no exit

"Forget about ya? Impossible t'forget ya are, wee shite." It's all in good humor, a rare grin forming on Odin himself as he strides over to scoop Merle up in a bear hug. There's a slight danger of suffocation, but nothing Dixon can't handle, Odin's sure.

It was not often that Oliver chose to leave the comfortable familiarity of his bookshop and the city surrounding it. Despite the filth and the noise it was a place he was accustomed to, his haunts well mapped, his victims well hidden. His days were things of routine, as fastidious as himself. Everything was in it’s place. Every drop of blood sterilized into oblivion. He preferred it. 

His once yearly exodus was part of that routine. He considered it a reset. A thing to keep him from becoming too cocky, too overconfident in his day to day. Oliver preferred to pack two suitcases - one for his white shirts and dark slacks, and one for his tools. He did not trust the people of the forest not to discover his cabin by the lake and take his things. His knives were expensive and well cared for, they were not meant to be handled by hillbillies and dirty fingered teenagers. The suitcases went into the back of a dark blue Jeep, it’s oil and sparkplugs all fresh and new. Oliver did not appreciate the dirt and grime that came with dealing an engine, it was better if everything was working smoothly before the trip. 

As expected, everything went as smoothly as Oliver had come to expect. He made a brief stop in the town of Ely - disgusting place - for gasoline and some supplies before continuing on into the wilderness. Of course, there was no one worth his time in the town, but Oliver did not allow himself to become discouraged. He chose to travel during this time of the year for a reason - the hunters would be out in full force, tramping around in the snowy woods as they drank too much beer and bragged about their kills. 

Oliver rather liked the braggarts. They broke the best, some of them desperately holding on to their egos for far longer than they should as Oliver slowly brought them ever closer to the absolute peak of perfection. It pleased him especially to think of the ones sunk down into the black depths of the lake outside of his cabin, their bones systematically broken and crushed after death to disguise what sort of animal they came from. One day, perhaps, he would discover someone capable of attaining the lofty heights Oliver pursued, and live through the experience. It was not something he expected - simply a consideration, a light fantasy to occupy his mind as he followed the winding road through the ancient forest. 

Snow crunched under the tires of the Jeep and once Oliver had to stop to attach the snow chains. Merely part of the process. He didn’t bother with a jacket, the thrill of things yet to come was more than enough to distract him from the sharp chill on the air. Oliver didn’t hold any love for wildlife - he thought animals as filthy and disgusting things, but there was something in particular about taking an armed man and making him disappear forever. Something special not found in the city with it’s paved streets and skyscrapers. 

It would be dark by the time he reached the cabin by the lake and the secrets it held. The hunt would begin in the morning, unless a campfire could be spied nearby. Or - perhaps - there would be someone already waiting in the cabin for him.  The law dictated that residences must remain unlocked in the event of someone becoming lost and needing shelter. 

Odin asked, slowly kissing his way around the arching shell of Simon’s ear. He liked making sure his dove was well stocked in damn near everything he could possibly desire, Odin saw it as part of being a provider and protector. After everything that Simon had been through he was especially deserving of it, in Odin’s mind. That tall cunt couldn’t swing it, so he would. 

He lifted a hand, threading heavy fingers into Simon’s unruly hair and massaging gently at his scalp as he tipped his head to kiss the hollow at the base of his throat, along the fine lines of his collarbone, up again to the sweeping curve of his jaw. 

“Oh aye, dove. Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

Simon was so easy to scoop up, Odin gathering the man into his arms and holding him close against his chest before dropping heavily into the seat his lover had just been occupying. He rumbled, low, nuzzling against Simon’s neck and kissing him slow, working his way up as if he couldn’t stand to not taste every available inch of skin. He kept Simon close, pressing a kiss to each cheek, each eye, the tip of his nose, and at last, his lips. He could taste the tea that Simon preferred to drink, perhaps masking the faint smoky tang of liquor. Not that he cared, his dove could drink whatever the hell he wanted.

Her eyes widened when their lips connected, a sizeable delay between when he began and when she returned the gesture. It wasn’t for a lack of enthusiasm, oh no. It was due to shock, as if fathoming the possibility of this was impossible. If this was another dream, then fuck it. She didn’t want to wake up.

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Groan, soft, escaped her at his clothed touch; resting into the mattress, hand left his side to instead grasp the side of his neck. Thumb gently caressed the skin, stilling only as she felt her vest rise. Heart rate exceeded baseline tenfold, panic setting in at the thought of him seeing her shirtless. The scars, the marks, the fresh bruises. In her mind, she wasn’t beautiful. That was grounds for rejection.

“Vaas,” A breathy reply, breath briefly hitching at the feeling of his thumb. ’ hermosa ’ - her heart fluttered, it jumped and sang. “Fuck-”

Head tilted, allowing him free access of her neck. To mark and bruise as he saw fit, a moan escaping her as he found the perfect spot of skin to leave red. Deciding to help rather than just lay there like an inexperienced schoolgirl, she shifted to slide her vest off and toss it aside. With a single hand, she undid her bra expertly, allowing that to be flung across the room carelessly. Deep breaths, Beth. He’s seen some shit, you bare chested is nothing.

A hand found the back of his neck, her head tipping back at the sensations coming too quickly. Hips bucked as he found her clit, eyes squeezing shut as she gave a shaky exhale. After a few moments of bitten back groans and moans, she reached down with a shaking hand to undo the straps of her thigh sheath, allowing the leather and weapon to clatter to the floor. With the loss of weight, she found it easier to spread her legs for him.

“Thank you,” Breathed before she moaned softly, something akin to a laugh escaping her, “Let me be a good girl and help you,” A request moreso than anything, politeness. She had no qualms staying as she was, his hand down her pants, mouth attacking pert nipples. A memory she’d not likely forget in her lifetime.

Truth be told, despite her valiant attempts, moans were escaping. Needy. Desperate. Barely beginning and she was already fit to burst.

Vaas can feel his obsession brewing, intense and savage within his chest. He had been with women before but it was never like this. The scent of her arousal is intoxicating, the heat of her skin, the way she moves under him, aching for more. It was not the shit that it was with the others were it was pretend, leaving him feeling unsatisfied and agitated. This was his hermosa. This was what he wanted. What he needed to feel. 

Vaas did not feel like talking now. He talked all fucking day and now that shit was done. Now he wanted to feel the woman in his arms. Forget all the rest. She came fucking willingly too, like this was want she wanted from him as much as he wanted it from her. To be fucking felt, yeah? To be fucking known. She’s a fucking hot amiga, her lips are parted and Vaas catches the slightest peek of her pink tongue. Part of him is wondering just what the fuck he has been waiting for all this time. The fucking moon to change or some shit? Fuck that. 

It’s never been like this before. Every movement measured, every gesture watched, studied for what emotion reflects on the man’s face. Every quiet line, every tick of the lips is watched, studied as closely. His puppy’s eyes tell the most, how they become hard and shine or glassy and vacant or warm and soft. Now they’re warm and soft as Negan looks down at him, not a grin on his face but a smile. Something gentle. Something warm. Something far more sweet and delicate than anyone outside this room has ever seen before. 

Negan opens his arms, tugging the edges of his jacket to open it wider. Inviting his puppy in, if that’s what he really wants. This man isn’t like anyone else. Every touch is special - with his puppy it’s not because the man feels the need to suck up. Not because he fears him. But because he wants to. Because he’s chose it for reasons unspoken, things unsaid. It’s heady and terrifying all at once and at first Negan wasn’t sure how to handle it. 

Now he does. Give him a choice. Move slow. Let him choose his desires and let him go when it becomes too much. Ask, never demand. Show him he’s in control, show him that he’s safe.

you were burned, you were about to burn, you're still on fire

Rick x Negan, Old Gods Verse

The world truly had capitulated over the years with the illusion that there were such things as the notion of a godless world. Genbu chuckled, a stride beneath his bare feet, a million miles.

Sutra, hymn, chant, prayer — beads upon beads rolling between thumb and index have grown softer, quieter, but this world is not godless. Far from it. Churning and humming low mechanically within brick walls singing the jingles of CONTACTLESS PAYMENT ACCEPTED and WOULD YOU LIKE TO SET AN AUTO-DEBIT? and INSUFFICIENT FUNDS were the new all-seeing, all-controlling ones, eyes a thousand glares beneath lamp posts, within the bowels of scuffed shopping malls, mounted on doors.

As he walked across the seas, through villages and towns, languidly listening to the droning murmur of life and death; Genbu heard the song too. So sweet was the call, so old was the song. It was metal against stone, a hundred cries and hoof-beat clamour against mud and stone. He fought wars too, once. It was a different scene, but what is war but the stench of crimson and sweat beneath leather and rusting iron? Neighs of horses and roar of the chieftain, war anywhere strum the same chord, beat the same drums, cry the same tears.

He opened his eyes, gold specks of dying stars flitting. The scent of pine here was pleasant, green needles and the rot of an old forest. He paced gently through the brushes, feeling leaves, grass and thorns brush against his wintry skin. How beautiful, bones and steel, eaten by time.

It was a sliver of iron, or all that was left beaten and scorched by nature. But it had tasted blood and sweat in an age long forgotten. That alone gave it a formless spirit, the same one who called out so sweetly to the gods of war — not him, personally — begging for a release.

There he saw what he thought was no longer. At least, for these lands whose new gods were digits across glass.

“Apologies,” Genbu announced his presence, winter-clear, plum blossoms and incense. “I meant no disrespect, encroaching your land unannounced.”

A bow.

“It pleaded,” He continued, standing up straight once more. “I assume to you. I cannot resist my own curiosity. How time flies. Mankind fight like these no more.”

Negan held it, the sword that had cried out. It’s blade no longer shown, it’s edge no longer sharp, pitted and ruined by the ever onward passage of time. It’s life still burned within it, uncaring how the leather wrappings on it’s hilt were decay away to crumbling scraps. Mindless how it’s edge would never drag the blood from an enemy of it’s knight. Had it’s keeper fallen in battle, or had it been abandoned, forgotten as the army moved ever onwards? Negan dragged his thumb over the rot eating away at it, his skin coming away red for it, flakes of history clinging there. 

“It’s my land. Not anymore.” He had not turned to regard the newcomer, as much as he felt the presence of him. There was that thrum coming from him, too, the feel of thousands of battles stretching across thousands of years, a million men fallen under the desires of those deemed more powerful than them. For a moment he could taste the wine mixed with honey and spice, he could smell the ox roasting on the spit and hear the roar and laughter of men enjoying the excess that came with the spoils of war. It was gone again as quickly as it had come, nothing left but this rusting steel, thrown out of the ground by the frost and dashed against the rock by some passing animal. 

Negan lays the sword on that rock, crouching down to brush the damp leaves away from the rich black soil and run his fingers through it. There was more under there, resting in the earth. He sighed, low, standing up to regard the other man. His gaze is tired, saddened. 

“Impossible to ignore a cry like that.” Negan commented, gaze dragging back to the strange God. He did not think he had faced this one in battle - at least not that his memories recalled in this strange age. “Sad. Hopeful. Poor thing’ll never taste blood again.”

A low sigh and Negan turns, striding closer to the God, extending one hand in offering. Thing he had picked up from the mortals who no longer pounded their chests or saluted.