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sashiavi · 9 months ago

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✧˚·.SashiAvi's Kinktober Day Seven.·˚✧

#7|Stockings/Tights|#7

Harvey x Reader - Word Count - 2k

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“Thank you for coming. I’ll be in touch.”

Harvey made the right choice in hiring you.

A pretty fresh face from Zuzu city, looking for a quieter life within the depths of the Valley, stumbling into his clinic with a wad of papers and a doe-eyed smile plastered on your face. Your resume was competent, littered with experience for the receptionist position you had inquired about, working through the corporations of Joja – A seemingly common backstory for many folk moving into the town

You were dressed up for the interview, proper in your posture, a cute effort put into your appearance; tasteful blouse snug to your torso, hair styled and tidy, pencil skirt wrapped around your hips and waist- All neat and proper, with a pair of sheer nylon black tights hugging sweetly at the soft flesh of your thighs. Now, the doctor couldn't help but let his eyes flick down, a gulp of a swallow going down his gullet, Adam’s apple bobbing obnoxiously behind the skin of his throat. You were a sight, really. Something about the proper office attire intriguing the man, hugging all the right places while still looking respectable, put together-

Who was he kidding? He surely wasn’t fooling himself.

His gaze stays stuck on your thighs, one eye squinting enough to reveal the subtle wrinkle of crow's feet forming at the outer corner. His head nods with a tilt, half listening to the answers to his questions while his eyes rake down to your calves, appreciating the way those tights accentuated your legs, how the taught material hugged snug enough to cast a soft shadow over them, letting the skin behind bleed through enough for him to see.

He hires you easily, adopting you into the clinic space with a kind, squinted-eyed smile, mostly hidden behind the brush of his moustache.

Days at the office become a little harder over the coming weeks. In more ways than one. Distracting. In more ways than one. Blood rushing off to the wrong parts of the body, causing various.. Issues to present themselves during Harvey’s day.

The Doctor can’t help but sneak a few lingering glances through the doorway of his examination room, door pinned back into the wall by the stopper to offer up such a view. The back of the front desk is rather accessible to his gaze, it's easy for his eyes to wander up and stick. Especially when he catches you popping off that squeaky office chair, reaching up to grab a pen off of the high counter, skirt riding up, up, up, your thighs. Your stocking-clad skin exposed, stretched fabric clung to your supple thighs with the subtle peeking swell of your ass all on display.

One of his most favourite times of the day is when you fetch him a nice hot brew of coffee. Carefully bringing the mug to his desk, even bending to set the ceramic mug down gently without a spill. Thank Yoba for gracing him with such a low office chair, having the perfect view of your legs, up close and personal as you stand by, running him through his appointments for the day, fidgeting as you talk. Asking you question upon question just to keep you around for longer.

God forbid he has a meeting with you. Harvey's eyes are a little shameless, milky browns darting down to the squish of your thighs, appreciating the way the fabric stretches over your knees, trailing down to your tights-covered feet, hidden away by the wrap of your proper and tidy shoes. Would you stretch your leg and tease him through his trousers? Nylon pantyhose taught against your toes while you rub the thick bulge budding behind the seam of them? Rubbing, knocking, digging the heel of your soul into his groin, letting the course material zip against the fabric of his pants. Would you spread your thighs apart for him to see the bright flash of your panties cut through the sheer, black material-? Just like that.

He’s snatching a long-lasting look when you cross one leg over the other, flashing him in your attempt to get comfortable in your chair. His lip twitches, chest heaving out a poorly hidden sigh as he readjusts the frames of his glasses. He hopes you don't notice- Hopes your focus is all on your clipboard while you scribble and scrawl down his half-assed answers and not the way his pink tongue darts at his lip with a lick.

The day you came in with a pair of fine-hole fishnets had the doctor choking on his morning coffee. It was almost like you were teasing him- Pinching and pulling at the material all day, separating those little diamond shapes from your skin, leaving raw little indents behind from where you sat against the material. These were even lovelier on your skin, creating such intricate optical illusions it even had him double-taking and second-guessing if he even wore the correct glasses today. Dynamic and sexy, even harder to keep his prying eyes away, drawn to the sweet kinetic shine of the skimpy fabric under the sickly fluorescent lights.

Snap, snap. More pinches of those fishnet tights, fidgety and distracting for the both of you, making you squirm in your chair, huffing softly in frustration, overstimulating yourself with your choice of clothes that day.

Yoba, he’d help you if he could, wouldn't he?

Just a little rip of those stingy little diamonds, a scratchy twangy noise while he frees you from the confines of the material. Enough of a hole to slip his length into, have the coarse squeeze of fabric wrap around him, a second stimulation from the first- If you know what he means.

He could just imagine it. Pressing his palms into your thighs, spreading them nicely, letting the stringy diamond pattern dig and cut into his own skin, leaving a nice red-raw indent. It’d mark you too, pressed with his own weight, etching into your skin, that webbed pattern stinging and itchy just as it irritates his hands all the same way.

He doesn't know how it actually happens exactly.

Perhaps it's weeks of complimenting your outfits, buttering you up with morning drinks to brighten up your day, perhaps it's the special treatment he shamelessly praises upon you. The Doctor's coat? Neat and tidy grey-stricken curls indicating his mature age? The quirk of his personality shining under the steady professional persona? Perhaps you fed on his attentions, soaked them in over the course of knowing him.

Whatever it was, the man wasn't going to mull over it.

He had you.

Tumbling into the space of the clinic’s broom closet, bumping into forgotten appliances, spine pressing uncomfortably into the jut of a long-ago broken cabinet. Knocking into a mop, letting the poor thing clatter to the floor, bumping a shelf with a clink of trinkets long forgotten, all in a feverish motion to kiss and nip into each other's lips.

Clumsy, clattering, teeth clipping teeth with the desperate nature of your kisses, groaning into your mouth with parted lips, tongue swirling, breaths mingling together huff after huff.

His hands squeeze into you, holding you firm in his grasp, long, dexterous fingers wrapping around your hips. He gropes, palms expertly massaging into your body as his hands slide down, aiming to hook into the bottom of your skirt. He lifts it, letting the stiff fabric rise and stay, folded messily against your tummy. He sighs in bliss, palms back on you, groping lovingly into the coarse fabric covering your outer thighs. The micro threads irritate his skin with his pressing, stinging just the way he needed, blunt fingernails scratching into your pantyhose covered thighs with zippy noises.

Hands travel, soft palms pressed into the hairs on his chest, breaching his half-unbuttoned shirt with your own touches. His own make their way between your legs, hand tilted to face you, digits rubbing down, pressing soft rolls of his fingers against the taut fabric covering your clothed cunt. So, so warm- The supple heat of your pussy and the friction of fabric, palm heated sweetly as it presses into your clit, taking your desperate grinds with a rubbing cup of your mound. You moan in his mouth, a desperate plea of his professional title, “Doctor,” you mewl, your own hands moving to cup the bulge pushing against the tight seam of his trousers.

It's an easy dance, mutually pleasuring each other with the touch of your hands, stroking, rubbing, circling all until someone snaps.

Harvey easily manhandles you, taking out the pent-up sexual tension that had been building up in his gut for weeks, finally doing something with the energy. You spin on the spot, back pressed into the warmth of his bare chest, neck attacked with prickly kisses right on your sensitive pulse points, beating under his teeth and tongue. All while his arm slings snuggly around your middle, pulling you nice and close, palm rubbing a soothe up and down your ribs.

Harvey’s free hand works at his pants, unbuckling the tight belt hugging at his waist, metal clinking against itself before the thick leather comes off with a grind of fabric on fabric. The buckle clinks roughly to the floor, singing with a metallic jingle already forgotten by the man as he works his thumb through the button of his fly.

His cock is freed, thick and tan, drooly at his tip, crying sweet weeps out just for you. He fists it a few times, jerking it with wet strokes as his lips halt and part open on your neck, sighing a hot breath into the supple spot under your ear, moustache grazing your skin with the motion. Yoba, it's probably a pitiful display but how can he care? When you lean back into him, rubbing your ass on the mushroom tip of his dick, craning your head back to lick and kiss against his lips. You keen into him, spreading your legs giving access, coaxing him to nestle his length between them.

You were too good to him. Having his chubby, dribbly cock nestled sweetly between your thighs, hugged so warm by the tight squish, feeling that rougher material of your tights graze against the velvet skin of his length. Skirt ridden up, cock thrusting against the rough material covering your pussy, his dribbled head perfectly on display, peeking from between your legs. Poke, poke, poke, all flushed pinky-purple, throbbing with each rough push, leaking messy beads of pre-cum into the shiny, stretchy fabric.

He moans softly, free noises breathed out from his lungs, sighs tainted with the vibration of his voice- Nearly wordless praises murmured into the quiet air of the closet, save for the rub of stretched nylon rubbing against itself as he fucks his length between your thighs. His hand rubs at your clit, through that rough pantyhose material, skilled and precise fingers pressing quick circles on your clothed bud.

Despite all those layers, he can still feel the soft slick of your cunt – On his hand, on his cock- dribbling through your panties and tights, joining in on the slick-wet mess between your thighs. The friction is a decedent feeling, rough and warm and yet still silky-soft, fabric chafing against itself with every rolling hump of his hips.

He was getting closer- God he was. It was impossible not to-

“Yoba.. I love it when you wear these..” Harvey manages, huffing through his sentence, a choppy murmur gravelled up from his throat.

“I know..~” You call with a light giggle rolling your hips with him, squeaking excited little noises every time he kissed and rubbed.

He groans out loud, tipping his head back with a bitten lip, sweet, milky brown eyes rolling into the back of his skull as his cock throbs sticky pulses within the squeeze of your thighs. Messy, staining, milky cum spilling against your clothed cunt in stuttered ropey spurts. Arm tightening around your waist, fingers turning into sloppy rubs, curling into your cum soaked tights with each hard sputter of his cock.

Yeah.

Harvey made the right choice in hiring you.

→ Kinktober Masterlist & Taglist ←

Sorry for the delay and the prompt switch! I'm going to try my best to catch up! The original Shane fic is in the works~ just far longer than anticipated :)

Thank you so much for reading! If you have any thoughts please let me know! I'd love to hear them <3 your words spur my heart on!

TagList @deepestnightcolor @madsw9 @the-massive-simp @neetily @wrongdodo @modern-gremlin @blakebearsblog @skelitea @saoirse0 @yumelurve @kiwibyssongg @scrunkle-writings @regalchick33 @sydbeenis @kasasim @cheerupbabie @shinypainterturtle @callinz @jellyfishlord123 @b-lossm @tetatitanica @princesstiti14 @cherryminxx @kyrothehornypuppy @animeandobeymefandom @thecr0w @toorusproblems @joviaschaoticmind @quiruifam @sturniolopowers @hon3yydew @ghost--heart @booitzbellie @skullkroncher @maryenette @asssholeuwu @cowboyweevil @heylisin @its-starlight-farm @cheezydoritos69 @sephreads0 @hitatwiin @avocado-sloth @empressil @loverboykirstein @dangerouspizzabakerytaco

#sashiavi's kinktober 2024 #stardew valley #ʚ•*°sashiavi writes°*•ɞ #stardew valley smut #afab reader #kinktober #harvey stardew valley #harvey smut #stardew harvey #stardew valley harvey #sdv harvey #sdv harvey smut #sdv harvey x reader #sdv harvey x reader smut #stardew valley harvey x reader smut #stardew valley harvey smut #harvey sdv

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leighsartworks216 · 6 months ago

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Knitting Hands

Zayne x gn!Reader

Sometimes you be knitting when you have chronic joint pain and wish a certain doctor was there to help soothe the ache

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, established relationship, knitting

Word Count: 821

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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The metal needles click quietly against each other. Gentle scrapes as you draw the needle through the stitches. Alongside it is the occasional turn of a page. The soft thwip, the whisper of fingers sliding along the page, the transfer from one side to the next.

The silence should be suffocating. It should be unbearable. There was a time when it used to be. Back then, neither of you really knew how to handle the silence, assuming your own expectations from past relationships or the advice of others (friends, colleagues, and movie characters alike).

Now, it's welcoming. It's warm.

When your thoughts slow and the world comes back into focus, you can rely on the slow inhale and exhale of Zayne's breath. You can look over and see him reading. It’s a book you recommended to him after relentlessly teasing him about needing to branch out from medical texts. Sometimes, he'll even look up at you, too, with a grin reserved only for you.

Your world is brought back into focus now by the strain on your hands and fingers. You slot the right needle into a stitch on the left, wrap the yarn around it, and hook it on, dropping the old stitch. Repeat verbatim until you reach the desired length.

It's not a difficult project - a simple scarf, built with rows and rows of knit stitches that fade between different shades of blue. The only issue is the size of the needles you work with. They're smaller than you're used to, requiring more precision than your normal set. But this yarn was just too pretty to pass up, you simply had to use it.

The clicking of the needles gets slower, but more forceful, as you get through this row and to the end. Your left hand is beginning to severely cramp by the time you transfer the last stitch over. It creaks and tenses as you place silicone stoppers onto the ends of the needles to keep the project from slipping off.

Similarly, Zayne slots a bookmark neatly into his novel and sets it aside. He takes one of your hands in his before you can even set your needles down in your lap, massaging the sore tendons and muscles with practiced fingers.

You lean your head on his shoulder, watching as his thumbs press into your palm.

"You should take more breaks," he says, speaking low to avoid breaking the atmosphere. He rubs along the sections of your fingers, easing out the lingering tension there. "It won't all unravel if you take a second to rest."

You let out a pleased hum. The soft knit of his sweater caresses your cheek as you nuzzle further into him, closing your eyes and basking in his care. "And what if it does?"

He sets the first hand down and lifts the other. He goes through the same movements as before. "Then you can make it all over again, with well-rested hands."

Since when were you this tired? It seems like the longer you stay there, resting against Zayne, the heavier your eyes become and the foggier your brain gets. You stifle a yawn. "How's the book?"

"I like it," he answers. He kisses your head knowingly, setting this hand back in your lap. He doesn't pull away, and you twine your fingers together in your lap. He draws them closer to his leg. "The main character acts a lot like me, doesn't he?"

"Ah, you noticed?"

"Is that why you recommended it?"

You shake your head lazily against him. "No, I thought you'd like the plot." Your words are beginning to slur together.

He hums thoughtfully as he rests his cheek on your head. Your mind feels as though it is floating on water. Bobbing in the waves, lost to the rest of the world.

"We should get you to bed," he suggests, "before you fall asleep here."

You rub mindlessly at the ring on his finger. "If I did, you'd carry me anyway."

"Mhm. Is that what you want?"

"Hm?"

"For me to carry you?" Zayne smiles to himself. There is a special kind of sweetness in watching his beloved fall asleep. The way your brain slows down, uncomprehending, as you give in. The fight you put up trying to speak until the very end, until you can't anymore. The way your body unconsciously clings to him, ever pulling him closer. It's an honor, truly.

"Hmmm, maybe."

He kisses your head, almost as though apologizing for having to let go of your hands. You let him go. You sit back up, sort of, and let your hands sit limply in your lap. The couch shifts as he sits forward and moves your knitting project aside. He makes sure the silicone stoppers are on there well, ensuring it won't all unravel in the night.

He's pretty sure you're fast asleep when he stands and lifts you in his arms.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko

#fanfic #fanfiction #zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #lads zayne #lnds zayne #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 2 years ago

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Seduced By Your Scent (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Summary: Swayed by rave reviews, you purchase a perfume that endeavours to make any man fall for you. But you don’t want just any man; you want your beloved husband.

AN: Based on a perfume review I saw on twitter/from discord, and my friend got me back into Bridgerton so here we are. Potential part two to Subtle-tea but can be read as its own fic.

Content Warnings: Reader wears a dress, is referred to as “my lady”. Suggestive language and actions, 18+ readers only, minors DNI

Masterlist // AO3

“You must try this elixir! It’s like they’ve bottled Venus and sent her to solve all marital issues!”

Not that you and Benedict needed any kind of aphrodisiac or marital advice. After your glorious wedding and the honeymoon of your dreams, you grew more enamoured with one another with each passing day. But you couldn’t help but become intrigued by your companion’s impassioned declarations.

Here was where that curiosity led you: sitting at your vanity, staring at the bejewelled and beautiful bottle – fitting of its praise and hinting at the power of the perfume it held. It cast rainbow refractions across your room as you rotated it with a scrupulous gaze. The glass stopper released with a delicate pop and you gave the opening a tentative sniff. Sparks of something musky with a hint of whimsy reached your brain. It seemed to caress your sense of smell, lull you into a foggy serenity whilst curving the corners of your mouth into a smile.

A light knock at your bedroom door did very little to pull your from this haze, and your maid stood awkwardly in the doorway as you dragged your eyes away from the bottle and over to her.

“Breakfast is ready, my lady,” The maid bobbed a curtsey.

“Thank you.” And, as she closed the door behind her exit, you gave the bottle one more look.

Well, it couldn’t hurt.

With care, you tipped the bottle then dragged the soaked stopper across one wrist. It pressed together with its partner then paired against your neck to seal the scent in.

The moment you stepped into the dining room – empty besides your beloeved husband - Benedict rose from the head of the table and drew out the chair beside him for you to sit. It was part of your routine, in your home and wherever you went, as was the smile with which he greeted you. Often it was broad and beaming, like today. Sometimes it was more subtle but with his eyes just as bright. On one or two occasions, it arrived with eyelids sunk and a hand to his forehead that pounded with consequences from the previous night’s actions, but still he smiled even though (and these were his own words) it felt like his skin was being melted from his skeleton like candle wax.

“Good morning!” He called to you while you crossed the room, his arm outstretched to clasp you close then guide you into your chair.

Continuing the routine, you kissed his cheek before sitting down, “Good morning.”

Now, this was when Benedict would push your chair in then sit beside you, ready to dine and run over your plans for the day ahead. And he started as normal. However the rate with which he pushed your chair into place was as if he was encased in jelly.

You clocked his new blank expression, “My love, are you alright?”

Instead of speaking, Benedict bent over the back of the chair and kissed your cheek. A short and slight sniff dragged up where his lips had pressed. He withdrew gradually, just a few inches, his brow was creased in thought.

“Hmm.” His jaw twisted and he clicked his tongue. Then he leant back in, this time his nose drew a tickling line down your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Benedict,” You felt your face grow hot as you resisted the urge to tense when he planted a quick kiss on the curve of your shoulder.

But your mild embarrassment only warmed the scent on your skin and spread it further around you until Benedict was encased in it beside you. Just one of your thoughts was spared in thanks to the fact that you and Benedict had stipulated that you dine alone – no butlers, no maids, no interruptions unless someone was dying.

“Have you been bathing in an aphrodisiac?” Benedict mused. Without turning away from you, he dragged his chair loudly across the floor so that he could perch himself beside you. Taking your hand, he kissed your loosely closed fist and breathed deeply in before finishing his question:

“Or are you just naturally this irresistible, and you’ve been hiding from me?”

“I can’t think what’s gotten into you,” You said, your voice wobbling when Benedict raised his eyebrows at you.

“I think you know exactly what’s gotten into me.”

Melting under his sparkling stare, you weakly nodded at his plate and setting, “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

Benedict didn’t look away from you, “I know what I’d rather eat.”

A laugh bubbled up your throat and you found yourself bordering on hysterics as Benedict’s eyes creased and he leant in close to you to titter and teem with joy.

After taking a few deep breaths, your face aching from the grin, you managed to say, “You must be drunk from the alcohol in that perfume.”

With a hand clutching at his cravat, Benedict gasped, appalled, “How dare you? Must I be drunk to show my wife some affection?”

“Nevertheless, you approve?”

“Oh yes, but only when we’re at home. Can’t let anyone else catch a whiff of this. You’ll seduce them, make them all fall in love with you, make them fall to their knees.”

“We absolutely cannot have that. Only you’re allowed to do so.”

Very suddenly, Benedict rose and kicked the seat from beneath him, pulling and pivoting you around so that you faced him. Knelt before you, you let him kiss you whilst you pet through his dark hair. His affections did not distract you from his hands tracing up your legs. The skirts of your dress caught on his wrists and exposed your sensitive skin to him.

He mumbled dreamily, “I could not agree more.” Then, with another deep inhale pressed into the side of your neck and his hands drawing down your undergarments, he drew from you the first of many delighted sighs that mingled with the lingering scent of your new perfume.

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fanfic #benedict bridgerton oneshot #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton oneshot #my writing #wc: 1k<#r: fem

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comatosebunny09 · 2 years ago

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with a pretty bow on top | astarion a.

summary: you’ve never been particularly good at wrapping things. but you want to ensure your friends have the best gifts of all, including a certain snarky elf who’s difficult to please. genre(s): romance, fluff, modern au, friends to (possible) lovers warning(s): alcohol, profanity, mentions of blood, mutual pining notes: merry chrysler! i hope everyone has a lovely christmas! thank you so much for reading! screenshot credit

For the umpteenth time, the paper rips.

And for the umpteenth time, you feel this is a lost cause. Deflate like a balloon, a sigh rushing past your lips.

You’ve never been particularly good at wrapping things. Usually had your mother or roommate to carry that burden.

You routinely opt for gift bags. Easier to drop a present inside, dress it up with pretty tissue paper and a witty card, and go about your business.

But you made a terrible mistake, forgoing the convenience store in your haste to get to your Airbnb.

It’s a tucked-away cabin in the woods. Secluded and ominous, shrouded by the night. The pristine blanket of snow building outside makes up for its creepiness. It’s nice to be away from the city, too, surrounded by people you adore. People who’ve filled the space between your ribs for years.

On cue, their merriment reaches your ears, streaming from the kitchen.

They’re hammered. You should be, too. But you want to ensure your friends have the best gifts of all. Wrapped neatly and tucked beneath the Christmas tree, waiting to be ripped open come morning.

You huff, balling up another sheet of paper and chucking it.

Errant pieces of tape litter your clothing. Strips of foil wrapping paper gleam in the light emitted from the fireplace. The ribbons you haphazardly cut shift in the ceiling fan’s breeze. Your battlefield.

The medium-sized box sitting between your spread legs leers at you condescendingly. You fold your arms, nudging it with your foot.

“I’m not your bitch,” you mutter, turning your nose up with a scowl.

“Well, that’s no way to greet an old friend.”

You start, your attention pilfered by the man wandering towards you.

He paints an ethereal picture in the firelight, curls flouncing about and glowing like a halo around his head. A bottle of wine and two Bordeaux glasses greet you from between his fingers. He wears that effervescent smirk beneath round frames. Brow pitches up with amusement, gait flamboyant whilst the kitchen blurs behind him.

You swallow, your lips trembling around a greeting when he plops down beside you. Cross-legged, scooting closer like a friend bearing gossip. Fills your lungs with the smell of brandy and cracked vanilla beans. He’s naturally corpse-cold, but the slightest bit of warmth radiates off his skin, permeating through the layers of your clothes.

Must’ve fed on something viscous wandering the woods before he found you.

He brings you back when he pushes a glass into your hand.

“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” Astarion purrs, his tone colored with alcohol. With your breath held in your esophagus, you watch as he pops the stopper off the bottle with a pointed tooth. Spits it out. “Mind if I impede on your party of one?”

Your lips twitch. Like you’d ever say no to him. “Course not.”

And no, you do not nearly jump some 50 feet out of your skin when limber fingers curl around yours, bringing the glass up for him to fill it. He catches your stare over the rim, scarlet spun eyes alight with mischief. You look away as heat branches up your neck.

The dark liquid sloshes about as he fills his own glass. Fizzles, the sweet fragrance curling around your nose. “Finally, some good shit,” you breathe, taking a sip. Release a content sound as it bubbles on the back of your tongue. The burn of it washes over your nerves, loosening them.

Astarion scoffs, leaning back on the hand he positioned behind you. Adam’s apple bobs in your peripheral as he takes a swig. He redirects his attention to you, something of a pout occupying his lips. “Darling, you wound me. As if I would bring anything worse than that cheap excuse for booze you lot rave about. Four Loko, was it?”

You snicker, nursing your glass. Turn the stem between your fingers, examining the hardwood floor beneath.

Sure, he’s always had this thing with you. This way of squeezing himself beneath your skin where no one else could, turning you into some flustered mess. But you can’t deny you’ve missed his company. His eccentricities. His smell.

The years have dragged you all apart. Pushed you in different directions, your careers casting you out to sea. But like driftwood, you all floated back to shore. United under the same roof to celebrate Christmas and usher in the new year.

It’s a pleasant sensation, idling with the wine warming your veins.

The hum of his voice eases through your musings. “Mm, what’s this about?” Astarion queries around another mouthful of wine, signaling to the massacre at your feet.

You shrink. An uneasy smile rounds your cheeks. “Yeah, about that. Kinda got carried away.”

“Carried away? By the hells, it looks like you got into a fight with a pair of scissors and…lost. Abysmally.”

You snort. “Alright, alright. Take it easy. We can’t all be gifted with our hands like some people, Mister Art Teacher.”

Your stomach plummets. Blood turns to ice. The double entendre hits you like a sack of coal. You bring your glass to your lips to mask your unease. To mask the shakiness of your limbs.

Astarion exudes smugness, admiring his nails with a flourish of his fingers. “Well, these hands aren’t just made for sculpting works of art, my dear.”

You sputter, speckles of wine flying everywhere.

Astarion chuckles, the sound of it smooth as velvet. Leans closer, his elbow brushing your thigh as he reaches for something in front of you. You stiffen, biting the rim of your glass. It’s almost like you two haven’t been friends for years. Haven’t seen each other bleed, cry, piss, for God’s sake.

“Come,” beckons Astarion, taking up a roll of wrapping paper and plucking the box from between your legs.

You huff a disbelieving laugh. “What are you doing?”

He scoffs. Side-eyes you as if it’s as apparent as night and day. “Well, clearly, no one’s taught you the art of wrapping a bloody gift. I mean, look at this. A child could do better.”

Your shoulders touch your ears. Astarion’s disapproval is akin to upsetting your parents. Even after all this time apart, he still knows how to lay the insults on thick.

It’s kind of comical how he grumbles like an embittered old woman, unraveling some of the paper. Still methodical in everything he does, positioning the box in the center. Concentration pulls his brows together. “Fetch me that tape.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you relent before doing as he demanded instructed. His fingers ghost over your hand in pursuit of the tape, and you bristle.

Astarion goes into full scholar mode hereon, paper rippling around him as he cuts away. Moves like a butler masterfully laying out a tablecloth. No trace of inebriation lies in the shift of his fingers. It’s as if he hadn’t polished off a bottle of brandy before finding you.

“Typically, wrapping paper comes with a template. A set of squares or lines you can use to gauge where you need to cut.”

He gestures for the scissors. You scramble for them like a student eager to please their instructor.

“Depending on how precise you want the wrapping to be, you must trim off as much excess as possible whilst ensuring you have enough left to cover your parcel.”

“Interesting.”

You angle yourself closer, sitting up on your haunches. The bulb of your glass grows warm, stained with your fingerprints. You nod, genuinely intrigued. Chin finds the pocket of his shoulder—an affectionate gesture amongst longtime friends.

Astarion tenses. You wince, flinching away.

“Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s quite alright, darling.” He clears some phlegm from his throat. Squeezes your kneecap, presenting you with a fraction of a smile. Dragonflies tickle the lining of your stomach. He resumes his lesson as if his muscles aren’t pulled taut.

Your lips twitch. Seems Astarion’s not the only one capable of disarming those around him.

You cant your head along the slope of his shoulder, watching him work with the curiosity of a child.

“It helps to tape here.” Carefully, he layers a strip of tape near the edge of the box where paper meets cardboard. “So as to keep your paper from shifting.”

As Astarion leads on, you find yourself terribly distracted. Your vision ebbs and flows. Body buzzes. From his proximity or the wine, you’re unsure. It’s a pleasant sensation, nonetheless.

The cacophony of the cabin and your friends fade into a dull hum. Only the rumble of Astarion’s voice fills the wrinkles of your brain. He’s surprisingly nurturing despite how he outwardly projects himself to the world. Soothing as he speaks to you, gaze occasionally flitting your way to ensure you’re still with him.

Try as you might to focus, you find your lids drooping, your vision blurred around the edges. An inebriated smile teases your lips. You could fall below the inky depths of sleep like this, led into it by his voice. Still would feel perfectly safe on your descent, knowing he’d be there to haul you back to the surface.

You sit up to take him in. To observe the furrow of his brows, the coil of his lashes. The gilded lenses perched on his nose like a librarian. His mouth pulls into a tight line while he focuses. Plump and petal pink. Skin’s still smooth and dewy, glowing in the firelight like he’s descended from heaven. His hands move seemingly of their own volition. Caught in a dance he knows all too well, still pretty and delicate-looking, untouched by time.

You imagine what they’d feel like, clasped in yours. Thumb cruising over the grooves of your knuckles, pushing reassuring beneath your skin. How he’d look with a careless smile, whispering the sweetest supplications into the crown of your head.

Reality comes pitching forward, the moment ending too soon.

You blink out of your reverie as Astarion slides the box toward you. It softly thumps against your leg. Expertly wrapped with a bow in its center and ribbons waterfalling down its sides. You stare in awe. You could never master something so intricate.

“And that, my dear, is how you wrap a present.” Astarion pats your thigh with finality before leaning back with a sigh. Looks smug as ever whilst taking a sip of his forgotten wine.

You smirk. Offer Astarion a half-hearted applause, and he eats it all up.

“I envy whatever bastard receives this, honestly,” he croons around the mouth of his cup. “I outdid myself.”

You chuckle. Your inhibition is thrown to the wolves. You eye the present, your body vibrating with anticipation. Maybe it’s the liquid encouragement urging you forward, loosening your tongue. Whatever the cause, you push on.

“I mean, I’d hope he likes it. He took his time wrapping it, after all.”

Astarion casts you a sidelong glance. Snorts into his glass. Realization gradually descends on his features. It’s funny watching his face morph into something akin to a confused puppy.

You shrug, caught like a child rifling through a cookie jar. It takes a moment, but his brows finally lift with an unasked question.

Seriously, they ask. For me?

You reach for the box, pointedly avoiding his stare. The heat of bashfulness inhabits your cheeks as you carefully slip the box into his lap. Your hand lingers. Fingers tenderly grip the meat of his quad, stars dancing across the stratosphere of your eyes when you muster the courage to look at him.

“Merry Christmas, Starry.”

He sputters. Sits up. Glances between you, the box, and the clock perched above the mantle. It’s midnight. Tradition dictates you open one present at the cusp of Christmas day.

Astarion laughs, something airy and pleasant. His hand closes over yours, and he squeezes. He’s beautiful like this. Youthful as he glances up at you, his mouth working around a reply.

“You cheeky little shit. Making me wrap my own gift. The gall.”

He acts offended, but you know that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Would you rather I have wrapped it?”

You both warily eye your shit attempts at wrapping his gift.

“Fair enough,” he jests with a resigned drop of his shoulders.

You share a laugh, the air between you charged with affection. Through it all, you note Astarion’s hand has yet to leave yours. Thumb kneads reassuring circles into the clutch of your hand. Your heart thrums a war cadence in your ears, blotting out the sound of his wine glass clinking against the floor as he sets it down.

He releases a breath. Observes you a moment longer with a warm smile on his lips. Shifts his gift onto the floor beside him. “Come here,” Astarion murmurs, saturating your vision with nothing but him as he leans closer.

You heed his request, and your lids lower, a pleasant shiver sifting through your bones at his glacial fingers at the nape of your neck. You have but seconds to appreciate the flutter of his lashes before he closes in.

He fuses his lips to yours with such precision. Tender, supple. Just like you always dreamed they would be. He’s frigid, but he scorches you from within. Gently takes possession of your cheek, coaxing your lips to part with the slide of his tongue after your body relaxes.

You grant him the entry he requests with an abrasive sound easing from your throat. Warmth pools in the chasm of your belly whilst your tongues intermingle and the maple taste of brandy pushes into your mouth.

His voice vibrates in your mouth as he chuckles something satisfied. He breaks the kiss with a soft click, and you chase his mouth in pursuit of another.

“Don’t be greedy, darling,” he husks with a teasing tap to your nose.

Your eyes cautiously slide open. Lips still pursed, head still swimming. “What was that all about,” you breathe into the space between your mouths.

Astarion chuckles, all fangs and mirth. You follow his gaze skyward, a blur of forest green and red nestled between the space of your lashes. Slowly, the distortion works itself into discernable shapes. You laugh at the telltale plant dangling above your head. Held by him.

“Mistletoe,” he croons as if it’s the most obvious thing.

You giggle, your nose brushing along the peak of his whilst you draw him in to press your foreheads together.

The time eases by with you sitting together by the fireplace, your cheek resting on Astarion’s shoulder as you regale stories of a childhood once passed. Hardly notice when you’re beckoned to sleep by the pretty girls of slumber.

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #softstarion #bg3 fluff #astarion fluff #mutual pining #friends to lovers #christmas fluff #christmas fic #holiday fic #astarion x gn reader #tw: alcohol #tw: profanity

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Two of a Kind 7

Masterlist

NO TAGS. Don't ask.

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; manipulation; criminal behaviour; cumplay/creampie, talk of contraception; written for smut, just being honest. Not all elements will be tagged/warned.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. It features dark!Ransom Drysdale and dark!Modern Charles Blackwood. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Ransom and Charles are partner’s in crime but they’re looking for some pleasure after years of business.

Note: :)

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya.

Charles helps the girl stand. She's shaking like a leaf as she covers her stomach with her free arm. She tries to hide her vee behind her hand as she leans on him heavily. The feel of her trembling makes his dick twitch.

"Should just drive her home," Ransom speaks around the stogie.

"You're always such a prick," Charles chuckles. He knows Ransom just likes to see the girls squirm. "Come on, baby, nice hot bath for you since you did so good."

"Since you're so fucking tight," Ransom sneers.

She sniffles as Charles slings his arm under hers and leads her past the shameless man puffing grey smoke into the air, "I told you not to do that inside."

"I opened a window."

Charles issues him a dull look and a shake of the head as he continues past. She leans into him as her feet slap on the floor clumsily. If he wasn’t holding onto her, she’d collapse. He can tell. She’s weak. It’s getting him going again.

He brings her into the bathroom as she murmurs, her head lolling forward. Fuck he is goddamn hard again. Twice already and he’s ready to blow. He’s no underperformer but he can’t remember the last time he was like this. Insatiable, as many described him in most matters.

He flips up the toilet lid around her and sits her down. He pets her head as she slumps.

“You should go, clear everything out or you might get an infection,” he lets his fingers drag over her shoulder, “we don’t want that, do we?”

She nods, he thinks. She’s half-bent over her lap as she grips her head. As the soft trickle hits the toilet seat, she sinks further into shame. As drunk as she is, she’s still self-conscious. Even after he was just in her guts.

Stop. He looks down at his bobbing dick. It’s starting to fucking hurt and his head isn’t making it any better.

He goes to the tub and cranks on the four-pronged faucets. The house is not the nicest place he’s been in but he likes the bathroom. Deep tub, lots of counter space, big mirrors. He glances over his shoulder at the mirrors the cover the expanse of one wall above the floating counter. He could fuck her in front of them, make her watch herself.

Later. He has to reprimand himself as he did Ransom. Don’t wanna break the girl. Not yet.

He puts the stopper in place and stands. He goes to her and helps her up, pausing to flush the toilet behind her. He as good as carries her to the tub and lifts her over the edge. He reclines her against the back and she stares up with glassy eyes.

He stands and watches her. She suddenly spasms as a sob erupts from her. She gulps as the tears spring forth and she blather uncontrollably. He touches her shoulder. It’s the alcohol, it makes everything feel much more intense.

“Shh, baby, you’re alright,” he comforts.

Her eyes drift over then fall down to his pulsing erection. He’s suddenly very self-aware as his tip presses to his stomach. He stands straight as she shields herself with a weak hand.

“I can’t... please, no more,” she begs.

"Shh, honey," he coos, the pet name surprising even him. She just seems so pathetic.

He backs up and grabs a towel. He covers himself and nears the tub once more. Maybe it was a bit too much. Well, she's fucked up enough it won't be that bad in the morning.

"Do you like tea?" He asks. She nods and wipes her face. "Alright, I'll get you some."

He retreats and stops at the door, glancing back at her. Hm.

"Ransom!" He hollers as he comes out into the hall, "get your ass in here."

The other man appears at the end of the hall and struts down in a pair of silk boxers. He could roll his eyes at him. Sometimes he thinks he's working with a moron. Well, the man would be an easy mark, especially with his grandfather's legacy. Not the time, Charles.

"Keep an eye on her so she doesn't go under." Ransom scoffs as he approaches, "fucked her silly."

"Sure," he taps Ransom's arm with his knuckles. "The last thing we need is a dead girl."

"Mm, nope, she's lively, huh? The way she whined..."

Charles clears his throat as his balls ache, "yeah. Anyway, watch her, will ya?"

Ransom clucks but steps into the doorway. He leans on the frame and narrows his eyes at the girl, his hand going to his hip. That's the biggest problem. Ransom doesn't know when to stop.

"Just watch," Charles warns, "she's had enough."

"Man, I think she had enough at the first knuckle," Ransom brings his fingers up to sniff, "didn't stop us before."

"Hey, we didn't put in all this work for one night, alright? I don't got the energy and I know you don't either," Charles huffs, "you wanna keep buying bimbos drinks down at Lights? No. We get her on lock and it's easy. Stress relief."

Ransom snickers and peers at the girl again, "she is fucking... tight."

"Hm, yeah," he agrees. "I'll be back."

Charles goes to the kitchen and sighs. Goddamn he is hard. He can hardly remember what he was doing.

Tea. Right. Yeah. It'll calm her down. If they even have any.

👄

You shiver as the cool air tingles over your shoulders. The hot water contrasts the chill as you languish in the deep tub. You stare at the ceiling, vaguely aware of voices, filled with dread at what they'll do next.

A shadow moves into the room and you look over warily. It's Ransom. He leans on the counter as he watches you. You stare back, waiting for it, bracing for more pain. He doesn't move.

"Consider yourself lucky, babe," he chuckles, "not a lot of girls pop their cherry on something that big." You tremble and turn forward, embarrassed. "I know it's huge, the way you were squirming, but you're also..." he makes a sucking noise, "tight as shit."

"Why... why are you doing this?" You sniffle.

"Babe, babe, why did I choose you? Why did I spend my money, my time on a girl no one gives a second look to? Huh. You should be thanking me," he sneers, "and what do you got now? All the sweet little act means nothing if you're not a virgin. You're just another slut now."

"No," you shake your head and sit up, hiding your face. "I'm not--"

"You are. You just took two men at once. Who the fuck does that but a slut like you? But babe, we don't gotta throw you out. Not if you keep being a good little slut for us. I mean," he nears the side of the tub, "no one else is gonna want a used hole."

You whimper and hang your head, folding your arms over it as you bend your knees under your elbow. He's right. You're used and dirty. You hear another set of footsteps and another shadow darkens the edge of your vision. Ransom backs up and snorts.

"What's going on?" Charles asks.

"Nothing, we were just talking," Ransom says, "she was just saying how much fun she had."

Charles clucks as you frown and lift your head. The brunette shoulders around the blond and comes to you with a mug. Steam coils from the brim.

"How about we get you out and you can wait for it to cool in bed? All comfy?"

"Jesus, Charlie, she's not a fucking baby."

"Shut up," Charles snaps back, "she did a real good job and she earned it," he sets the mug down on the short stool near the tub, "isn't that right, baby? So good. So you wanna get out and have your tea and get some rest, right? You take care of us, we take care of you."

Your lip quivers as you stare at him. You're dizzy and dazed and dumb. You don't understand why this is happening. You're a nice person. You nod. Thinking is only making your head hurt worse. Charles helps you out of the the tub and grabs another towel to wrap you in. He brings it around your shoulders and squeezes before he turns to drape his arm around you.

"Come on, you wanna sleep in my room?" He coos.

You just sniff and wipe your raw cheek again. He takes you down the hall and opens a door, taking you inside. He flips on the lights and sits you on the edge of the king bad within. You stay there as he shifts around the room. He returns and replaces the towel with a shirt. You thank him. Why did you do that? Thank you? After everything.

He guides you to lay against the pillows. The bed smells like him, a hint of citrus and sweat. Your eyes are glued to the ceiling as he leaves you. Your trance breaks only as a cup clinks down loudly.

You blink as a weight dips beside you. You wince as Charles pulls the blanket out from under you then over you. You shake and puts his hand on your arm. It makes you still, somewhat soothing yet startling all the same.

“Drink your tea, honey,” he caresses your arm as he nestles closer.

#charles blackwood #ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale #dark charles blackwood #dark!charles blackwood #dark!ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #charles blackwood x reader #knives out #we have always lived in the castle #drabble #series #two of a kind #au #multifandom

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passivenovember · 7 months ago

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posting this because I'm drunk and it will never go anywhere! Please feel free to expand on it, but i ask that you TAG ME SO I CAN READ!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS <3

When the door opens, Steve's sock feet slip on the mattress, traction failing while he tries to hide, to get away, to cower.

And.

Eddie's never been grateful for Billy's silk sheets before. He's never really thought about them at all, to be honest, save the few times he's accidentally put them in the dryer on high tumble right before Steve comes over. Right before Billy, needs them, you fucking asshole.

His grateful for them now.

There's a wet spot blooming on their silvery face, little spiderwebs of slick under Steve's ass when he twists, ending up on his side. "Don't," Steve says, whimpering when something tugs on him. Somewhere. Outside, inside--

"Don't look," Steve says, chest heaving like he's finished a marathon. Like he's being chased by a psycho killer with a big, sharp knife.

Steve's tied to the headboard with soft, silky ribbon. Trapped by his wrists, like a fish on a hook. His legs flop back down to the mattress, and his cock slaps against his stomach, fat and long and angry red.

He's got a stopper in, and.

Eddie can't. Not look.

He's frozen in place. His palm sweats against the door handle. His knees knock. "I--"

"Shut the fucking door!"

Eddie does. He leans against it, eyes stuck on the thick base of Steve's cock. He's got a ring there, too, tighter than the one keeping him hard. It looks like it hurts, it's got. Bats on it.

"Get out of here, Munson--"

"--Where's Billy?" He asks, soft. Worried. The door is on fire behind him. Burning up.

"He's coming back," Steve says. Bitchy. High and whiny, like Billy's gonna walk in on this and flip out.

He probably will.

Eddie frowns, "Why'd he leave you tied up like this?"

"I asked him to," Steve squirms, panting loudly. He's trying not to moan. His eyebrows knit together, then, tongue laving to swipe at his bottom lip. Something's buzzing. A phone, maybe. Then the tendons on Steve's neck strain and he arches his back a little, head pressing hard into the pillow underneath him. "Shit," He says, gasping, "Goddamn--"

Eddie can't breathe. "Why'd you want--"

"--Why the fuck do you care?" Steve spits, straining against the silk on his wrists. "What we do shouldn't matter at all."

"It does."

"It shouldn't." The buzzing intensifies, and Steve makes this fucking noise, like. This tiny little scraped-from-the-bottom-of-his-lungs, kinda thing. His thighs tense, cock bobbing up and down three times, balls drawn close to the cropped hair of his taint.

He's coming.

Eddie realizes that Steve's coming dry, the tiny little ring and ball keeping him stopped up.

#harringrove #metalsandwich #lemon? maybe a grapefruit #or if there's something more sour than a lemon #lmaooooo #anyway

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madefortherain · 2 months ago

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snippet!

ahhh thank you sm @rae-lune, @zoemillinwrites, @barkingatthemooninsteadofwriting & @mybelovedmoon for the tags!! truly spoilt with snippets <3 so so much of what i’ve been writing recently i’m not able to share yet (which i am really so not used to lol), but here is a rough something i’ve dredged up from my next when the world goes quiet chapters…..

“I’m not—I’m not ready,” Remus continues, finally looking into Sirius’ eyes, a kaleidoscopic smear of somethings swimming in his gaze. “But…I will be. Alright?” “Do you promise?” Remus stares, the corners of his mouth sinking down slightly. Sirius hates him just a little bit for that. For the way it immediately makes him want to apologise, the way it stirs something almost like shame in his gut. At a familiar table; a flippant question stoppered inside of a clinking glass bottle, cast without expectation into the steady stretch of sea between them: “Do you always mean what you say, then?” Remus’ flickering gaze; his foreign honesty stowed on the lilting, bobbing boat of his voice: “Yes.” Remus won’t lie, Sirius knows—not blatantly, anyway, not directly. So he won’t promise it. “Right,” Sirius mutters. “You know what, just forget it. Not like I’m entitled to know anything, anyway.” Remus’ fingers sneak under the lenses of his glasses, press into the loose, lash-stitched seams of his eyes. “That’s not fair. Sirius, I’m trying.” He whispers the words, shipwrecks, into the heels of his palms. Sirius turns and slumps back against the kitchen counter. “Me too,” he admits—and what a terrible thing it is, to be trying.

no pressure taggingggg…. @1ftinreality & @belovedcampfire if u have anything you’re willing to share 🤲💌

#me vs trying to write even the mildest of angst #equals the slowest progress known to man !!!!#fic: when the world goes quiet #tag game #my writing

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variousqueerthings · 5 months ago

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predictions going into the finale (not tonight, but this upcoming week)

so off the back of this season i feel like several pieces have been set to potentially come full circle/move into the next stage of the story during or because of the finale:

fraser and ray: they're officially friends and they've both gone quite far for each other in asylum and dead man walking, the latter of which had ray being willing to hide a body in the police station from the police for the sake of ray vecchio at fraser's behest, but they're "untested" on the really big stuff. i think something big is going to happen and ray will be there in fraser's corner -- this will be both in terms of something immediate (mortal danger?) and emotionally

fraser and meg: in a very awkward place, will be difficult to navigate -- we've had her assertion that she would kill for him, but also then ofc what happened during their last interaction, which seemed to really break things. possibly this will affect the finale in some way? either they'll sort something out or it'll linger/be referenced in some noticeable way?

bob fraser in the closet: his ghost!dad has generally been more emotionally supportive this season, or at least mostly better at connecting with him. also someone mentioned being sorry to hear about his death for the first time since... maybe the pilot??? there's something about grief in this season that has been unlocked due to ray vecchio's leaving and it's spilled into all kinds of other places that were perhaps stoppered but never fully dealt with -- especially his father's death. will this be revisited in some way?

both rayk's and fraser's mental states have been given a fair bit of focus throughout this season. i wonder if this frayed-ness will come to the fore and have them both become more stable as consequence of each others support

will stella be there/have an effect on the narrative?

same goes for frannie

since it's a double-episode, in a more general sense I assume the first half will set up some big idea that'll have the fallout occur in the second half. i wonder if it'll be something that might shake fraser's support structures to see who's really on his side and perhaps will come full circle with how the season began (fraser as a wild man in canada somehow?) --

i do think about how victoria's secret saw victoria attempting to frame him in order to push him into a corner and i wonder if this time a villain we've seen before in this season will trip him up, and similarly make fraser have to reevaluate himself in the world (or maybe it'll be a seemingly random series of events that cascade...? but something breaks in the first half, is the feeling im having)

will law enforcement fail him? except for ray kowalski perhaps?

and then, thematically: grief, healing, finding some connection, staving off the loneliness, rebuilding yourself (or starting to) when you've had a period of feeling like you've fallen to pieces

tonally: could it be towards the darker end of the show? s3 has generally been more somber on the whole -- yes, s1+2 had some really intense episodes, but s3's overall tone has included more overt and gruesome deaths throughout, more darkly lit scenes, more bleak surrealism, and more narratives of main characters feeling lost and unsure of themselves

so perhaps this will be the vibe of the finale, faced head-on

we'll see!

secret final question is: how much do s3+4 connect? does one lead into the next narratively, or are they more emotionally attached? i don't think it'll end on a cliffhanger, but let's see

#im watching due south s3 #we shall. see.

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viskarenvisla · 2 months ago

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The Night Is Ours: Chapter 6 - To Kill a Rockstar

“You think this shit is just fun and games, dontchu.” I tightened my fingers around the revolver’s handle. "Just think you can kick the door down, kill whatever you want. Shred, get drunk, fuck all over the corpse."

“Not like anyone took the trouble to write down the Laws of the Hunt. Even if they were, who’d gonna be the cops? You miserable Apex fuckers?” He ashed his cigarette…wasn’t even talking harsh. No smugness, no mocking or judging me.

He pitied me.

Stillness hung between us.

I moved first.

Ferals used to control Penn's Point y'know...pft there's that pigeon-stare of disbelief. Yes you dumb pups, used to be Abathor and his slimy brood'd step from the edge of their turf in those swamps outside of West Dalton. They'd swim like sharks along a current of their making, crawl onto the shore, terrorize whoever their big daddy monster told 'em to...that's one reason the Point changed hands so many times – just a natural magnet for war I guess. Heh...give you three guesses what Vera was bringin' to the Point that night...

Doomed to be a killer

Since I came out the nutsac

I'm in a murderous mindstate

With a heart full of terror

I see the devil in the mirror

BUCK BUCK, Lights out...

I bobbed my head for a bit to Ice Cube barking rage into my ear. Dipped my finger in the jar of war paint.

Had to lean pretty close to the mirror to get the white jagged lines just right around my lips...never was much one for makeup, ‘cept maybe some eyeliner, bit of red on my lips when they weren’t hot with blood. Tonight though...ivory jaguar fangs, stylized but simple along my jaws.

That shit spoke to me, ¿entiendes? Jaguar Knights were long dead, their heads stuck on pikes by Cortés five centuries ago, but war…hell, long as there were Mortals, there’d be war. Used to be, the Knights, they dragged doomed fools off the battlefield, got their hearts ripped out to keep the sun rising day by day.

That big cat still crept through conflict like a symbol; even a stupid fuckin' gringo like Yusuf Mizrah could understand what it meant when I came at him wearing fangs. I'd leave 'im alive...probably...but I wasn't rolling up on Penn’s Point to take prisoners tonight.

‘Cause your body is exposed to the midnight mist,

All you weak motherfuckers give my ring a kiss.

A black stripe under each eye. Hair tied back undera blood red bandana. I held up Big Ben – a burnished blue S&W Model 25. Loaded with fat .45 ACPs. I flicked the cylinder, gave him a spin...I loved that sound, a rapid click-clack that sang different when loaded up with six man-stoppers. If I had anything to say about it - and I had everything to say - at least one of these would bust open Yusuf Mizrah.

Head. Guts. Maybe I’d blast his fuckin’ dick off, just to make a point. Didn't matter where, motherfucker would regrow it, but he'd get the message I shoulda given him the first time I walked up in his turf.

Yusuf Mizrah was that pea under my pillows, fuckin’ up my good night’s sleep. Asshole thought he was special, like he could get away with shit. "Don't wanna take me seriously, pretty-boy puto? Last mistake you make." It wouldn’t be, of course, he'd live to fuck up another day unless I decided to put more than two .45s through his skull -

I can't .

...the fuck ?

Like a voice in my head that was mine, but wasn't...like my conscience decided to choose the worst time to make her debut appearance.

Wasn't like me to hesitate before dropping bodies; nah, fuck that shit. If I needed, I'd shove the barrel right behind his teeth, kissin' up against the roof, pull the trigger and -

I can't.

"Qué chingados is that shit?!" I shouted, fangs ripping bloody from my gums. I screamed at the weak fuckin' bitch in my head who thought I was better than this. I wasn't better. There was no fuckin’ better, no worse —

This life was a zero sum game. You win, you live another day, you take home the prize.

You lose?

I slowly brought the pistol up, pressed the barrel to my temple, staring myself down in the mirror. "Buck buck. Lights out."

I was a bad fuckin' bitch with a big cat's killing grin, black ink-shadow around my eyes...looked good too. Navy blue sports bra, utilitarian and sleek, but it showed enough cleavage to keep Yusuf’s eyes wandering. Levis faded from too many trips through the laundry, they rode low and tight on my hips.

Wanted him to see who he was messin' with – take a nice long look.

Cuz real talk, I liked when he looked. More than when Mateo, Jo or Diana checked me out. Couldn’t admit it, not out loud, barely even in my brain-meat.

This bullshit contradiction rattled my skull – one minute I wanted him to smash me til I screamed, the next minute I wanted to blast him til he was dead – no doubt about it, some Enkindled curse. Got me all fucked up, hormonal catalysts weren’t doing shit. Never been in this kinda dumbass situation, my heart screaming wide-jawed for blood and my lower belly tense and coiled like a snake, calling for him.

Only violence could unravel this kind of twisted shit.

Violence solved all problems; war was good for absolutely everything.

I snapped the safety, slid Big Ben into my waistband…cold steel kept me on my toes. Civvies could gawp all scared but I didn’t give a fuck. Uncle Sam himself gave me the go-ahead, Louisiana state law said I could open-carry all I wanted. Didn't need no clerk’s permit.

You'd be hard pressed to find someone in the Riviera who wasn't strapped or rolling with someone who was. It was just that kind of town. So was Penn's Point, but Mizrah? Galen? Too arrogant. Yusuf was from tulip-blue Chicago, wasn't used to how we did things down here in the Land of Traitors.

Out the door of my mama's house – passed down to me when the liver disease took her. Wasn’t much to flex about, low-slung bungalow with a white picket fence and yard. Unlike other slobs in my neck of town who were lucky to score a family-dwelling home this deep in-town, I kept it clean. No vehicle-corpses bleeding oil on the grass. No overgrown, ratty-ass yard like a field of untrimmed pubes. Hell...I even kept up that rusty-eaten old jungle gym me and my hermanita beat to shit when we were kids.

I kept my ride at home – just a thirty minute walk through the neon-blazing streets, sidewalks thick with civvies getting lit and thieves taking their due. The Crimson glow colored my white hoody red as maraschino cherries, red as organ blood...made me think of the light in that bathroom at Temple Hall (not to mention it smelled a bit like piss out here too).

I popped a marb from a red box in my pocket, slid it between my lips...tonguing the filter slowly, rolling it between my sharp teeth and tasting the bitter war paint. My thoughts drifted back to when I first got a load of that prettyboy hijo de puta ...

Lotta Firstbloods couldn't tolerate big-ass, rowdy crowds of Mortals. Sensory overload or whatever – too much paranoia around Prey that could suddenly turn on us, wipe us all off the face of the Earth. Lucky me, us Night Howlers weren’t so easily shook.

Yeah, I loved a room full of easily spooked mortals as much as the next Turnskin, but I wasn’t chasing no 'undying glory' .

I threw down a quick but heavy imprecation – the Humans would see exactly who they expected to see – and I juked past security, Jo’s 9mm hugging my hip. I wasn’t exactly looking to start shit, cuz you didn’t bring a Glock 17 if you were serious about dropping a Therid. Bleeding Yusuf out though, that wasn’t the game plan when I followed him into that rank-as-sin bathroom.

Not gonna lie, there’s something dirty about jumping a dude while he’s taking a piss. Honest as I’m standing, I really considered it, watching him piss into that concrete ditch. Honorable, cool-headed thing to do would have been to just wait for him to finish, zip up, then have my words with him.

Thing is, I’d heard about Yusuf Mizrah. A disciple of Celais Song wasn’t gonna look at me seriously if he didn’t know I could take him out. I’d stick his ass in checkmate first, then we could hash it out.

I whispered that same imprecation against him and his brain cloaked me against his eyes. He glanced right past me, smirking all confident even he thought he was alone. He zipped up (and yeah, I had to resist the urge to check what he was workin’ with). I slid behind him while he was washing his hands, and good on ‘im. I’d probably have just gunned him down on principle if he hadn’t.

I stabbed the barrel up against his kidney. Squeezing off a bullet there meant he'd bleed like a stuck pig, fucked for his little show…not to mention it’d hurt like a burning bitch to fix the pulped meat I’d leave him with.

“Just take my wallet before you start to regret this," and ooo he sounded real pissy. Even all angry like that, I could feel its baritone thrum working its bullshit magic.

This wasn't the time to act like some fucking fool girl with a hard clit and a headful of jitters.

Nah like, I probably overcompensated when I snatched the back of his neck and slammed his princely face right against the bathroom countertop. Rattled his teeth, bruised his cheekbone. "Don't even think about trying shit, I'll cap you before your show. You wouldn't like that,” I warned him, a quiet threat…bit too close to a purr for my liking. I dug my fingers into a pressure point, real mean, just to remind him who was holding the cards.

Son of a bitch wasn’t fazed for shit.

He cranked his head to look at me from where I had him bitch-bent on the sink–motherfucker was smirking. “You’re Vera Estrada, aren’t you.”

I kept my mouth shut but the quiet was louder than any answer.

“Heard you had some balls on you, didn't think you'd just come kicking into my turf like this,” he chuckled in this…dumb fuckin’ Yankee accent all cocksure.

Goddamn if I wasn’t flattered.

I leaned my elbows up against the Baxter Bridge railing, watching yachts churn the oily water. Their wakes smeared rougey lights across the Red Rock River...looked like a river of gore, pouring into the Gulf's hungry maw. I bet there was some hidden meaning there, but fuck if I could figure it out.

My first big mistake? Not hitting him from the get go. I’m not talking kissing his face against the countertop, I mean something real . Blowing his kidney out, for example…or at the least pistol whipping his teeth into his mouth. Wouldn’t be smiling all cute and shit then. Yeah...that's what I'd do this time when I got to him. No words, just let the pistol do the talking.

"Can I do it?" I asked aloud, grinning at my distorted reflection like a fuckin’ lunatic...looked like some goofy bitch, neon-lit all red like I was blushing, smiling like a dumb-ass girl at one of his concerts. That's what his Enkindled bullshit did to me.

"Kinda the first question aint' it. Just how *deep* are those little bitch-claws of his sunk?"

My reflection mirrored my lips, like she was asking the question.

I wracked my brain, hunting for what he did to make me hesitate...

"Can I look at you?"

It wasn’t like he came at me all hard like, 'bitch show your face if you're gonna roll up on me', or all 'look me in the eye'. His voice was soft, a bit husky like he was clowning around. Not like he had lead ready to punch through him.

“The fuck – bro.” I moved my hand up his back to grab his hair, my traitor fingers wandering over the crags of his sinews threaded on his spine. He wasn’t supposed to be acting all coy and shit. “I’m not here to play with you – ”

“Well I wanna know what you look like, and then I’ll talk."

I balked just a bit, caught like a buzzard hovering in the thermal of his voice.

“Come on,” he purred all mischievous and unshaken, “we’re both just running through different parts of the Jungle…least you can do is look me eye-to-eye if you’re gonna roll up in my turf.”

Damn him...even in this piss-and-shit stinkin' bathroom I could smell him, and he smelled good. Too good for his own good.

His voice wrapped around me like smoke, and I found myself wondering what the harm was…yeah, you know, I wanted him to have a look, see just who the fuck he was messing with.

I thought he’d size me up, maybe sneer at me like a real tough guy.

Yusuf Mizrah, trouble maker, kin-killer, an annoyingly handsome threat (even if my own pack was too damn blind to see it)...

He drank me in like I was stunning. Even with the Glock staring down his belly, ready to rip holes in his guts, son of a bitch made me feel beautiful.

I hated that shit.

I fuckin’ rejected it.

I loved it , even as I was setting myself up for the hurt.

The male gaze wasn’t exactly what got me off. Not most of the time anyway. Jo used to tell me my eyes were a sacred darkness; Mateo loved my hair, called it a ‘black silk waterfall’ - only poetic thing he ever said. Diana was all about my tits, said they were nice and perky–but Yusuf’s eyes crawled over my everything, hooked on all my best parts.

I stuck my lower lip out like I was getting bored, hooded my gaze to kill the light in my eyes. My belly did this flutter-kick when his stare dropped to the space between my neck and hips. It made me remember the slick heat between my thighs–Mateo and I had gone at it earlier, he was still hot in me. Wasn’t something I’d normally even register.

This time I felt desired. Real sexy. I knew he could smell my packmate in me, didn’t know he’d look at me like he wanted to push Mateo’s cum deeper in…I tried not to think of his own, mingling together in me. Fucker could tell I was thinkin’ something, grinning all snide like that at me. Something about his eyes on me, got my palms all sweaty.

Yusuf was a fine bastard and he knew it. He wasn’t as big, not as thick in the chest as Mateo but those six feet still stacked like the protag of an action movie. Nice hair too. Looked like he’d gotten a fade and let it grow just enough for those black bristles curl a bit in the humidity. I remembered how it felt under my fingers, soft and sharp, springing back into place.

Had to say somethin’, elsewise I’d start gawping like a fangless groupie. "You tryin’ some Enkindled staring-contest shit to mesmerize me, bonitillo?” He didn’t answer…can’t lie, I was staring at his abs, wondering if I could find a reason to throw hands with him, find an excuse to drag my nails over them.

Then he said it: “Nah…pretty sure you already got me all spiral-eyed. Might wanna gun me down first before it gets complicated.”

It was a hokey fuckin’ line, and it made my heart's season change from slow-thawing winter to dew-slicked Spring.

Summer heat burned in my chest, putting steel in my step as I stalked across Baxter Bridge, keeping my eyes peeled for turf warnings.

Spotted one right from the get-go…motherfuckers were serious. One of the red-painted cross struts on the bridge had been tagged with a pair of interlinked blue crowns. Decent graffiti. Weren’t just a claim.

It was a challenge facing my own territory, like they were beckoning us to stroll into the Point and find out just who ran the show. If they’d had their roots dug in here the bridge would have been warded; runes filled with Accursed Blood, emitting a psychic scream only we could hear…like a dog whistle carved outta asphalt. Would made my ears bleed, and they’d come running, loaded for bear.

None of that though. The only sound was traffic and Penn’s Point crumbling before me…place was basically a shit-filled ditch compared to the Riviera. It was one of those districts you shunned unless you had business you couldn’t avoid – like Ashland’s outskirts, riddled with nothin’ but car dealerships and meth dens. Here across the bridge, it was all foundries and warehouses, stinking of soldering flux and sun-cooked tin roofs roasted the air.

Sweaty workers whose jobs hadn’t been sent off to China, Mexico or New Sarmatia took their anemic paychecks into brownstone wannabes. Their facades were coal-stained and rain-worn.

I bet ya’ll think I’m paranoid about the so-called ‘Kings of Midnight’...just two of em, nothing against an established pack of four, right?

Well those two bastards had cleaned out the bratva , those unaligned perdedores squatting at that arcade – hell I heard they killed Big Belly, giant-ass Spider-Ogre living on top of the train station.

Two guys pulled that off in three nights.

You think a force like that was gonna just stop there?

Obviously not. They were more than just a danger to our pride; the Kings of Midnight were a pair of knives pointed at our throats and hearts. I wish Mateo would pull his skull outta his ass and take ‘em seriously.

He’d been slipping, ever since he started cozying up with the Fangs. Probably had it in his hollow head that they’d protect us.

It was like he’d forgotten how we took the Riviera by our own damned selves with nobody at our backs.

The faint stink of someone smoking a clove nearby brought Yusuf’s visage flashing before my eyes - dragged my thoughts back to that bathroom…

“Look at you. El rey de su pinche cuchitril. Bet you feel real big.”

Yeah…look at that bastard grin, you know he was feeling like he was nine feet tall. “Been wondering since I crossed the bridge, started dodging trash, this got something to do with the shit you and your skinny-ass boyfriend stirred up in Baton Rouge? Draggin’ darkness to our doorstep?”

Saw how that pushed his buttons. Baton Rouge was a fuckin’ disaster. It’d never been a paradise, even if it’d flown Apex colors.

Now the Jungle there was a moon-blasted ruin, packed with moon-blasted, freakshow Wolves. Black Banner fingerprints all over, caught silver-handed.

Shoulda been humiliating for ‘em, but nothing ever dented their confidence.

Sure enough – “No, it doesn’t.” Rolled right off his back, barely seemed to care. "But you know same as I do – there ain't a lotta people who could survive something like that. So...like you said."

He posed for me, cocky as hell like he was on camera. “Here we are.”

Made me feel like a background extra, not the queen-bitch of the Riviera who’d spilled liters of blood from man and monsters claiming this place.

“For now,” I agreed, invading his space and jamming the tip of Jo’s Glock under his chin–had him looking serious for a hot second, 9mm would blow out his brainstem and even we didn’t recover easily from that.

“But I want you to understand something, fuckin’ pendejo. If you fuck with my people, if you so much as hum your little songs up in my territory, we'll take everything you have. All of it."

“Think you can take everything I'm bringing, huh?” Fucker didn’t even blink.

Didn’t even flinch.

Sounded like he was inviting me for a roll in his sheets, and I ain’t gonna lie: it was pretty hot. Too hot.

Enough that I let him push the pistol away slow and easy, breaking down my last shield against him.

"Think you can take me?" he dared to ask.

This -fucking guy-. "Me cago en todo, cabrón…" I hissed through my teeth, like I was exhaling burning propane. “They said you were a fucking talker, didn’t know you for a playful fool.”

Then again, I was the one holding the pistol slack by my side…so you tell me:

Who was the fuckin’ fool here exactly?

At that point I'd lost.

Tried to sound tough, like I wasn't bitin’ what he was sellin’ but he'd hooked me through the lip. I coulda salvaged it by leaving right there. Coulda saved my pride.

But I was just a blue bottle by then, buzzin’ loud and talking trash while his poison melted me from the inside.

That night the killing blow came from three angles at once.

First – he invited me to stay and watch him and Galen and play. Simple thing, like he was needling a knifepoint between my ribs.

Second – he did this…thing. Strode past me all confident, absent fear, brushed his shoulder against mine…felt his hip pass against my own. Didn’t even look at me, casual as Saturday. I knew it was a calculated move, bastardo probably overlaid a dweomer to make sure I wouldn’t forget how it made me hot and bothered.

Third – the actual killing blow itself, it came from that stage.

God. Fucking. Damn.

I’ve been to a hundred shows - from boy bands with my sister to badasses spittin’ bars, DJs famous and obscure. I’ve ever had guys serenading me at my window, and I’m telling you nothing coulda prepped me for that.

They weren’t just kings.

They were fuckin’ Tyrants.

They roared their edicts into a mic; shredded an apocalypse from bass and guitar; that drum was a thousand grenades blowing the world to bits.

Galen and Mizrah were the tyrants of our hearts, and nobody in that audience could resist them.

I dipped after the third song. Played like I was bored and had better shit to do, but the truth of it? If I stayed under Yusuf’s fiery stare, Galen’s razored grin, I’d be doomed.

Worse than I was now.

“I’m ripping that little snare of yours apart with my teeth,” I growled at the river, as if Yusuf was sneering up at me from the water. "Gonna make you beg me not to kill you this time...gonna make you *cry* like a scared little bitch."

Cuz there was no way I'd want him after that. Right?

I could do this.

I’d break him.

I’d free myself.

I'd click him off like a light-switch when I pulled the trigger, and just like that I'd be back in the dark.

Alone among my pack.

Walking blind in the dark where nobody could watch me fall.

That was better.

…right?

I crossed the bridge…immediately the change hit me, like stepping off the plane in another country (I’d never actually left the States but a girl could imagine).

The skyscrapers of the Riviera, clawing at the clouds for more , ever more, tumbled down into coal-stained brick carcasses…grungy warehouses with tin-roofs that heated up in the sun like a flat iron…

The air weighed more here.

It was thick with the final breaths of the murdered; whether they got stabbed in alleyway muggings gone wrong, or bled out slow in the jaws of industry, ghost-echoes of their death-screams polluted the smoggy air.

It didn’t fit Mizrah, didn’t fit Galen.

They were joy-drunk intruders – laughing, rocking out on stage – in a place made for hard-nosed bastards raised on a diet of gravel and disappointment.

That was part of why I clocked them as a threat from the get-go; they were dynamic in the bustling dust-stasis of Penn’s Point. The Red Crows? Blind.

Too busy squabbling with each other, puttin’ on this useless show of strength.

We were wounded lions arguing over who got the prettiest spot at the watering hole – the Midnight Kings were jackals. Already circling. Waitin’ for us to fall asleep.

I shoved my hands deep in my pockets and walked to DoomKnight’s.

About thirty minutes later.

"It's nothin' personal ese...nothin' you did." I explained myself, cool as steel as I shoved him into the alleyway.

He stumbled over his own feet, arms flailing like a baby bird tossed from its nest. Slammed hard into the pavement with a wet –smack–. Watched him with neutral disgust…weak Mortal prey.

He didn’t deserve this.

I ripped his pink and black tie-dye shirt at the collar hauling him around, and his jeans shorts were slipping down his waist. Briefs and buttcrack for all to see. Didn’t know his name, didn’t need to.

Didn’t matter. Wasn’t like I kept a list of all the people I’d mugged, back when that was my game. Fatass rolled over on his knees. "Wait wait PLEASE! Stop, here!" he held his thin wallet out in front of himself like a shield as much as an offering.

Under the surface, beneath the snarling beast I’d become years ago, I felt a twinge of regret. Reflexive, like reacting to a punch.

Don’t engage it. Don’t think about it.

Just do it.

I dug my fingers into his ripped collar, hauling back with a clenched fist–

–CRACK–

"NgghgHAAAAAGGGGH!”

The sound of his nose breaking was louder than it should have been. He covered his mouth as blood gushed down his chin. My middle knuckle ached as I drew back again.

Don’t think about it, Vera.

Punched him again. Right eye. Hard enough to make it swell shut, if not break his orbit.

A second punch, to the other eye, tears mixing with blood and snot. It smelled coppery and hot against the ashen air. He flailed and babbled, scrambling back and begging for mercy.

Don’t think.

He never hit me back once, never even tried. Just screamed. Bled. Sobbed. Tried to crawl away.

It's just business.

I hauled him up onto his knee, and this time he struggled; not enough to stop me wrenchin’ his arm behind his back.

I twisted, the joint popped free from socket and he made an animal sound of agony; his head shot back, hitting my sternum. Yeah it hurt, but he’d be fine, just pop it back into socket, weren’t like it was broken. I dared to look down at this man I was brutalizing.

Thinning hair yanked back in a greasy ponytail…didn’t look a day past 30. Fat and weak from a life of indolence and shitty food.

Couldn’t help but wonder who he was…who was I tormenting? Was he lonely? Did he have people depending on him? Anyone waiting at home?

*If Yusuf hadn't fucked with me, I wouldn't be making this guy pay for it.*

… Liar.

I spent a good minute boxing him on the ground, kicking him in the ribs. “Why?! What did I do?!” he begged through the tears, the blood, the mucous. I didn’t have a good answer for him, so I just kept swinging.

Didn’t pop no organs. Didn’t crack no bones – pretty sure I bruised his ribs though.

By the time I was finished with him, he was bent forward over himself on his knees. Holding his guts, his chest…crying like a little bitch. Normally I’d spit in disgust, watching a grown man bawl his eyes out.

Now though? I just hated myself.

Shit I mean, look at that. I was glad he couldn’t see my face when I bent down and undid my bandana, wiping the blood from his eyes. He crunched in on himself, inhaling wetly, bracing for more.

“Shh. I’m almost done, I promise man. This ain’t your fault,” I assured him. I lifted the back of his shirt, slid a sharpie from my pocket and wrote in thick, jagged letters:

MEET ME AT THE TALLEST SPOT IN YOUR TURF CABRÓN

WEAR SOMETHING YOU DON'T MIND BLEEDING ON

Finished it up, quick and clean. Then I hauled his broken ass to the doorway of DoomKnight’s. “Brace your head…chin against your chest,” I instructed in a softer voice than anyone ever heard, and threw him down the stairs like a swollen bag of trash.

Didn’t want no broken neck. Wasn’t that kind of monster yet.

I even slid a hundy in his back pocket before I tossed him.

Later.

I was sitting on the edge of DeFleur Tower. Hardly a tower – just an ugly brick shithole that stood a bit taller than its busted-ass siblings. My elbow was propped on my knee. In my head I was flipping through how this would go down, over and over.

Would he try to fight me? Show me the muscle he’d used on the wolves who’d owned that arcade?

No way he’d ambush me. Wasn’t his self-righteous, big bullshit style.

Bet he’d try talkin’.

Bet he’d try softenin’ me up with that silver tongued bullshit.

Wasn’t gonna be like last time, no no. I was gonna lay it out for him, straight and simple, let him in on how reality worked. I’d bury it home in his body with a .45 ACP round, so deep he’d carry my words to the worms.

I slid the revolver into my palm, popped the cylinder, spun it…that ratcheting click was a promise, and its rhythm cracked through me.

Reminded me of –

– Galen hammering the drums, fast as a machine gun, strobe lights flaring like muzzle flashes; saw him staring me down in the audience, hungry like a hawk leering at a rattlesnake. I hungered back, but to be taken into the sky and torn by him.

I felt...special.

Mizrah, a boot stomping down on a skull-shaped amp, fingers dancing across strings and fretboard till his guitar was screaming like a war-goddess, howling for more…never taking his eyes off of me.

Even when he screamed into the mic and–

"Vera." His voice clove the air behind me…baritone sharp as a skinning knife.

I slid my tongue over the ivory sharpness of my fangs. Snapped the cylinder home with a –CLACK– of threat.

Here’s where we end whatever the fuck you did to me, cabrón.

"Real shit hole you got here, Mizrah. Can't say it brings me joy bein’ back." I rose slowly, iron dangling in my hand as I turned to face him. Steeling my heart against his...fucking radiance.

It was starting to rain again, made that bristle-black hair of his shine.

He'd stopped about twenty feet away; close enough that I could get lost in the details, far enough I couldn't just claw them away.

He had this white wife beater strainin’ against his carved chest, leather jacket hanging open against the evening warmth. Had his hands in his pockets, like he didn’t even give a fuck what I was doing.

“Pretty sure I know what brought you here.” His smirk buried itself in his words.

Motherfucker.

"Coulda just called. Didn't need to get medieval with Randy. Poor bastard," the music of his voice dropping into a rough growl.

"You know fuckin’ well why I did," I countered, closing the space between us. Slow, deliberate.

The Night Howler in me was thirsty for his fear, but he offered none.

Not even a drop.

"Why?" He asked, tipping his chin upward at me, easy challenge.

Shoulda been pissed, acting like I hadn’t just kicked down his door and dragged his guy through hell. That shit shoulda been humiliating.

"Three reasons." I ticked them off with the barrel of the gun, circling him like fresh Prey.

"First, y'all just parked your Therid asses in my backyard, didn't even invite us over for a barbeque. Poor fuckin’ form." He turned with me, never let me get at his back. Smart boy.

"Second, you got a rep. You're Black Banner, War's the only language you assholes speak."

"Guilty on both fronts I guess,” Yusuf slid a box of cloves from his jacket, bit one between his teeth, “but you know the rules of the game, baby."

Baby. What. The. Fuck.

"Third," my voice softened against my will, betraying me, "cuz of whatever trick you pulled on me."

I completed my circuit, popping the cylinder again - had to fight to keep my hands from going ‘round his neck, or trailing down his chest.

I watched the cherry of his clove glow like a hot pearl, reflected by his eyes. Smoke curled around him, ghostly. Watching me, glancing at the gun like it meant nothing.

Lazy.

Cool.

Dangerous.

“Dunno what you're talking about. All I did was talk you outta making a mess of my show and got you to watch us.” Bastard winked at me. “You liked it too, don't lie."

Winking at me now? Shit, winking at me?! Hijo de puta .

He pitied me.

Stillness hung between us.

I moved first.

Slammed my knee up into his gut, bent him double with a grunt.

Flipped the pistol – came swinging down with the grip to dent his skull, but Mizrah shot in and slammed me against the brick roof access.

He got his hands around my wrists, pinning them above my head against the brick. We bared our fangs, growling like beasts, ready to tear flesh.

" FUCK you," I snapped my teeth, barely missing his lips. "You think the Jungle's just some fuckin' stage for prettyboys like you and Galen play your little songs, swing your fuckin’ dicks?"

"Better Jungle than yours,” he snapped back, voice raw with anger for the first time, “you think it's a fuckin' cage . You’re like a coyote in a zoo.”

I wanted to bite his lips off / to kiss him, so fucking badly.

My claws dug into his wrist, hooked a heel behind his; tripped him hard, cracked his skull against the roof.

I straddled him before he could recover – the revolver’s barrel stabbed against his forehead. "It ain't about fun and games,” I spat in his face, “it's about what we gotta do!"

"And how the fuck is that workin’ out for you, huh?!" he shouted at me, pretty even when he was bleeding.

It was terrible. I was broken. Isolated.

"The Riviera is ours,” I barked back but it sounded weak. I drilled the barrel harder against his skull, like it’d give truth to my words. “Best turf in all Ashland.”

I bent forward, sneering and scenting him. “I smell the sweat soaked into your skin...stink like you been sleeping on couches and beds that weren't yours. You playin' somebody's hoe before you got a hold of the Point, Mizrah?"

Didn’t expect to hurt him, but it did. Clear as fuckin’ day…his eye twitched. Teeth clenched, like he was battling the breaking impulse.

No.

Don't look at me like that.

You're supposed to look pissed.

"I liked you being there."

No.

There it was, the fuckin' trick again – when he said that I started feeling .

Not the usual anger, the old jealousy you can’t taste after months of eating it. Inside my chest a tightening pressure grew, and that jaguar-grimace flowed away like oil down a gutter.

"Shut the fuck up," I tried to snarl at him, but it was fragile. Small.

"After you left in the middle of Operation Thunderfist - "

"Yusuf that’s such a stupid fuckin’ name - "

"Galen's idea, don’t tell him. Look, after you left, G didn't stop asking about you...'who was that bad hottie in the audience?' and like, 'you get her number you pig?' and I had to endure him getting up my ass about it 'til I told him who you were...gave me an even harder time after."

Prettyboy was an actor, clearly - I refused to believe any of it. Not even when his rough voice got all quiet, made me feel warm in the night rain.

I jerked his collar, jostling him roughly. "Don't you fuck with me man," I pleaded, more than I demanded.

"You came at me from that stinking darkness,” he rasped, “like a stiletto with my name burned across the blade. You didn't cut me yet, but I'm still bleeding. Right here." He tapped at his heart twice.

Who...the fuck said shit like this?

Was he following a script ? Was that just how musicians rolled?

It was so...lame. Just this uncreative tripe.

It melted me like whipped cream on a summer day.

"If you're gonna do me, just do it," he dared.

Yusuf closed his eyes and let his arms fall down to his side.

I wanted to shoot him in the head, end it here / I wanted to kiss him, tumble down the spiral.

I let go of his collar.

My hand grew a mind of its own, traced my fingertips along the stubble of his cheek...beautiful bastard. Something forbidden.

"I oughta," I clapped low-pitch chains around my words, hauling back at the emotions threatening to carve free of my chest.

"You've gone and ruined things for me...think I'm the one who crawled from the dark to stab you, hijo de puta . Whatever imprecation you pulled on me...you've made it so I can't think straight. Fucked up my humours."

Dug your teeth into my heart.

" That’s what you think is going on? That your juices are outta whack?" I didn't even realize I'd pulled the gun from his forehead until he was dragging the barrel down to point at his heart...calling my bluff, damn psycho.

Then he dropped a nuke on me.

"I've been on fire for you since you came to Temple Hall."

Who the fuck said shit like that? What kind of kumbaya singin’, granola-munchin’ dipshit was open like that?

I hated it / I loved it.

I couldn't even put words to what was happening to me.

The emotional intensity was like…a twenty-car pileup behind my ribs. A solar flare arcing behind my eyes. The gush of hot blood in my mouth from a jugular bite.

"You're a liar ." The accusation sounded more like I was begging for him to stop. Tendrils of my hair brushed his jawline.

"You're talkin' like you've got something loving and kind in your heart, but Firstbloods ain't like that. Black Banners ain't like that, you're bringing war to my doorstep. I know you are."

"The irony is that you don't even think peace is real .” I don’t think I’d ever seen a man speak so earnest. “Every step you take, every word outta your mouth since you first saw me has been an invitation to fight. Here we are, though. You've had this gun trained on me cuz you're waiting for me to say it first."

His fingers crawled over the back of my hand, holding the revolver.

No, no, NO .

"Vera," he began, his fire-ringed eyes so black I could drown in them. "I know you got Pack. I know Mateo is your man.”

“But I want you."

"No," I prayed. I shook my head, like I could somehow rattle his words back out my ears like I’d never heard them.

I ignored the fact that I was straddling him against the rooftop, that I’d stopped fighting him, was leaning into him. He was winning again.

I shoulda pulled the trigger.

"I want you badly ," he repeated, a whispered promise of sin.

And when he pressed his palm against my side, slid it up my ribs...I arced into it. The sound that escaped my throat wasn’t right - a sound of surrender as my body went slack for him. I was needy.

I was weak .

I didn't stop him, couldn't as he pushed up into a sitting position, my knees on either side of his hips.

I hated him.

I adored him.

He made me feel good and he wasn’t supposed to. He was seeing me, fighting him and pushing back, and he only ever came back with open arms.

What did he even see past the threats, past the ugly thing of concrete and steel that these streets, that the Jungle had made me?

I knew I’d lost when hope took root in my heart.

"Damn you," I cursed him as our lips crashed together.

I broke open.

Shattered like a discarded liquor bottle.

And all the light and rage and hate streamed out from my chest, leaving me an empty vessel to be filled with...

Joy.

Serenity.

The feeling of being wanted .

His lips were soft…they shouldn’t have been. Not on a war-hardened prince of the stage like Yusuf Mizrah. His tongue tasted like that clove I’d knocked from his mouth after I tripped him and what the holy hell –

There was a little steel stud through the tip of his tongue.

A slick, dirty thought wormed in: how that metal would feel against my breasts, between my thighs.

He wasn't supposed to make me feel this.

I felt his other hand, nails dragging down my back, finding the flare of my waist–I gyrated against him without even thinking, felt his cock hardening.

The want came like one of them Hurricanes with the lady names; its howling moan drowned out Mateo's grousing, Jo's doubt, Diana's barbs.

He wasn't supposed to drown out the sadness.

My hands weren’t mine no more; my nails snagged in the cotton of his wife beater as I gave in and traced the shape of his torso…like one of them Greek muscle breastplates. He smelled like leather, sweat, need . Too good for this world, too good for me.

My fingers were already working to undo his fly.

He wasn't supposed to make me want him like nobody before.

I broke the kiss reluctantly, breathing against his mouth, desperate. "Yusuf Mizrah..."

"Vera Estrada," he breathed back, his gaze stripped clean of cock-ass arrogance...just a beautiful phoenix of a man, burning me alive in the dark.

No.

I grabbed the gun.

Pressed it against his throat.

Pulled the trigger.

BLAM

The muzzle flash seared my vision for a moment. When it cleared…he was staring up at me–wide eyed with disbelief.

A great gory hole smoked where his jugular was blasted open. His life was gushing out over the rooftop. Yusuf choked.

Gasped in his own blood.

He reached a shaking hand up to claw my eyes out ...it reached my mouth, stroked my lips feather soft. It fell away.

I stayed straddling him, knelt over the ruination of this beautiful man.

Watching the red flow of his pulse grow weaker, his tawny skin get pale.

I did it.

…I felt...

Nothing.

No satisfaction, triumph or liberation.

There was just a space in my chest, torn open and emptied of him, of a weak little fucking girl’s nameless hope.

And you know what the fuck I did?

I kissed him one last time. Tasted his blood.

I left him there.

This time I didn't cry like I did with my back turned to Mateo. This time though, felt like I'd killed something beautiful before it'd even had a chance to breathe.

The Night Was Mine.

But it felt so terribly empty now.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Not every victory is sweet. I've had my share of bitter wins that leave your tongue swollen and your belly empty; the reward is putting one foot ahead of the other one for another day...losing ain't a choice we have. Yusuf thought he could win her over but Vera? Too strong for that. Too weak for that. Ain't that a kicker? Yeah you try and put that together in your heads you lil' dumbasses.

#writing #werewolf #original fiction #southern gothic #werewolf horror #monster romance #love triangle #The Hunt Never Ends #Mizrah + Galen x Vera #my ocs <3 #viskarenvisla #original story #oc writing #werewolf character

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wisteriaiswriting · 1 month ago

Note

I couldn't tell if matchups were open or not, so please ignore this if they aren't 😖

This is for tf2, dunno if I have to clarify

I'm nonbinary, and I'm okay with any pronouns, but I do like they/them the most

I've been diagnosed with adhd lately, and it puts SO many things into perspective. Such as how, when I was in school, I could finish an entire sheet and then lose it or forget to turn it in. And let me tell ya, adhd rage is real, and I might have more than anybody 😭 I'm lowkey not kidding when I say I got beef with everything

I have two cats that I live dearly and talk to like real children. Kinda. One is a chunky (big, not fat) orange tabby named Murphy like the character from interstellar. His aliases: ginger little bitch or babyboy. I have a slim tortoiseshell cat named Lyra. Her aliases: stupid bitch or babygirl. It changes based on how they're behaving. And I'll scold them lowkey like real people. "We will TUSSLE if you start messin with shit you ain't supposed to just cuz there's a fuckin fan." -literally said this today.

I'm supposed to have curly hair, but idk how to take care of it, and it's that delicate kinda curly, so it's really only ever curly after it dries after a shower. I'm pale with freckles and small moles on my body (I say they make me look like a tortilla)

I like collecting. What specifically? Cds. If I answered you on a deeper level, I'd say whatever scratches my brain when I look at/hear it. For example, I have an iron model of the Eiffel Tower that reaches my hip (I'm 5'2), a skull jar with a rubber stopper, and a black comforter with various mushrooms, plants, and bugs on it. I even have a Bob Ross plushie (along with a mountain of various sized other plushies. I have a dog plushie the same size as me that I named Bennie so I could say "Bennie and the Jets" like the Elton John song.

I'll listen to just about any genre as long as it's a good song, but I can sometimes be picky depending on my mood.

I'm pretty naturally handy. I built a duck box (those things you see standing in the middle of ponds. Basically a birdhouse for ducks) on my own in middle school after being taught how to use the tool, for example. That also kinda carries into art, too. As long as I have references, I can create any pose, and it looks pretty good. Same goes for body types. It's easy for me to mix-match the references I need.

I love singing, and I'm "learning" guitar. I don't actually know any chords or anything, but I've already written a song everybody likes after fuckin up while playing Zombie by the Cranberries. (I used two chords from the song, came up with two others, put it in ¾ time, and alternated between plucking and strumming based on whatever fit the lyrics and vibe)

I can be pretty... well idk the word I'm looking for, so I'll just give you an example of what I mean. My friends and I were on a call trying to figure our gas money and stuff, and they slipped up and told me it would also be used to get them home, so I said "getting YALL home isn't my problem" (they pretty much tried to punk me so they wouldn't have to pay for themselves)

I try to be nice and stuff, but I can get mean when I want to. I'm one of those "your secret is only as safe as you let it be. Don't tell me a secret if you plan to fuck me over in one way or another" types of people. I will not hesitate to put a mf on blast if they actin up.

Also dunno if this matters but I have a subtle southern accent that shows in words like "I", but it gets thick when I'm wound up or angry.

I love love love dogs, but I have a fear of them. I'll be death gripping someone's hand, doesn't matter who, if I hear a dog bark but can't see a dog. Even more so if I CAN see it. Dogs usually like me, though. I remember one Doberman who laid on my foot to get attention and pawed at me while I was chatting with her owners (ik it doesn't sound like a big deal, but the owners were like SUPER surprised)

I'm usually chill, but I can become extremely energetic at times. If I get excited about something, I won't be able to resist talking about it, or I won't sit still or something of that tune. I usually don't get to be the loud type of excited unless I'm amazed about something, and even then, it's usually only for a few words to express said amazement.

I'm usually quiet. I often have to repeat myself. But don't let that fool you. I can easily be louder than Soldier himself if I want to. I just don't like to.

I like to info dump about things I make to anyone who will listen. Things like the dystopian book I'm writing, my ocs who live in a world where one of them is kinda possessed by their friend and the other is a former angel being hunted by angels and they both join a voluntary hunger games-esque game show that doesn't require violence but it does allow it (the winning team gets a wish for each player on the team), and really just any of my ocs and stories and songs n stuff.

Uhhhhh I'm an intp according to the last time I took the test. I'm pretty introspective, for better or worse.

I can be creative in ways I probably shouldn't be. Like, I can come up with torture methods on the fly. I'll do it right now. Strapping someone down and having something hold their eyes open and let them dry out, only adding moisture right before the point of losing vision. Locking them in a room with their hands tied up in a way where they can't use them, even behind their back, and hiding a key and some false keys somewhere in a pile of fiberglass insulation and hair-thin needles, and they have to eat their way through it to find the right key and get out.

Anywayyyyy, moving on from the darkish stuff, I like to freak people out with my "party trick." Basically, I can put my arm behind my head, parallel to the ground. Like. My upper arm. Not my forearm.

I like to have fun, like anyone would, but I can sometimes act "motherly" (or so I'm told) when others get too wreckless. i.e. "don't do that, you'll hurt yourself," "Be CAREFULLLL," and other stuff like that.

Contradictory to popular belief, I'm a complete stoner. Once upon a time, I outsmoked someone who tends to smoke all day every day. I partially like smoking simply because things seem more goofy and partially cuz it helps with my anger. I personally think I'm more fun and outgoing when I smoke. I have one hell of a tolerance, so I really gotta puff to get a nice head high.

Sometimes, I can get really meek around people. Like, if someone I care about is mad at me, I act like a kicked puppy and go almost completely nonverbal. I like giving people things as well, but I do that whole "it's okay if you don't like it, it just made me think of you, (etc.)" spiel cuz I ain't got confidence at the worst of times.

Speaking of, I have a pretty low self-esteem. I don't always let it show, but I suspect it still slips through subconsciously. I don't think I'm a good person, and I don't exactly like my body either. Like, I way less than 100 pounds. People are not exaggerating when they say I way 100 pounds soaking wet. I don't like that. You can literally see my heartbeat if I sit still, and you can see my ribs INDIVIDUALLY if I take a deep breath and stretch. I want to put on weight and start going to the gym so I'm strong n stuff but I can't exactly do that right now. Even if I DID put on weight, I'd still be insecure. From MY PERSONAL experience, "body positivity" is only a thing when someone is 160+ pounds. And here I thought the point of the movement was for EVERYONE to be happy in their body, not just bigger people. Maybe it was just the area I was in or what the algorithms thought I was or something, but I'm still not happy being skinny. I wanna be strong with a bit of squish, but I don't have enough motivation or anything to do that 😞

But God forbid anyone else be insecure. I'll be on that "YOU'S A GOD/GODDESS, HOE. DON'T LET THEM DULL YOUR SPARKLE. LOOK IN THAT MIRROR EVERY MOTHAFUCKIN DAY AND REPEAT THE WORDS I LOVE YOU, BITCH. I AIN'T EVER GONNA STOP LOVIN YOU, BIIITCH" type shit. But fr, I will not sit idly by if someone I care about is insecure about ANYTHING. Around me, they ain't gotta worry about size, shape, abilities, "flaws," quirks, or other.

I can be very opinionated on certain topics. For example, I'm a firm believer all pdf files and 🍇ists should be forced to become eunuchs. Or get gender reassignment surgery to be a Ken doll (or Barbie doll, whichever is more accurate for each person). They won't even have a hole to pee out of, so they can have fun dying from infection. Honestly, I personally think people who only fantasize about it are almost toppling over that line, so they should have to go through intense interrogation and trials to decide whether they're safe or not.

This is probably long enough as it is, so I'll just leave it here

If you respond to this, thank you kindly

Whether or not you respond to this, have a good day/night :]

I match you with...

Engineer!

Loves seeing whatever collections you have, if you let him borrow any chs he’ll take care of them, brings them back as if he never had them.

Dell isn’t picky when it comes to music, so he’ll listen to whatever you choose.

Appreciates someone who is pretty handy, if you still want to build something then he’s your man. Just ask and he’ll teach you whatever you want.

Please sing whenever he plays his guitar, he somehow falls even harder in love. Mention learning the guitar once and he is taking as much time as you mean to teach you what you need and want to know.

While he loves helping others out he also takes no shit from someone trying to cross him, so he’s glad that you can recognize it and not fall into their trap. Always there if you don’t notice it but it’s nice to know he won’t need to hover constantly.

He’s the same with secrets, respects the person's wishes but one or two might slip when talking to you, so now they have to watch you for you both.

Always listens to everything you say and stores it in his mind, it might not seem like he’s listening at times but rest assured, he is. Out of nowhere he’ll bring your oc’s and story up and ask questions.

Is always freaked out by some of your ideas, not saying he won’t listen, so he’ll gently guide you toward Medic with all that talk.

Doesn’t really mind that you’re a smoker, he’ll keep a window or door open and keep an eye on you just to make sure that you stay safe. Won’t join you if you ask or offer.

He’s more than willing to speak for you if needed, if you want to talk he’ll encourage you to do so but takes over whenever you want. When you give him something he will not let you take it back, he loves everything you give him. Always surprised when you become loud, god forbid you get Soldier going or he got you going.

Engi - 7

Scout - 6

Medic - 5

Sniper - 4

Spy - 3

Saxton - 2

Heavy - 1

#tf2 matchups #matchups #tf2 x reader #tf2 engineer #engineer x reader #wisteria♥

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