neat and organized that he can’t stand so much as a single jacket of Joe’s on the floor drives Joe crazy.

Once, Web used the word grandiloquent in actual, honest-to-god conversation. Web then stopped mid-sentence to explain, Grandiloquent. It means pompous or extravagant. Joe hadn’t known that, but he hadn’t admitted to it, either, just rolled his eyes and said pointedly, Yeah, sounds familiar.

So, even though he’s a wolf, Web’s not dangerous, exactly, but he is unbearable.

“I sure thought getting a dog would be different,” Joe tells him one day, blowing smoke out the open window. Web hates it when Joe leaves the windows open in winter, so Joe goes out of his way to do it. It’s fair turnaround: Joe hates how Web plays classical music when he studies, but that hasn’t stopped him.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Web snaps back. “That’s incredibly offensive.”

“Hey, you started it,” Joe points out lazily, and then rolls his eyes at the way Web has the audacity to look confused.

So anyway, life goes on and they coexist just barely, but nobody gets killed, which is nice, especially considering how frequently they argue. Not that Joe would exactly mind it if Web got killed. A single would be nice.

And then one day, as Joe’s sitting at his desk writing a paper, balancing his chair on its hind two legs, Web walks in looking all wind blown, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, shirt soaked. Joe can see his goosebumps even though wolves run hot. Thunder claps outside.

“How’s the weather, Web?” Joe asks, just to be a dick.

“Overcast, so you should love it,” Web shoots back, and then he turns around to strip off his tee in favor of a dry one. It’s dumb, because Joe has no problem walking in the sun, and he opens his mouth to say as much when he notices the strong lines of Web’s back, the muscle of his sides. Vamps aren’t built like that; Joe’s wiry, all lean muscle and sharp angles, nothing to look at. But Web—

And then Web turns around, dry shirt half over his head, hairy chest on display. He’s got hair on his belly, too, leading down past his belt. He struggles the bottom half of his shirt down.

Joe swallows and his throat sticks. He feels blindsided.

“Wet dog,” Joe says, searching for some semblance of normalcy. He waves a hand in the air. “Lovely.”

Web just snaps. “God, what is wrong with you? I said I was sorry; I didn’t know that was something I wasn’t supposed to—”

And then he pauses. He looks at Joe looking back.

“What?” Joe asks.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Joe asks like a fuck you.

“Like you—�� Web‘s nostrils flare a little. His mouth drops open with the realization. “Really? I thought you hated me.”

“Fuck you,“ Joe says this time, and then they do. Twice.

That’s how it starts, anyway. A lot of fucking and not talking, but then sometimes they do talk, and it turns out that Web is actually funny. He makes jokes about sleeping with Joe in the summer, when it’s sticky hot outside and Joe’s skin is still cold as ice, and about his own hair clogging the shower drain as the full moon approaches. And even though he still tends to be be a pedantic, pretentious piece of shit, it turns out he doesn’t even realize it. Guy’s just really passionate about his love of the Oxford comma and his dislike of dog-based name-calling. Go figure.

So they start fucking on the regular, and then gradually start talking on the regular. Joe helps Web with his German—the one thing Web isn’t perfect at—and Web edits some of Joe’s papers. They’re not best friends or anything, but they’re something, even if they still fight all the time.

Web’s still the same holier-than-thou wolf he was when Joe met him, even though they fuck enough to almost make up for it.

“He’s the fuckin’ worst,” Joe says after a full-moon fight. He’s talking about Web. He’s watching Web, too, playing darts across the crowded common room with Heffron, the two of them laughing and standing too close. Web had come home that morning with dark circles under his eyes, looking scratched and beat up to hell, and laughed when Joe said maybe he’d tag along next full moon. Vamps are known to run, sometimes; it’s not unheard of, but fuck Joe for even suggesting it. And fuck Web too, for that matter.

“Who?” Luz asks, and then he gestures with a highlighter. “Heffron? I thought you suckers all stuck together.”

Joe rolls his eyes, and then digs in his pocket for a cigarette. He wasn’t talking about fucking Heffron. He barely knows Heffron. Just because they’re both vamps, doesn’t mean they have to do all the same extracurriculars or whatever.

But what the fuck does Luz know? He’s a shifter, not a genius.

“Not him,” Joe says, placing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Web. The fuckin’… He’s the most annoying Lyco I’ve ever fuckin’ met. Like his shit don’t stink.”

“Aren’t you guys roommates?” Luz asks.

Joe pats down his pockets for his lighter, but can’t find it. He knows he had it yesterday, when Web got back from Intro to Egotism and they made out on Joe’s bed before the full moon. Web had tugged Joe’s pants down and when the lighter tumbled out of Joe’s pocket, he gestured to the art on the side and said, Dick Tracy, really? Like he’s so much better than Joe because he reads shit written a hundred years ago. Joe can’t stand him. You’re focusing on the wrong dick, there, Web, Joe had told him, and kicked his pants and his lighter off the foot of the bed. They stopped talking after that.

“Ah, fuck,” Joe says about his lighter, tucking the unlit cigarette behind his ear. Across the common room, Webster says something to Doc Roe, the healer. Doc must say something back, because then Webster laughs, loud and unrestrained, as if no one were trying to fucking study twenty feet away. To Luz, Joe replies, “Unfortunately, yeah. Me and the moony.”

He looks over. Luz is gone and Joe Toye is sitting across from him, slouching back easily in the way only Luz can.

“Bet you could use my brass knuckles now,” Toye says, straightening up and leaning forward on his elbows, the corners of his mouth downturned. Joe rolls his eyes.

“Not half bad,” he admits.

A loud shout, and across the room, Heffron is celebrating. Web is smiling but shaking his head, his hair sticking up everywhere, and chest hair showing where he stopped buttoning his shirt. That’s wolves, though, Joe supposes: hairy no matter what day of the moon it is. Joe hates that he likes it, and hates that he just so happened to get saddled with the one wolf who thinks his brain is bigger than his bark and his bite.

“Hey. If I can’t be my boyfriend, who can I be?” Luz-as-Toye asks, and tosses his highlighter down on his open textbook. They’re not really studying, anyway; the common room is too loud, with the tv on, and Malarkey keeps teleporting Muck and Penkala away into the girls’ dorm and then back again. Plus, Webster and his fucking laugh. Joe hates his laugh.

“Literally anybody,” Joe says drily.

As if to make a point, Toye picks up his ratty plastic water bottle to take a sip, and Gonorrhea puts it down.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bill says. “Ya dirty rat. It was a joke. Christ, even Sobel has a better sense of humor than you, and he’s a hobgoblin.”

“I think he prefers the Jewish term Mazikeen,” Joe deadpans, still staring down Web.

Across the common room, Web notices Joe watching and he nods, smiles a little. Joe just stares back for a minute and then turns away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Web start to head over.

“Great,” Joe says under his breath.

Luz, as Bill, puts his hand out and presses it into Joe’s chest. “I got this.”

Joe knocks his hand away and rolls his eyes. “You don’t got shit,” he says, and then that’s it, Web’s there.

“Hey,” Web says. “Joe, can I talk to you?”

“S’a free country.” Joe smiles and shows his teeth—the fangs—because Web’ll probably hate it.

Web breathes out loudly and combs his fingers through his hair. Joe’s eyes follow the movement; guy’s got some delicate wrists for such a strong creature. Web looks away and then back at Joe.

“I meant in private,” Web clarifies.

Bill cuts in. “Just so’s you know, now’s not really a good time. Joe here and I are studying.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Web says, “but—”

“Ain’t no buts, puppy,” Bill says, and that—

“The fuck did you just call him?” Joe interrupts. Puppy is a softball of an insult, mostly used by kids on the playground, but Web fucking hates that shit, the demeaning terms that make him out to be nothing more than a dog.

“It was a joke,” Bill says, sounding more and more like Luz, until suddenly, Luz is the one sitting there.

“Oh. Hey, Luz,” Web says easily, like he’s not even offended, and maybe he’s not, maybe he just gets heated when Joe’s the one saying it, but at any rate, Joe’s heard enough.

“Don’t fucking call him that,” Joe says.

Luz holds up to hands in a gesture of peace. “I didn’t mean anything by it! You’re the one who called him a moony.”

“Practically a term of endearment, coming from Lieb,” Web says, and that’s when Joe scoffs.

A term of endearment? Fuck, the full really did a number on Web this time.

“Ah, I get it,” Luz says, and slides out of his chair.

As Luz gathers up his textbooks, Joe asks, “Get what?” but Luz doesn’t answer, just claps Web on the back as he goes.

Web takes Luz’s seat. Joe moves the cigarette from behind his ear to his lips before remembering he doesn’t have a way to light it.

“Here,” Web says, digging in his pocket before pulling out Joe’s Dick Tracy lighter. “Found it mixed up with my stuff.”

Joe takes the lighter. He wants to say thank you, but doesn’t really know how to, and is still pissed, besides. So he just obnoxiously salutes Web instead.

“Hey. About earlier. I didn’t mean…” Web says.

“No sweat,” Joe says, because fuck if he’s going to let Web see him down.

“No, I mean,” Web starts again. “It’s not that I don’t want—I thought you were being sardonic.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

Then, almost as if Web wants Joe to laugh, he mocks himself by putting on airs and saying, “Sardonic. It means sarcastic or cynical.”

Joe breathes out a laugh that he hides by pressing the heels of his palms into his closed eyes. “One hell of an apology,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Web admits. “Come out with me next full moon?”

Joe shrugs. “What the hell,” he says, and lights up his smoke.

#la la la so that's a thing i tried #fic #webgott #band of brothers

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saturninefilms · 6 years

Photo

QUESTION: Has there ever been an experience in your life that made you believe somebody was ACTUALLY trying to understand you? ANSWER: We were living in a dumpy little house on South 8th street. To call it modest would be an understatement and to call it nice would be an outright lie. The whole place rested on cracked foundation and there were four rooms in total, a nasty bug problem, and a steady stream of cigarette smoke wafting in the daylight through oversized windows. The fall was just beginning it’s shallow ending and winter was pushing its way through like a bully in a middle-school lunch line.

There was a dark aura in that little house and it couldn’t be washed away with any amount of modern decor and faux-scented candles. At one time in American history, our tiny $400-per-month home housed upwards of fifteen slaves (a fact that I could never get over as it, oftentimes, felt too little for even just the two of us), and I would occasionally find myself imagining that kind of life and the contrast of it compared to the small chunk of Americana that the two of us had carved out for themselves.

Our neighbors were meth addicts that would, quite literally, take guitars and drums out to the backyard for sproadic mini-concerts. They weren’t very good, but I appreciated the passion (even if it was influenced by hardcore narcotics). I thought, “I bet this is how a lot of my favorite songs were written”, but in truth, they probably weren’t. I was probably just being optimistic. I can’t imagine Elliott Smith out on a patio playing Pantera covers at half speed. I couldn’t see Kurt Cobain cat-calling the young girls that danced up and down the sidewalk. I couldn’t picture Jim Morrison writing songs about killing their childhood pets (only his father, I guess, oddly enough). The tweakers next door had the drug use down, though, and I guess that probably counted for something. Or it didn’t. It probably didn’t.

We were arguing one night. It wasn’t just a little squabble, either, but one of those arguments where both parties are far too loud, veins bulging from the sides of their necks, and vitriol quickly turning venom in the form of insult. It was the kind of argument where, in a normal neighborhood, the police would have been called and someone would have spent the night cooling down in a holding cell. But not this neighborhood, of course, the one with the cockroach infestation and the tweakers next door, and the hungry dogs that howled as loud as we did. We were safe to be ridiculous. Safe to say things that we’d surely regret. And we did. We did.

“You’re so fucking bitter all the god damn time!” She yelled. “You knew that before we ever moved in together, you fucking idiot. I’m sorry that I’m not what you expect me to be all the time.” I replied, finger pointed at the door as if to suggest, ‘if you don’t like this life, go find a different one.’ “You’re not what I expect you to be ever! Why the hell are you like this? What’s wrong with your brain?” “A whole lot! The least of which being that it chose to live in this fucking disaster with you!” That was the kicker. That was the thing that stung the most, and she went from livid to despair in less than a couple seconds. And then it got quiet. It got so quiet that even the dogs stopped barking. And then she asked, “Do you really mean that?” I did and I didn’t, so I didn’t say anything. I walked outside and lit a cigarette, but I didn’t say a word.

The fight ended and we made up as we usually did. I felt bad as I usually did. She felt sad as she usually did. It was a fairly common experience after one of our arguments, and it stood to reason why the two of us felt the way we did. There was no confusion about it. There was nothing new.

Except when she reiterated her question. “Why are you the way that you are?” “I don’t know, girl.” I relented and whispered. “You know, I really do want to understand you. That isn’t just some hateful bullshit. I really do.” She wrapped her hands around the back of my neck and sighed gently. I wanted her to know, but I didn’t feel like I had the ability to verbalize those thoughts. I’m angry because of this. I’m sad because of that. I’m disenfranchised due to this thing and I’m bitter because of that one. You know, all those little benchmarks in life that are clearly defined to you, but impossible to direct someone to even when they are asking for directions. I shook my head, sighed back, and shrugged my shoulders. She continued.

“How about this...who is your hero? What affected you the most as, say, a teenager?” “Well,” I thought. “Probably Bill Hicks.” “Bill who?” She asked. “Bill Hicks. He was a comedian in the 80′s and I found him on Limewire as a kid. Remember Limewire? How you’d try to download a song and end up getting an audio recording of somebody being murdered?” “Yeah, or like, you’d try to download a movie and end up with hardcore snuff porn?” “Yes, exactly that. Well, that’s how I found him. I don’t remember what I was trying to download, but one of his stand-up specials appeared on my screen and my life changed by the time it was over. “We should go see him.” “Yeah...except we can’t because he’s dead.” I flipped over to my side of the mattress and quickly nodded off. It was just past midnight and the constant conversation had exhausted me. Anyway, I woke up some seven or eight hours later to this girl in the same position she was in when I’d fallen asleep. I jumped out of bed frantically after hearing the voice of a screaming man, but it was a voice that I almost instantly recognized. It was Bill Hicks.

“Have you been up all night?” I asked. “Yeah...and I totally get it now. I get it.”

So that was when I felt the most understood, I guess. And the fact that someone took so much time out of their life (and sleep) in an attempt to do so. That meant a lot.

Still does.

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blandmemoirs · 5 years

Text

Anger

Rage, Fury, Fire, Pain, Momentum, Energy, unyielding emotion. When I am angry my mind is clear of all the torment of anxiety or doubt. I become objective driven, I become focused, I become energized. I am filled with a burning passion to move, and to never stop moving.

In days of old, my anger would manifest through methods of lashing out. Of attacking, of punching back, of inflicting pain on that which upset me. This is unproductive. To hurt another as a result of your frustration is unjustified. It doesnt make a situation better. It makes it worse. It builds further resentment between yourself and the person you are angry at. It prevents solutions. It causes more hurt. I learned this a long time ago and understand it today. I cannot swear to pacifism, but I will not resort to violence unless my safety or the safety of those I love is directly threatened.

I made a choice a few years ago to use my anger productively. If I am to become angry, I cannot lash out. I cannot hurt other people. I have to use it to be productive. Anger, like any emotion, is a flare of passion in the body and mind. It is energy, and it can be redirected in ways that dont further a cycle of violence. That is what I live to prove.

I am an angry person. I get angry, often. Its not a new development in my life. It has followed me since my childhood. Its sources are numerous. I cant attribute it to any one cause or happening. I have always been angry.

I know this because in kindergarten, I would pick fights with other children, often. Just random, chaotic violence. I enjoyed it. I liked hurting other people. Then I would go home to more violence. This time from my parents into me as discipline for my actions. My parents would belt me for more than just violence, it could come from me simply acting out. Sometimes I was spared the physical harm by recieving emotional harm from furious yelling. My parents taught me anger and violence, and their resorting to violence taught me to resort to violence. Might made right. I shouldnt put all of my problems on my parents, but they wear a substantial amount of blame for the way I learned to cope and act.

My father is an angry man. He grew up in harsh conditions with a harsh family that put him through worse than I've ever lived through. He made sure to tell me that anytime I voiced the tyranny in his actions. He resents his older brother, doesnt like his father, and has spent much of his life failing. Deep in debt from his own mistakes, bearing the blame for a fractured household and broken marriage, he is full of anger. He takes out his anger on those weaker than him. From the dogs he can kick when they bark too loud, to the children he can endlessly insult and shout at for minor transgressions. All made worse by alcoholism to cope. My father is not a bad man, but an incredibly flawed and broken one. He does make efforts to redeem and be better, but he has not yet atoned for his actions, and the marks he has left on his children will linger whether he accepts it or not.

My mother is an angry woman. Raised in a split household between parents who live irresponsibly and resent each other. She was a rebellious youth who took her own childhood away when I was conceived. A child raising a child. A lack of freedom as her life is indebted to my survival and later, two more. Dead end job to dead end job. A broken marriage and a dysfunctional family she is forced to raise with no individual progress to be attained. She resents her circumstances. She desires higher living and a fate she can control. She takes out her anger on those weaker than her. From the dogs she can hit to the children she can scream at for "negativity". All made worse by alcohol and weed. My mother is not a bad woman, she is just an incredibly flawed and broken one. A girl who became a mother too quickly. An independent soul tethered to a path of dependence. She makes efforts to be better, but often furthers a rift she created. Her anger will be remembered in the hearts of her children.

I do not know the true extent of my parents lives, I only know what I have seen, been revealed, and assumed. I know one thing for certain, they are examples of how not to grow up. The anger they live with is an anger I live with. To tame their beasts they drink and lash out, I must be better.

Which is why I cling so desperately to the example set for myself by the Incredible Hulk, my favorite character. A genius with deep emotional trauma turned into a monster fueled by rage. Dr Robert Bruce Banner must learn to live with the monster that dwells inside him. The Hulk, limitless rage personified, is a monster that does not want to hurt people, but just wants to be left alone among his friends. He is violent, but only because he recieves violence. The monster is capable of reason, of morality, of seeing through the surge of rage to know what is right and what is wrong. As such, the Hulk chooses to be a hero, to save and protect the innocent and to smash those who do evil. Bruce Banner must live with his anger, to know when it is right to let the beast out and to understand when smashing is the wrong option.

Banner has spent most of his life trying to rid himself of the Hulk, but the Hulk is not something Banner can live without. The Hulk is a part of Bruce, is a piece of his damaged psyche which will always exist. The gamma radiation only externalized these features.

Hulk also resents Banner, and wishes he could exist without him. Hulk doesn't like Banner's weak manner and conniving mind. Hulk doesn't like being locked up in a cage in the back of Banners mind. Hulk wants to be free and Hulk wants to be left alone.

These two characters are inseparable, and two sides of the same coin. Hulk is a manifestation of Banners trauma and repressed anger. Hulk is a destructive force of passion that can be directed to do good. These entities must coexist, for they need each other.

What does this have to do with me? In a less hyperbolic manner, my rage is a part of me. It does not go away. It never ends. It is a piece of my heart and mind. It is a force that makes me want to destroy all that causes harm to those I love. Anger does not cease within the chaotic storm that is my heart, it persists and waits for its time to possess me. When I am angry my body tenses, my eyes focus, my heart beats at rapid pace, my stomach churns, my body shakes. At its worst I lose sight and see nothing but flashes of red as I convulse into shivers of rage. When control of my body is returned the next moment, my mind is clear and I am energized in a way almost as potently as when I am in love. I can do almost anything. It is raw adrenaline. I move faster, harder, and with more force and precision than when I am in a normal state. I make objectives and carry them through. I become a machine fueled by limitless rage. It can almost be addicting. Sometimes I have so much force locked inside I feel an urge to scream. I often repress it for the sake of keeping attention away from myself. Anger makes me more effective in my work. Be it my actual job, my writing, or editing. I am so focused, creative forces flow, all through the red lense of rage. Sometimes I run, sometimes I drive, sometimes I channel this energy into speaking. An endless monologue or a consoling speech to a friend in need. For that is the true root to my rage. A friend in pain. When a friend is hurt, I flare up. The closer and more important my friend, the angrier I get. The angrier I get the more energy I have and the more I cant stop moving. My foot tapping, my leg bouncing, I pace. Anger does not debilitate me, it gives me more ability than I know what to do with.

It is not just that a friend is in pain, it is that I cant do anything to stop it. I can't do anything to change their cirumstance. I cannot save them from their suffering because the forces that hurt them are out of my control, out of my influence. I can only console, and console I do, even as rage paves the way of my actions.

When my anger releases its possession of me, I am left to deep introspection and concern. Did I do enough? Did I help? Did I do anything? Why was I angry? I feel rejuvenated, almost born anew. The passion has retreated to my internal self, and I am left feeling cool and calmer. Sometimes, in truly helpess circumstances, I feel empty. I was not enough. I didn't do enough. Worst, when my anger was used unproductively, I feel guilty. Knowing I was wrong and unjust. It is a betrayal to myself to use anger to harm others.

Today I was made angry at the hurt of one of the most important people in my life whom I care deeply for. Their circumstances are far beyond my powers to control, and they themself live far from me. The only thing I can do is send my love and support in the form of text or voice. It never feels like enough. My anger possesses me, and the temptation to strike out at the world that causes such endless pain for my loved ones exists. A random act of violence to atone for the wrongs done to another. That is not right. There is no justice in that. There is no good to come from it. So instead I made my objective to work harder, to make more money in my shift and to ensure my immediate environment was taken care of. I wished every coworker safe travels and good nights, I greeted and enthusiastically interacted with customers and pedestrians who gave me the time. Spreading good energy and doing good for others while powered up with this anger made for a more productive day. When the anger finally relinquished, I began typing. To explain, and to document for myself. I can do good with the frustration I feel. I can be a good man.

I understand this all very intimately now. A younger, less introspective Robbie did not. I got angry, had so much energy and power in my palms I only thought to make a fist. I would then use those fists for causes of pain and revenge, sometimes on undeserving parties. It built a guilt deep inside me that I will never forgive myself for. I can only be a better person now. Instead of making a fist I pick up a pen, or more truthfully I grab a keyboard. Words, endless words, inspired by anger and made real through my choices to funnel that rage.

I am inseparable from my anger. My anger is a part of me. I have to own it, and I have to admit to it. I cant live in fear of myself for what can happen when I lose control, as rare as such an occurence is. I have to instead use it to be productive, and clean up what messes I make with it. And I will make messes. I will hurt people. It is inevitable for an emotion as potent as anger. Sometimes the lense of rage prevents us from seeing reality as fairly as we might. Sometimes a fist is formed.

It is my responsibility and my burden to bear. I cannot blame others for my own nature. I can not allow myself to resent others for who I am. When I am made angry, instead I must find a way to resolve my conflicts and make good.

The Hulk has been saving the world for decades through his anger, and I can do the same. Its not easy. Living with yourself and accepting yourself is hard for some people who look deep into themselves enough. I used to cage this monster, to repress it. It would always free itself and come to the surface. Pent up aggression and bitterness blinds anger and creates pain. Instead, I will live with this intensity I call my anger, and I will continue to live to make it productive, for the benefit of myself and my friends.

I should not hate myself because I am angry. My anger is rooted in the love I have. There is nothing wrong with being angry unless I choose to hurt others with it. That is a choice I will not make unless the other is someone of truly abominable character.

Robbie Bland is an angry person, but he is not a bad person because of it. Make your anger productive. 'Nuff said. Thanks for reading.

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adacarisi · 6 years

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Slow, soft love making with Barba😍

awwwww…my heart. Sorry it took so long to get this out, I got too invested. Just so you all know I see your requests and I’m working on getting them written. I love each of you thank you so much for reading.

It was snowing. Heaps of white clumps fell from the gray sky that seemed to only consist of more snow. You were no stranger to the weather, you’d been living in NYC for a few years now. The only time the snow was a problem was when it interfered with the trains, and they were all running just fine now which meant you could enjoy it.

You took the long way through the park which now looked like it’s own Narnia, branches coated and sealed in ice, dusted over in a few inches of snow. You breathed in the cold air, relishing in it’s chill as your body processed the oxygen in it’s more frigid state.

Your hands were a bit stiff and starting to feel numb so you shoved them in your pockets, flexing them in an attempt to increase your circulation. You knew your cheeks were red and flushed, the cold weather always gave you a blush.

You turned down another path in the park and suddenly you were alone. Wonderfully alone in a city of millions of people. You treasured moments like this, moments where you knew you weren’t alone when it appeared that you were. Just a few paths over you could hear children squealing and playing in the snow, dogs barking and business men chatting away on their blackberrys. All these things made you smile, but nothing could quite make you grin as widely as the thought of what, and who was waiting for you.

Rafael Barba had called you only a few minutes earlier, asking with feigned indifference if you would like to come over for some hot chocolate as well as his company. He phrased it more awkwardly of course and you knew that he had written it down on one of his legal pads and was attempting to read it off casually. It sounded like one of his opening statements. He had a formula for them, a carefully constructed mechanism for ensuring he said all he wanted to without saying too much.

It was adorable, of course you would never tell him that. Rafael was the picture of confidence and pride, he was good at his job, he had been great. You weren’t certain the man you preferred. You cared for him certainly, you had admired his passion, his dedication and above all his commitment to the law and it’s singularity. Recently things had changed.

He was too involved, too close, too human. The machine had become the man, and it was strange. You loved him, so you counseled him the best you could. He had made so many decisions that he regretted, so many choices that haunted him, sometimes he felt he had been given a second chance, a chance that if he sacrificed himself a little, he could balance the scales.

You told him over and over, just as one sin does not equal another, one conviction doesn’t equal another. Yes, situations demand any heart to look at them with exception, convincing the usually logical mind that if any allowances could be made they should be made. But that, you told him, was not his job. His job was law. To prosecute in defense of those laws. It was not his job to bend the law when he deemed fit.

He had agreed, kissed you and thanked you. And then he had done the exact opposite.

You had been angry. Furious to be exact. You hadn’t seen him in days. He kept calling, sending messages, even emailing your work account which he knew was monitored by your company. You ignored them all.

But today it had snowed. And on a day this beautiful, you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. So you accepted his invitation, and now you were smiling at the doorman as he gave you a nod of recognition when you shuffled into Rafael’s building.

Though you scuffed your feet against the doormat there was still a squeak coming from the soles of your shoes as you walked across the marble floors towards the elevators.

As you rose higher and higher you thought about fighting with him, yelling at him for not listening to you and possibly ruining his career, but you also thought about kissing him, telling him how much you missed him and how you loved him.

When he opened his door you still hadn’t decided. Rafael stared at you, his expression soft and childlike. His green eyes were wide as he waited for you to make the first move, to instruct him with your language on how to proceed.

“I missed you.” Honesty.

“You did?” Disbelief.

“Yeah.” Reluctance.

You didn’t want to reward his bad behavior but you couldn’t stop yourself from running a hand down his sweater clad chest. He was warm and solid in front of you, and you felt a lump rise in your throat, a culmination of how truly you had missed him.

He pulled you to him by your hand and wove one of his into the side of your hair before kissing you. His lips were always the same, tender but firm, expressing everything he couldn’t bring his voice to.

Suddenly he moved you, pulling you both into his apartment as the door slammed shut behind you. You shed your coat and hopped up, linking your legs behind his back. Rafael loved when you did this, he knew he was mentally strong, but this made him feel physically strong. It was a confirmation that he could protect you, he could carry you, he could save you. These were the thoughts that permeated Rafael’s mind as he ran a hand under your sweater over the warmth of your spine. It was you. You were here.

Had you forgiven him? He didn’t know. Rafael prayed you had, he couldn’t take another day without you.

He helped you out of your sweater and both of you fell onto his couch before rolling onto the floor in an accidental tumble. You giggled in that lovely way you did, your hair falling around his face like tendrils from a weeping willow. He smoothed a firm thumb over your cheekbone in fondness and adoration for you, your beauty and nature, your spirit and candor. Rafael Barba loved you, frighteningly so, and he was terrified you didn’t love him.

He had spent the past week thinking of what he would do if you never came back. The thought made him pace, it silenced all other thoughts in his mind as he tried to prep for court. But now you were here and he could breathe again, he could feel his mental faculties return in colorful explosions of renaissance, his mind reborn in your presence. All that filled it was you, your scent, your touch, your skin.

You pulled him up in a kiss, seated on his lap, so you could remove his sweater and undershirt. You made quick work of them before pushing him back down, kissing along his collarbone and shoulders. Feeling the urge of desire you took one of his nipples into your mouth and bit it softly before licking it’s raised skin. He moaned and you smiled, the noises he made were music, the longer you worked on him the more uninhibited they got.

You rocked your hips softly against his and sucked lightly on his jaw, taking your time to reclaim him, to remind him what it was like to be yours. His large hands rested on your sides and back, still, so that he could focus on your motions and all the sensations you were providing him with.

It didn’t take long before he was squirming underneath you, signaling his desire and arousal physically. You grasped his face and ran your index fingers over the shells of his ears softly with an appreciative hum. He looked so beautiful, pressed into the dark red carpet of his living room staring up at you with those wonderful green eyes.

You kissed him twice before hopping off of him to start his fireplace and open his blinds. You turned off the lights and threw some light kindling into the fireplace. It was dusty, Rafael never lit fires in his apartment, primarily because he didn’t know how. But you did. So you started it up and he watched you for a few moments with a soft smile before getting up and grabbing the duvet and a couple of pillows off of his bed.

He tossed them to the floor and walked over to his now perfect view of the snow covered central park. Rafael had always wanted a view of the park when he was a child. He would gaze up at the buildings that surrounded it and cross his arms in determination. Small but sure, he knew that one day he would be able to see it all, every tree and pond. And now he could. But the snowy view was not what captivated him now. It was you, your face lit by the amber glow of the fire you had started, as you nudged some kindling towards the growing flame before signing with satisfaction.

“So you missed me hmmm?” He was still standing by the window, his torso turned towards you, revealing the truth of his interests.

“I did.” You moved to where he had laid the duvet and pillows, sliding under the fluffy material before extending a delicate hand towards him.

He took it, dusting his own fingers down yours before clasping your palm to his.

“Is it still snowing?” You asked as he laid beside you, adjusting his head a couple of times on the pillow before relaxing with an exhale.

“A little.” You could feel his breath on your lips as he moved closer to you.

“Well then we have to hurry.”

“What?” He smiled softly, confused at your previous sentence.

“I forgive you while it’s snowing. But when it stops, we need to talk.” You spoke deciding to reveal what you had decided you were feeling.

“What?” He repeated this time sitting up, taking most of the duvet with him.

“Raf.”

“I thought this was, I thought you had forgiven me…what I did…that had nothing to do with you.” He was confused, and getting frustrated.

“Rafael that had everything to do with me! You begged me, you said you needed me to help you, and I did, I told you what to do, the right thing to do, and you ignored me.”

“I did what I did so I could sleep at night!” He raised his voice and moved to stand obviously agitated at the way the conversation was going.

You jumped up as well and grabbed his hand, he wasn’t going to escape this conversation. He argued for a living but when it came to your relationship he always ran from a fight. The truth was he was afraid of what he would say, afraid of hurting you in a fit of rage as his father had hurt his mother over and over. You didn’t know this.

He stayed seated and allowed you to move closer towards him all while holding his hand.

“Rafael, I know more than anyone about why you did what you did. But you have to understand, I tell you what I tell you not from some moral high ground, but from a place of love. I’m trying to protect you. And it hurts me when you throw that away.” You moved so he would be looking directly at you, forcing him to see the emotion on your face.

“I…I’m sorry, I never want to hurt you. Listen I…” He didn’t quite know what to say.

There were so many things he wanted to say, to tell you but he couldn’t bring his mind and tongue to coordinate. He started and stopped a few times, watching you as you waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts.

“I didn’t do what I did as a betrayal of your council. I trust you, and I…I need you. You tell me what I need to hear, which is not always what I want to hear. And I hope you can forgive me for…for hurting you which was and never will be my intention. I…don’t know what else to say…I’m just sorry.” His gaze met yours a few times before falling once more to the floor.

His grip on your hand was tight and you knew his apology was genuine. He didn’t think he was wrong, he was still hoping what he did was right. But he had apologized. And that was rare from him.

You tucked some of his hair back into the messy fluffy heaps on his head and pressed a kiss to his soft cheek, feeling the beginnings of stubble scratch gently against your lips.

“Thank you. I forgive you.” You took his face in both hands and kissed his lips, pulling his head at an odd angle.

You pushed back the duvet and straddled him once more and he gasped softly at the pressure of your body on his. He let you kiss him, deeply and tenderly for a few moments before pulling back.

The fire was crackling and popping now, closely resembling Rafael’s emotions. He had to say something now, or he feared he never would. It had come too close, too close to you not knowing how much he needed you, how much he wanted you, how much he had to have you.

“I love you.” He released in a heavy breath, one of his hands shaking on the side of your face.

“What?” You flashed confusion before tilting your head as if trying to replay the last five seconds.

“I…I love you. And I need you to know that. I need you to know that I need you.”

“Oh Raf…” You held him in suspense for a few moments before planting a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“I love you.” You giggled your confession and his expression flickered between uncertainty and joy, unsure what your giggle signified.

“Really?” He managed as you peppered him with little kisses.

“Yes really.”

“You love me?”

“Yes.” You laughed softly at his disbelief and his phrasing, you felt as if you were being questioned on the stand in one of his cases.

He was still for a few moments and you pulled away so you could look him dead in the eyes.

“Rafael Barba I love you.” You spoke clearly and firmly, waiting for the message to sink in.

His face changed a few times as tears welled in his eyes, but he finally settled on an expression of happiness, soft, total uninhibited joy.

Rafael wrapped his arms around you, one up to the base of your neck. He rolled you down to the ground carefully and slowly, holding you tightly against his body.

You unfastened your bra and tossed it to the side before taking his face into your hands. You didn’t kiss, both of you were too lost in the other’s eyes and expressions. Deftly your hands worked on removing your jeans, Rafael helped you with a quick tug, freeing your legs to feel the warmth of the fire beside you.

He ran a palm up your shin and thigh before threading his fingers into the lace of your panties. You reached for his pants, wanting to rid him of them entirely, knowing that he would forget to take them off if you didn’t help him now.

Rafael moved off of you to pull off his khakis before settling in between your legs once more. He lowered his face only millimeters from yours, so close his breath caused your eyelashes to tremble.

“You love me.” He whispered with a small huff of disbelief.

“I do.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” You stroked a hand over the muscles of his back before rounding to his lower stomach where you slipped your hand into his briefs.

You pulled at him softly and he adjusted his hips to make your motions easier. Rafael lowered onto his forearms and kissed you, firmly but tenderly, in a way only he could.

You worked him with your hand and wrist for a while only stopping when he reached for your hand and placed it in his hair. You used your feet to push down his briefs and he assisted kicking them off with a chuckle.

He then slipped your panties off and down your legs, placing a kiss on your knees as he moved. Rafael settled with his face at your center, licking along the line that concealed you from him. He worked you open with his nose and tongue, closing his eyes at your taste. This was always his favorite when it came to foreplay, though you enjoyed it tremendously, he knew he got more out of it than you did.

The hand that was in his hair scratched at his scalp as he flicked his tongue over your core before kissing and sucking on your sensitive clit. He moaned into the silence of the room as you shifted your hips, dying for more.

You cried out when he started his pace, knowing exactly how to move his tongue and lips against you to elicit your pleasure. He continued, on and on, never slowing and never tiring of how you tasted on his tongue and lips.

Rafael pressed a hand on the soft skin of your stomach and held you in place as he really dug in, his nose now nuzzling your clit harder and harder in little circles.

You tried to speak but couldn’t, you tugged on his thick hair but he didn’t move or stop. You came hard, with the force of a crashing wave you gasped and whimpered, feeling him smile against you as he drank you in, treating you as a chalice of his own elixir.

But he didn’t stop. Rafael kept working you up, and your body fed off the remainders of your previous orgasm to build your second. He gave you a solid lick over your clit and you came again, this time crying his name. He repeated this two more times, you were shaking and sobbing when he finally took you into his arms and kissed you, feeding you the taste of yourself and new air.

You whined and cried into his open mouth as it ghosted over you. He looked into your eyes and moved on top of you, waiting for your consent. You nodded and kissed him once more before he slid inside of you with ease, filling you totally in seconds. You gripped at his back, kneading his muscles as they rippled under your fingers.

He moved in and out of you slowly and smoothly, kissing at your jaw when you threw your head back in rapture. He rolled his hips expertly, humming against your breast when he took your nipple into his mouth briefly. His pace was slow and full of adulation. He whispered praise and worship into your ears as he continued, spelling out tales of your beauty and intelligence, perfection and kindness. He repeated a promise of love over and over, and you whispered it back to him as he moved within you, a welcome pressure against the pit of your stomach.

Your orgasms approached slowly like his movements, but they were strong and all consuming. He pulled you up into his lap and rocked his hips into yours a few final times before you both cried and moaned in unison, the euphoria overtaking you. Rafael’s breathing became heavy as he held you up against his chest, your breasts pressing into his collarbone while you clenched around him, pulsing involuntarily at the release your body gave.

Tears were streaming down both of your faces as he nuzzled your chest and neck with his face, relishing in the glow of your skin in the light of the fire. It had gotten dark outside, neither of you noticing that the sun had descended long ago.

Rafael laid you down carefully, following your body with his as he pulled himself out of you. You curled into the warmth his body provided as he reached for the duvet that had been pushed away by your feet. The fire popped and snapped, both of you breathing together, your face nestled in the hot skin of Rafael’s neck.

It snowed even more over night and the both of you awoke to sore backs and a breathtaking view of Central Park and the streets below completely covered in a blanket of snow. You settled on his lap in one of his robes after lighting another fire, content to watch the snow fall knowing Rafael would be watching you.

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba #smut #raul esparza #adacarisi #law and order svu #barba #some snow and nyc

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