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darklydeliciousdesires · 2 years

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Sweet Surrender - An Alfie Solomons/Reader One Shot Story.

Mainly caused by the thirst spree @potter-solomons and I ventured into yesterday! Here, some Alfie filth for you to hopefully enjoy!

Words - 912

Warnings - Pure filth below the cut. 18+ only!

“I think I fancy something sweet after that,” Alfie announces, reclining back in his armchair after dinner.

“I made steamed treacle pudding,” you state, hovering at the kitchen door, ready to fetch him a bowl.

“I know, I can smell it. I likely will have some later, too. Firstly, there’s something sweeter I want in my mouth. Get them clothes of and get on the rug, arse up.”

You pause for a second, raising your eyebrows.

“I ain’t one to wait, darlin’. Do as you’re told, yeah?”

You make a seductive show of stripping each item off seductively, maintaining eye contact with him throughout. The way he stares at you so approvingly throughout makes excitement stir in your belly, your little silky Frech knickers the last item you remove, pulling the elastic back between your fingers and firing them at him, snorting with laughter when they land straight on his face.

“Ahh, lovely. My favourite smell,” he says from behind the silk, breathing in heavily, the deep baritone of his rumbling laugh filling the room as he gets up, casting them to the floor while you position yourself as instructed upon the rug, Alfie moving his bulky form across the room to kneel behind you. “And now for a bit of my favourite taste.”

You elicit a soft gasp when you feel his thumb touch your clit, beginning to stroke in agonisingly slow, circular motion, his lips pressing in a kiss on your bum cheek before his tongue delves between, wasting no time in his desire to rim you hungrily. He groans, all hunger and wantonness, his full beard so soft against you, tongue laving at your arsehole with thirsty greed.

You yelp with surprise when he spanks you, his big hand grasping the stinging cheek thereafter, the coolness of his gold rings upon your warm flesh scintillating, tongue driving against your puckered little hole harder, thumb rubbing rhythmic bliss at your aching bud. You grit and mewl, your hands clutching at the thick, white fur rug beneath you, his hot breaths blasting against you as he pants with desire.

“Does that feel good, m’love?”

“Fucking hell! Don’t stop!”

He chuckles throatily, his tongue quickening. “I’ll take that as a yes. Fuck, you’ve got such a sweet little arsehole, darlin’.” He bites your bum cheek, growling with arousal before returning his tongue to where it did such a thorough job at licking you relentlessly, thumb swirling over your bundle a little slower, each sweep sending a hot mist of pleasure up your spine.

He pauses again, bringing his mouth around to kiss your stinging cheek, smacking his hand twice off the other instead, watching keenly as your body ripples with the excitement he invokes. Like some kind of sexual wizard, he conjures pure magic in you, thumb moving to allow for his tongue, which he drags flat against you, tasting your soaking folds keenly, ending at your star once more, but not limiting solely to there.

He circles at your clit with the very tip of his tongue, flicking back and forth, rendering you a panting, shaking mess. Another couple of sweeping, long licks send you reeling, pushing inside to tongue fuck you before closing his mouth over your entire slit, sucking, biting softly, groaning as you flood his tongue.

His thick rings leave welts behind upon your sore flesh as he spanks you again, large, red handprints left upon you, marking your skin, branding you.

“Bloody hell, I wanna actually eat you, bite bits of you off. Fuck, you taste so good. I could drown in this pretty little cunt, my sweet dove.”

“I think that’d be entirely possible, with how wet you’re getting me.” His tongue continues to swirl through your pink, from your clit to your arsehole once again, probing inside of you, he spares nothing in completely wrecking you with the talents of his eager mouth. His big hands grasp your bum, short nails leaving red crescents behind, turning you onto your back and reconnecting his tongue at your apex once more, his stormy blue eyes fixing upon yours as he sucks your clit with a satisfied grunt.

Your nerves jangle as he sends bliss firing through you, each lick so hard and relentless, his goal, as ever, to make you cum all over his tongue. Nothing turns him on more than having you come undone completely against his mouth. Strong fingers grasp your thighs with a powerful grip, all predatory as wet heat sends molten tingles shooting through your veins.

“Ain’t even gotta move, all I need to do is stick my tongue out and watch you grind that pretty little cunt against it. Fuck yeah, love. You enjoy yourself there.” He encourages, doing just that, groaning in abandon as he watches you do it, your hips moving in frenzy as you pant and writhe wildly for him. You clutch his hair and scream his name as the coils tightens sharply, tugging at your insides, shattering completely as you crest, nirvana washing over you, reduced to a quivering mess upon the rug.

“Fuck... fuck...” you sigh, enraptured, warm and tingly all over. “Give me your cock, Alfie.”

He smirks, not even bothering to undress, merely undoing his trousers enough to allow for him to pull that big, thick, beast of a cock out, pushing your legs open wide and sinking it straight into the confines of your fluttery heat.

What you enjoy with him on the rug definitely has more steam to it than the pudding.

A/N - Did you like it? If so, please support your hard working aurthor with a comment and a reblog! :)

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shootybangbang · 3 years

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[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ��em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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tazzytypes · 3 years

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Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 17

Authors note: Hey guys! Sorry, had to delete and repost this chapter because Tumblr is, once again, giving me difficulties. Just want to thank y'all so much for being patient with me as I finished up with classes. Hoping these next few months will give me more time to work on this fic. As always, your comments and likes always make my day and help me get through the worst of writer's block and I cannot thank you enough for that!

READ MORE on AO3 or see the Master post!

When the witches got back to the academy, the sun had barely risen above the horizon. Emily hadn’t realized how accustomed she had become to the usual hustle and bustle; the silence was nearly as stinging as the constant noise.

They were all dead on their feet. After hell, sleep had eluded Emily. The fact Madison had forced her to sleep on the ground didn’t help… neither did the darkness. It was suffocating, that place. Sometimes she was afraid the underground fortress would become her tomb. They had all tried to catch up on sleep during the plane ride home, but Misty snored so much it made the feat nearly impossible.

So, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, the witches made their way through the door. Zoe grumbled about canceling classes, Cordelia muttering an agreement.

“A break? Already?” Coco said. She stood next to Mallory by the stairs, looking more like butlers than students. The pair must have been the only ones awake, looking to one other and smiling at a silent inside joke. “I like this school.”

“I trust there were no disturbances while we were away?” Myrtle asked, handing off her bags to Kyle who proceeded to take them up the stairs.

If Mallory were a bird, Emily would have said she was preening, “No more than usual.”

Kyle paused by Emily for a moment, hand extended, but she waved him forward. Kyle smiled and nodded, proceeding past them and towards the stairs.

“Oh, lover-boy,” Madison sang as he began to take the first step, pulling Emily’s attention away from Mallory and their headmistress, “my bags?

The blond man hesitated, then doubled back. He rearranged the bags on his arm and picked up the ex-movie star’s numerous suitcases, all either Chanel or some other overpriced name brand.

“You have two arms,” Zoe snapped at the woman, her own bag in hand. Emily’s gaze flickered to the floor, green eyes darting between it, Cordelia, and the scene unfurling before her.

“It’s fine,” Kyle said quietly, giving a pointed look at Zoe, “It’s my job.”

The look seemed to soothe Zoe, her shoulders tense but her back no longer arched like she was about to swing at Madison. Madison opened her mouth, unable to resist not having the last word.

A body barreling into her side kept Emily from hearing exactly what was spoken. By the look on Zoe’s face, it was nothing good.

“Oh, I missed you!” Coco exclaimed, squeezing the girl in a hug. Emily did her best not to tense, but the reaction was second nature to the brunette. “How was California?”

“Dry,” Emily said, earning a chuckle from Coco.

“Obviously you didn’t go to the beach,” Coco said, “How did it go?”

The brunette’s eyes darted to the figure moving towards them, continuing to speak as Mallory approached. For some reason, Emily had expected her and Cordelia’s talk to last longer. She settled in to place beside Coco, listening with an attentive grin.

“We’re all in one piece,” Emily said, looking back to Coco, “so I’d say rather well.”

Mallory reached out and squeezed Emily’s arm, her ever-present grin widening ever slightly. “See? I knew you’d do great!”

“Who’s this, Firefly?”

Misty had always got possessive a little too quickly. It was her vice, clinging to things too tightly. Her mother used to call her a “little python…” the snake in the garden of Eden.

Emily faltered ever slightly. As someone who kept to herself, she was more used to being the one introduced, not the one introducing.

“Coco, Mallory,” She spoke, glancing between the two girls and her new acquaintance, “Misty Day.”

Mallory rushed forward to shake the woman’s hand as if she were meeting Stevie Nicks instead of a girl from the swamplands of Mississippi.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Miss Cordelia. You’re a legend here!”

Misty pulled her shawl in tighter and glanced between Mallory and Emily. Being the center of attention was an anxious position for her. The last time she was the center of attention, she went to hell. The first time had her burned at the stake. Her steps back from Mallory and into Emily’s side were more a flight instinct than an anxious tic.

“Aw, shucks,” the swamp witch said with a flickering smile and a chuckle, “Didn’t think I was here long enough to make an impression.”

“Resurgence is a remarkable power,” Mallory insisted, “If not for you, I would have thought myself a freak.”

“Well, ain’t that sweet.”

Myrtle was quick to rescue the woman from the over-exuberance of the younger witch, placing a steadying hand on Misty’s shoulder. Cordelia was not far behind. Emily could feel her brown eyes on her back like a botanist studying a new plant species.

“While I love pleasantries,” Myrtle said, “I am absolutely famished. Airplane foods always fall flat.”

“It’s because of our sense of smell,” Emily said, trying to ignore the weird looks she was getting, “The altitude affects our nasal passages, making it harder to smell and thus harder to taste. The two are inseparable.”

“So, it’s like how parents plug their kid's nose to get them to take their medicine,” Mallory said. Emily sent her a brief, but thankful smile for making the moment feel less awkward than it was.

“Exactly.”

“Either way,” Myrtle said with a wave of her hand, “I am craving a crème brûlée with a glass of chardonnay.”

Emily smirked a bit before she spoke, “Chardonnay sounds good.”

“Not yet, you,” Cordelia admonished through a chuckle, ruffling Emily’s hair a bit, “We may be lenient with a lot of things, but underage drinking will not be one of them.”

The brunette wanted to note she had done plenty of underage drinking the night before but refrained. Part of being able to bend the rules is pretending you didn’t break them.

“Oh, come on,” Madison said, standing at the back of their little group with her arms crossed in front of her chest, “Little miss indigestion just went to hell. Let her live a little.”

“Maybe a glass,” Cordelia relented, earning a few chuckles from the group. “One.”

Emily echoed the expressions of her fellow witches, but Cordelia’s humor did not amuse her. The headmistresses statement assured her of one thing, however. The brunette had secured a place in the inner circle of Robichaux. It was a feat she would have been proud of before, but now…

Now, the real world seemed so dull. Sensations failed to feel real-- like the world was covered in a fog. Her hands would hover, expecting something to come to her palm and playing off hesitation when it didn’t. Emily had always fancied her dreams to the waking world. The real world now felt more dull than usual. The young witch found herself missing hell, debating whether or not to chase that high.

“Full already?” Cordelia asked at the table they all gathered around. Emily had been picking at her food for the past ten minutes, gaze flickering to the many conversations around the table.

Emily was quick to brush it off, putting down her fork and taking a sip of her sweet tea, “I’ve always eaten like a bird.”

“Birds eat ten times their weight,” Myrtle noted with an amused smile. Cordelia had been so tense since Hawthorne. For once, Myrtle had to be the optimistic one… if only for the sake of maintaining an air of control.

“Good thing I wasn’t talking in ratios.”

Myrtle chuckled and went back to her food, but Cordelia continued to watch Emily carefully as she turned and offered Misty her desert.

“You alright, Firefly?”

“Just tired.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

Cordelia’s glance flickered to her mentor. The slight quirking of the redhead’s brow gave away her own concerns. The headmistress gaze returned to Emily, her posture straightening ever slightly.

“About your personal hell?” she asked.

Emily faltered slightly at her headmistress’s voice. While they were surrounded by people, most had the decency not to eavesdrop on the more intimate conversations — feigning ignorance even if they heard every word. It was one of those unspoken rules of society.

“No. I didn’t have a personal hell.”

Shit.

Her exhaustion and weird mindset had made her careless. Then again, Cordelia was supposed to help with things such as these, right? The whole point of being here was to learn. How could she learn if she never asked questions? Why did her gut churn like she had been caught with her hands painted red?

Green eyes slowly turned to the brown ones that had burned holes in her skin since she had arrived in Mississippi. Cordelia’s brows furrowed, lips twisting in the way they always did when she didn’t have the answers.

“Then where were you?”

“… I don’t know.”

The table was consumed with silence, no one able to pretend they weren’t listening in to the conversation at hand. Coco glanced around at the table, noting the unwavering stares. Glancing to Emily, she saw her eyes flick between them all, her plate, Cordelia, and back again.

“Probably the jet lag,” the heiress said, “shit makes you forget what your own name is.”

Emily smiled with the rest of them, sending a thankful glance to the woman who squeezed her hand and smiled. The table fell back into idle chatter.

“Hell of a spotlight,” Coco whispered into her glass, eyes flickering around to her fellow witches.

Emily mimicked her movements, “you’re telling me.”

The pair shared a glance and promptly fell into laughter.

“Next time you need to swing by L.A. Beaches are crowded, but the experience is worth it.”

“There’s a tattoo parlor there I wanted to check out,” Emily noted, “Purple Panther. One of my favorite artists works there.”

“We should go and get matching tattoos.”

“What did I miss?” Mallory asked, returning from a trip to the bathroom.

“We’re all going to get matching tattoos.” Coco declared.

“Of what?”

Emily smiled and leaned in, “we should get the triquetra from Charmed.”

“Oooh, yes!” Coco exclaimed, “I loved that show as a kid.”

Mallory’s face twisted in confusion, “Haven’t seen it.”

“We’re binge-watching it,” Coco declared, “tonight.”

“My room?” Emily asked, “I have a TV.”

“No offense, your room is a broom closet.”

“Feels like home,” Emily jested, a genuine smile curling on her lips, “certainly been in it for long enough.”

Coco snorted out a laugh, infecting Mallory and Emily into a fit of giggles. The brunette could feel Cordelia’s eyes on her, a hand going to smooth down the hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t like it, the feeling of being watched.

“Oh!” Mallory said, “I have a tattoo idea — swords.”

“Swords?”

“For the Three Musketeers!”

Emily gasped as an idea hit her, pulling out her sketchbook and scrawling out an idea.

“What if…”

She finished the crude drawing — a sword with a triquetra behind it. Some of the lines of the triquetra looped around the blade where it was positioned at the end of its point. “… we did both?”

“Both?” Mallory asked.

“Both,” Emily repeated.

“Both is good,” Coco finished, the three falling into giggles once again.

Emily was unsurprised when Cordelia cornered her later in the day. Classes had been canceled for the day, older girls put in charge of amusing the younger ones. The brunette had dozed until 12 o’clock when the cheerful laughing and screeching from the lawn kept her from falling back asleep.

Book in hand, Emily had nearly made it to the greenhouse when Cordelia intercepted her. The blonde woman had been leaning against the door of the rotting shack. Emily wondered how long the headmistress had waited for her out in the sun.

“Walk with me,” was all she said as the brunette got within earshot, her tone filled with bad news. They strolled in silence for a good while. When the playful yelling and screaming was muffled by distance and the trees around the property, Cordelia finally spoke.

“I’ve been to hell myself. It changes a person… for better or worse.”

Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground, navigating over twisting roots and rocks that jutted from the dirt. She spared Cordelia a brief glance. “Which was it? Better or worse?”

“That’s the thing,” Cordelia said, head high and eyes steady on the path ahead of them, “you can never tell which. It’s something only others can see.”

“Is this an intervention or something?”

A smile tugged at the blonde’s lips, “Or something.”

Silence consumed them once more. It became clear that Emily could either talk or they would walk until she did.

“Hell was like a dream,” the brunette relented after a minute or so, “Dreams always feel so real until you wake up. Then, you mourn the reality you lost.”

“Even with nightmares?”

“All I ever have is nightmares.”

Cordelia spared the woman a look. Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground as she took a step over a fallen trunk. Dark circles ringed around her eyes, the purple somehow making the green even brighter. Cordelia realized she had never seen Emily without them. Were her dreams something more? Something that paraded around as sleep when it was really anything but?

Emily’s words were hardly louder than a whisper, “It isn’t the situation I mourn, but the power I have.”

The book in Emily’s hands suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. It was one of her many journals, each page dedicated to the carefully worded and detailed recollections of the visions her mind procured in sleep. The voice said her dreams were something more. Emily feared the implications. She was a stickler for a little thing called proof, however. Spirits can lie and trick just as well as humans could.

Cordelia regarded the girl beside her, “Powers such as what?”

“In hell, I could pull a weapon to me as if I reached out and grabbed it with my own hand. I could conjure flames and move them to my will.”

Her words were like a snarl on her lip, a frustration that plagued her every hour. Then, the snarl faltered and the grief set in. “Everything was so much clearer… simpler.”

The headmistress stopped and placed a hand upon the girl’s shoulder, squeezing it for good measure. Emily wished she hadn’t. It was easy to hold back tears and emotions when you didn’t have to look someone in the eye.

“You went to hell and brought back my dearest friend,” she pressed, hand trailing down Emily’s arm and taking her hand, cupping it in her own, “just because you cannot perform grand acts of magic does not mean you cannot fight.”

Emily looked at Cordelia, searching for something in those brown eyes. Everyone’s eyes were covered in a fog of optimism. It made real-life feel more like a dream than her dreams did. Their gazes never failed to make her shudder. Coco was the only one who did not succumb. Thus, the only one she somewhat trusted. Carefully, Emily pulled her hand away.

“Michael brought back Misty, not me.”

It was something she had said a thousand times since her return. The people here either didn’t listen or didn’t care. Which was worse?

“With your aid.”

For a moment, Emily contemplated telling Cordelia everything. She was so desperate for answers — so desperate to cut through the fog. She was reminded of The Odyssey, Odysseus’s travel to an island where everything seemed perfect. It was so tempting to give in, to be alright with not knowing.

What was Michael?

Why did the voices speak to him?

Why did she understand their words while Misty did not?

“I had a weird dream last night,” she found herself speaking, her silence lasting a little too long, “I know it means something, but I can’t quite place it.”

Cordelia seemed content in her words, a small smile telling Emily that she had chosen the right words… even if they were not the words she had intended to speak. There was trust to be built before Emily could talk to Cordelia about hell.

“Tell me about it,” her Supreme commanded, gently ushering Emily back the way they came.

“I was in a field,” Emily started, an air of distance taking over her voice. When Cordelia looked to her, she was miles away — eyes filled with fog. “You were there just… waiting. For me, I think, but I could be wrong.”

“What happened?” Cordelia asked, “in the dream?”

“You were standing next to a girl. She saw me first… said her name was Nan.”

Cordelia’s gasp was quiet, but still loud enough to draw Emily from the fog. A manicured hand came to her mouth before going to her stomach as if the woman had been punched. Emily was afraid Cordelia might pass out again.

“Nan,” Cordelia said, speaking around a frog in her throat.

The younger witch felt a surge of anxiety. She should have said nothing, kept her mouth shut. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? It had been an easy feat until she came to Robichaux.

“She was sweet,” Emily found herself saying, “told me not to worry.”

Cordelia leaned on a nearby tree. Emily wrung her hands, biting her lip and waiting for the woman to say something. Her heart leaped into her chest when she heard the woman sniffle back a tear.

“Did I say something wrong?” Emily asked, heart hammering. Cordelia didn’t answer. Should she get closer? Should she squeeze her arm as Cordelia had done to her many a times? Emily had never been good at consoling. “I’m sorry.”

The woman finally shook her head, the heels of her palm swiping away the few tears that had trailed down her cheeks. “No… no, you’ve brought me a great deal of peace.”

Curiosity always got the best of her.

“Nan…” Emily said, “You recognize her?”

“She used to be a student here… before her untimely death.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cordelia sighed and straightened her shirt, quickly taking back the decorum Emily had managed to peel back. At that moment, Emily realized something darkened in her Supreme. The fog left the brown eyes and hardened into something more tangible, her jaw clenched ever slightly, and the mother-like tone left her voice.

“I’d advise you not to approach her in your dreams again.”

Emily faltered for a moment, too caught up in the change to process the woman’s words.

“Why?”

“For your safety.”

“She hardly seemed dangerous.”

“It is not her I worry about.”

Her lips opened to ask more questions, but Cordelia quickly overtook the conversation. “Tell me about the rest of this dream.”

It was probably best if she didn’t argue. Emily went on describing, glancing at the woman now and again. Cordelia’s eyes lost their dark edge as the tale continued — flying, levitation, conjuring of fire and wind — until they once again held the optimistic fog Emily had become accustomed to.

“And when I wake up,” Emily concluded, “I felt like I was not myself. That my real self lies within these dreams.”

Cordelia simply nodded.

“Dreams are more powerful than we can imagine,” she said, “it is, in short, an insight into our true nature — witch or no witch.”

“Then what is my true nature?” Emily asked, jumping back as a boisterous toddler ran past her, two more hot on her heels. They had made it back to the garden.

Cordelia smiled at her, giving her shoulder one more squeeze before she trailed after the children.

“That is something only you can answer.”

Cordelia paced her room, thoughts writhing like a snake that had worked its way into a knot. Unable to move forward or back, she wondered how long she had until death. Do nothing and she would starve — giving into the circumstances like a beast baring its belly to the knife. Tug too harshly, however, and she would sever her own spine.

“I do hope you have good reason for waking me in the middle of the night,” Myrtle sighed as she entered the room. She carefully closed the door, the only sign of her entrance the dulled click of the lock behind her.

The Supreme ceased her pacing, taking to wringing her hands instead as she came to a stop before the redhead.

“I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.”

“You just put a petulant boy in power,” Myrtle scoffed, “What can be more wrong than that?”

“I did it for the best of the coven.”

Myrtle let out a sigh, unable to keep up her irritation. Tense shoulders and crossed arms relaxed and rested at her sides. “My dear, what good are you if you keep working yourself into a fit of hysterics?”

Cordelia either didn’t hear her or didn’t care to address the topic. Hurrying over to her desk, she pushed papers this way and that until she found what she was looking for.

“Were you able to look into the matter we discussed?”

It took all Myrtle’s power not to roll her eyes.

“Evocation rituals of that nature aren’t exactly common if they exist at all.”

“But they do exist?”

“None that I could find.”

“What if we modified a resurgence spell… combined it with dreams. That’s where her skill shows the most, after all. If we could get into that otherness—”

Cordelia had thrown the idea around with the woman multiple times before they visited Hawthorne. Seeing the aftermath of the Seven Wonders, particularly in the trial of Descensum, had made the Supreme all the more convinced of her path. If Cordelia shared any traits with Fiona, it was her stubbornness.

“I still don’t see how her power, any power, could be trapped inside her,” Myrtle insisted once more, “That family of hers didn’t have a lick of magic in her bones. Her mother has no magical talent whatsoever and don’t get me started on that father of hers.”

“Then why is she here at our school?”

Myrtle spared her a pointed look. Cordelia huffed and leaned on her desk, keeping her eyes locked with her mentor’s.

“Emily’s powers have to originate from somewhere,” she said, shaking her head and averting her gaze for but a moment, “Her grandmother died. Maybe she used the last of her power to protect Emily. Delphi had yet to be disbanded when she passed.”

“If that were the case, she wouldn’t be able to go to hell, dear. Maybe it’s as you said; her magic is tied to the other — dreams, visions, prophecy, the whole shebang.”

Cordelia shook her head, “That doesn’t feel right.”

Myrtle was now the one to pace. The carpet was sure to be filled with holes if the issue loomed over their heads any longer. If Cordelia could not let go of this vision, the coven would be doomed. How many more dead ends did Delia need to hit before she recognized the futility of—

“Why are you so adamant about this?” Myrtle found herself asking, more out of desperation than curiosity.

Cordelia gave her a pointed look and the woman scoffed. “Mallory—”

“Mallory didn’t go to hell.”

“And our dear Emily can’t make a butterfly out of petals. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. One false step and they all shatter.”

“Then help me eliminate this option,” Cordelia said, voice pleading, “Let's perform a ritual and get our answers before too much time has passed.”

“Alright,” Myrtle relented, “let's pull out the books… and the booze.”

Emily sat on one of the tables in the greenhouse like she was waiting at a doctor’s appointment, picking absentmindedly at the thin layer of paint atop the table. The inner circle of Robichaux stood around her watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they gathered material and passed it out.

Misty sat at Emily’s side, holding her hand and offering reassuring smiles whenever the brunette turned to look at her. Part of e was afraid they were going to kill her… or something worse. Death certainly wasn’t the worst thing the lot of them had experienced.

“We believe there is something blocking out our dear Emily’s powers,” Myrtle explained, placing jars of… something around the table.

“Or she just doesn’t have any,” Madison sighed, obviously wanting to be anywhere else as she studied her nails — she just got a manicure. The others stared at her in annoyance. “What? We’re all thinking it.”

“She saw Nan,” Cordelia spoke. She had been silent the entire time and didn’t even greet Emily when she was escorted into the greenhouse by Myrtle. If her silence was out of concentration or concern, no one could tell.

Queenie’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Her arms fell to her sides and all she could do was look between Emily and her Supreme. “She what?”

“I didn’t know who she was,” Emily said, glancing to Misty who held a similar expression to Queenie, “Not until I talked to Cordelia.”

“Is she alright?” Zoe asked. She stood opposite to Misty, carefully watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they prepared. “Did she say anything?”

“Nothing of note.”

“But she did say something,” Queenie said, a silent command in her voice.

“Only that I shouldn’t worry.”

Zoe’s brow furrowed, “worry about what?”

“… I don’t know.”

“If we are able to unlock your powers,” Myrtle said, ignoring the scathing look Cordelia sent her. The redhead still held her doubts. “Perhaps we can find out.”

Her words seemed to motivate the other girls. One by one they fell into place around the table, taking a string as Cordelia handed it to them. Misty and Madison stood at Emily’s left, Queenie and Zoe at her right. Myrtle stood in front of her, a large tomb of a book in her hands as she watched Cordelia work.

“Lay down, my dear,” she told Emily, who hesitantly did as she was told, “We will be delving deep into your subconscious and I’d rather you didn’t wake with a concussion.”

Cordelia came to a stop at Emily’s head. The brunette looked up through her lashes and watched as the woman lit a stick of incense, quickly blowing it out and placing it in a cup of sand. Emily really hoped they wouldn’t have a fire accident. If her hair were to be cut even shorter, she’d look like an egg wearing a toupee.

“Concentrate on the power you had in hell,” She whispered, so low that only Emily could hear her, “Visualize it and keep the sensation in the forefront of your mind.”

Emily felt if she were in some weird baptism, one you’d see on a TLC show about those weird Mormon cults. Shaking her head, she reminded herself to focus. She thought of hell, of that classroom — the fire, the words, the void. Emily felt her eyes become heavy before they closed. She saw Michael, blue eyes only showing a brief moment of alarm as fire raged around him.

Cordelia looked to Myrtle. The redhead began to chant. One by one, the other girls echoed her words. Emily was only slightly aware of their actions, their voices sounding miles away. Finally, Cordelia echoed the words. Her hands cupped over Emily’s face, covering her eyes and centering the spell between her brows, the third eye.

Once again, Emily fell into a slumber. Cordelia prayed that, when she awoke, her questions would be answered.

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon

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vanderlindeandco · 3 years

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Silver and Sapphire (Bill Guarnere x Reader)

“Well, look who it is!” You looked up at the familiar drawl as Sergeant Bill Guarnere leaned an elbow on the edge of your aid station. His face was smeared with dirt, and the familiar slightly sour smell of unwashed soldier reached you as a breeze pushed past him, ruffling your headscarf, but his smile was friendly enough to make up for it. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart,” he continued, and you smiled, but thought little of the compliment, that, when you had first gotten to Europe, would have left you flustered. As you’d soon learned, many of the men were so starved for female attention, they’d’ve made doe eyes at your own grandma, had she been there (rest her soul), and the flattery lost its effectiveness pretty fast after that.

“Hanging in there, Gonorrhea?” you asked, and he chuckled, though a lance of annoyance flashed through his dark eyes.

“The boys tell you about that one?”

“I heard it,” you said, and he nodded, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket.

“I can assure you there ain’t a bit of truth in it. Just some jackass’s idea of a funny play on words.”

“I mean, it is pretty funny,” you said, shaking your head as he offered you a cigarette, and then stuck one between his own lips, patting around his pockets in search of a lighter.

“Sure,” he said. “Hey, you don’t got a-” “Lighter?” you asked, lifting the one you’d pulled from your own pocket as his lengthening search yielded no success.

“You’re an angel,” he said around the cigarette, and you lit it, letting him take a good pull to make sure the tobacco really was burning before you stowed the lighter again.

“So I’ve been told,” you said drily.

“Why’re you harassing her, Bill?” that was Toye, who gave a friendly nod and a smile toward you as he approached before turning his attention back to Bill.

“I ain’t harassin’,” Bill said. “I’ve got a perfectly valid reason to be here.”

“Oh yeah?” Joe asked. “What for, you need her to diagnose your broken heart or somethin’?”

“You’re real smart, you know that, Joe?” Bill snapped with no real venom, elbowing away the other soldier, who was trying to wrap an arm around his shoulders to draw him away. “Like I said, I got a good reason, so roll up your flaps, Toye.”

Toye laughed, rattled Bill’s helmet against his skull (ignoring the scowl he got in response), and walked away with a cheerful, “See you around.”

“So?” you asked Bill, eyebrows raised expectantly.

He had reached inside his jacket as soon as Toye turned to leave, but withdrew his hand empty. “Patience is a virtue,” he intoned pedantically, his cocky smirk returning in the absence of Joe Toye.

“Yeah, one you lack just as much as me,” you replied and he chuckled.

“I’ll give you that.” He thrust his hand back inside his coat and pulled out something tied in a plaid handkerchief, and then hesitated before handing it to you. “Promise me you won’t laugh at me, yeah?” Though he said the words as nonchalantly as he could, for a moment you saw the nervousness in his eyes before he managed to conceal it, and that tiny moment shook down to its root the attitude of friendly imperviousness you’d maintained toward most of the men so far.

You swallowed, surprised by the way your heart rate had accelerated. “Promise.”

“Here you go.” He dropped the gift, whatever it was, into your hand, and it was light - so light it almost seemed as if there was nothing inside the cloth. But when you set it on the table and unfastened the knot, a silver chain slithered out onto the wood, from it hanging a teardrop-shaped sapphire set in silver. You picked it up, the chain almost too fine to grasp with your short-trimmed nails.

“Bill…” your voice trailed off as you turned the beautiful piece over in your hands. “I…” The blue stone glinted in the watery sunlight, the silver polished as clean as if it were brand new. “Why would I laugh at you?” You were taken so off guard, you had no idea what to say, and the question sprang from your lips unbidden as you looked up at him.

He shrugged, and his bearing was something you had never, ever thought would see on Wild Bill Guarnere- bashful. “I dunno. I’m just, ah-” he scratched the back of his neck roughly. “-not much of the sentimental type. Heard you sayin’ you lost a necklace on your way out here a couple weeks back, and when I found it, I was thinking I was gonna send it home for my pops to pawn, but I thought it’d look nicer on you than in some shop window.”

“It… Wow.” Your continued speechlessness seemed to rekindle his ego, and when you looked back up at him, he was smiling again, back to the cocky, confident Bill you knew.

“You like it?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said firmly, and held it up to your throat to latch it, fingers fumbling with the tiny pieces of metal behind your neck. “Care to give me a hand?”

“‘Course,” he said. You turned your back to him, his hands brushing yours as he took the clasp from them. You heard the metal click, and whether his fingers brushing against the intensely sensitive skin of the back of your neck before they pulled away had been an accident or not, you didn’t know, but either way they sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine, pulling the tiniest gasp from your lips.

“Well?” you asked as you turned to face him, swiftly regathering your composure, and hoping he hadn’t noticed your reaction. “What do you think?”

“Not bad,” he said, but he couldn’t quite conceal the admiration in his eyes as he looked at you, even though he didn’t let his gaze linger.

“I guess I owe you one, then, don’t I?” you asked.

“I wasn’t thinking about it that way, but I guess you do,” he said. “What’re you offering?”

“Hmm…” You considered for a moment. Your rule thus far had been to keep the soldiers at an arm’s length. But this felt different, and you thought you knew Bill well enough to know he wasn’t just trying to get in your pants. If that was all he wanted, he wouldn’t have gone to this much effort. No, he’d been thinking about you even when you weren’t around, and that thought made your heart beat a little faster, a giddy feeling coming with it. “There’s some chocolate and whiskey in the truck that they won’t notice missing if I cop it,” you said. “Looks like it’s gonna be a clear night tonight. Care for a couple drinks and some stargazing?”

“Are you coming onto me?” he asked, feigning surprise. “My ma warned me about girls like you-”

“Shut up and give me an answer,” you said, the laugh that came out of you then close enough to a giggle that it startled you a little.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “What time you get off? I’ll come and find you.”

“Soon as I’m done cleaning these bandages,” you said. “Won’t be much good lookin’ at stars til it gets dark out though, will it?”

“Nah, but dinner’s easier in the daylight,” he said with an easy smile. “I’ll see you soon, all right?”

“All right, then.” You were trying not to smile too broadly - his ego didn’t need to be inflated any further - but you couldn’t really help it, and to your surprise, he didn’t tease you for it.

“And you better be here, okay?” he said as he backed away. “No runnin’ off.”

“Is that what the girls you usually go on dates with do?” you called after him, and he opened his mouth, most likely prepared to release some sort of choice profanity, before remembering who he was talking to.

“You keep talking like that and I’m gonna take that necklace back!” he replied instead.

You wrapped a protective hand around it. “I’d like to see you try.”

__________________

A/N: I read that “roll up your flaps” was WWII military slang for “stop talking” and I couldn’t rest easy until I made Bill say it

#bill guarnere #band of brothers #bob #wild bill guarnere #guarnere x reader #i guess i'm just bob trash now #sorry folks #but am i though?#no #go watch it and join me #but hey one thing hasn't changed #i'm still shit at titles

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daydreaming-jessi · 4 years

Text

Day seven: free day

The final beetlelands week piece, made it just in time. Here’s to many more!

It was a bit of an atypical day. Sandy had, for homesickness related reasons, brought a metric ton of Saturn sand to the backyard of the Deetz-Maitland home. Lydia wanted to keep it, because it was sand from Saturn, but the sand had to be taken care of lest it ruin their hard worked upon garden. Adam volunteered to help clean it up while Barbara and Beetlejuice elected to stay in and do some spring cleaning in the attic. Well, Barbara was doing spring cleaning.

Beetlejuice, however, seemed to be determined to distract Barbara from said cleaning. “Babs. Hey. Hey Barbara. Ba-arb, look!”

Barbara blew a distracting strand of hair out of her face, carefully wiping dust off the coffee table while Beetlejuice continuously tried to vocally prod her from the couch. She smiled triumphantly at the pock marks being successfully wiped away. It’s taken her quite a few tries to successfully put proper pressure on the cleaning cloth, but with some practice, it was getting much easier to do.

Suddenly arms wrapped around her hips, startling Barbara into dropping the cloth. She hadn’t even heard Beetlejuice get off the couch. “Bee, I’m trying to clean here. If you’re gonna distract me, then go do something else,” she huffed, twisting her head to glare at the demon grinning up at her.

“But Barbara, I wanna cuddle,” Beetlejuice crowed, yanking them both side to side. He batted his eyes adorably, in the way he knew that Barbara had a hard time resisting.

“We could cuddle sooner if you helped me clean up in here,” Barbara replied steadily, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“You and Adam are such neat freaks. What’s wrong with a few decorative cobwebs? Makes it feel homey in here,” Beetlejuice finally let her go to float backwards into a corner of the attic where a home of spiderwebs lay.

Barbara jolted at the sight of the webs. “Because it shows other people we don’t care about our home!” She said, coming over with a new dust cloth to clean the silk up. Beetlejuice stayed stubbornly in place, forcing Barbara to try and reach around his body. She was quickly stopped by a second pair of arms sprouting out from Beetlejuice, grabbing her hands and spinning her.

“A, who is gonna come see our attic, and dos, who cares what other people think? All that matters is that we look creepy and have an excellent aesthetic,” Beetlejuice said, moving to spin Barbara around the attic. She couldn’t help but giggle at the impromptu dance, partially glad for the distraction.

Cleaning the attic wasn’t exactly necessary, Barbara and Adam usually kept it well maintained, and even Beetlejuice kept from tossing things wherever he pleased for them, but Barbara had been drilled by her parents to always keep her home spotless. She didn’t keep to the part that the task was only a woman’s job, she and Adam shared the work equally, as one should, but it was hard to shake off the rest of the teachings.

The two finally stopped their spin in front of the couch, where Beetlejuice swayed back and forth, his eyeballs actually rolling in his eye sockets. Barbara snickered at his antics, but took a step back. “Alright, enough distracting me, you. I still need to sweep under the furniture,” she said.

Beetlejuice leaned backwards with a groan onto the couch, making it creak and sag dangerously. “You literally sweep up here every two days, Babs. There’s not gonna be anything there to sweep,” he pointed out.

Barbara shrugged self consciously. “It’s important to do, in case there is any dust buildup,” she argued.

“Literally, who cares? It’s under furniture, we don’t ever have to deal with it. You know normal people don’t clean attics, right? Chuck and D aren’t, like, expecting you to clean up here, and Adam has sawdust all over his workstation all the time, he ain’t some kind of neatfreak. You’re literally just doing this for nothing,” he pointed out, shooting Barbara a pout.

She tried to think of a counter, but found she had nothing that would satisfy Beetlejuice. “It’s just something I’m gonna do, alright?” She finally said, turning to grab the broom.

Beetlejuice frowned and crossed his arms and legs, looking like a sulking child. “Fi-ine, whatever floats your boat, Barbie.”

Barbara froze, before slowly turning back to Beetlejuice. “What did you just call me?” She asked, her voice strained.

Beetlejuice shot her a strange look, before answering, “Uh, Barbie..?” Barbara’s shoulders rose up, and realization lit up Beetlejuice’s radiation green eyes, and a grin began to stretch across his face. “What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s awful,” Barbara replied flatly, crossing her arms.

“You don’t wanna be called Barbie?” Beetlejuice cooed.

“Why would I wanna be called that dumb dress up doll brand?” Barbara replied, her cheeks blazing red.

“Holy shit, you hate it! That’s hilarious!” Beetlejuice cackled, falling onto his back.

“What’s so funny? I don’t even look like that doll! It doesn’t make sense,” Barbara huffed.

“Oh my god, I am so using this, this is fantastic! You’re so mad!”

Barbara gasped. “Don’t you dare!”

Beetlejuice paused his laughter and shot her an evil grin. “Oh really? Whatcha you gonna do?”

Barbara pointed a finger at him warningly. “I will not hesitate, Lawrie.”

Upon hearing her nickname for him, Beetlejuice’s grin impossibly widened, cracking his jawbones. It was a strange name the ghost couple had come up with, but he loved how warm it made him feel. Beetlejuice raised his hands reassuringly, looking away innocently. “Ok, ok, I’ll be good. No more of that nickname from me,” he said.

Barbara shot him a suspicious look, slowly turning back to her previous task. “Alright…”

“Yup. Not even gonna think of the word, trust me Barbi-“

“That’s it!”

Barbara tackled Beetlejuice on the couch, tucking his legs firmly between her thighs as she sat upon his lap and the air filled with his crackling laughter. She began to dig her fingers into his sides, making the demon jump from the sudden, tickling sensation.

“Weh-! No! No fair, I can’t actually feel your ghost fingers, no!” He wheezed, trying to shove her away.

“I told you, this is just what you get for not listening!” Barbara grinned, using one hand to clamp the demon’s hands above him, her dancing fingers moving from Beetlejuice's expansive belly to his armpits.

“No, stop! Oh my god, stop!” Beetlejuice howled. He managed to wriggle onto his stomach, but found it didn’t help, as she had more access to his neck, and began to kiss it as she dug into his sides, knowing it was just as ticklish as any other spot. “Knock it off, you wraith!” Beetlejuice wheezed, rolling back to his previous position and shoved his feet to press against Barbara’s chest. She giggled, and lurched forward again, her fingers wiggling threateningly towards his sides.

Beetlejuice pushed her back and Barbara found herself hanging against Beetlejuice’s feet above the demon. “Aw, c’mon, that’s not fair!” Barbara laughed, wriggling against Beetlejuice’s surprisingly strong calves.

“I don’t care if it’s fair, I never play fair, Barbie!” Beetlejuice grinned.

Barbara squawked in mock outrage, making grabbing motions at Beetlejuice. “I will get you back for that dumb nickname, you jerk!” She threatened, her smile wider still.

Beetlejuice laughed at how futile her attacks were, watching her for a moment.

Her blond hair was flying around wildly, roughed up from the play fighting, her face was red and she was huffing, slightly out of breath, and her eyes. They were crinkled up with laugh lines, shining brighter than the surface of UY Scuti, bluer than the depths of the ocean, and filled to the brim with care, and they were directed to him. She was laughing so beautifully, filled with adorable snorts and chortles, it made his long dead heart quiver like it was struck with heart attack inducing arrhythmia. He loved these moments, loved how easy and warm they were. Loved that he was never afraid of her and Adam, never had to hide himself from them. He could just lose himself, freely tease them and just enjoy his afterlife. He loved Barbara and Adam so much…

Wait.

Beetlejuice froze, his face falling into one of shock, and Barbara paused upon seeing this. “Lawrie? What’s wrong?” She asked.

Beetlejuice stared at her for a long moment, his hair starting to darken to a gorgeous magenta she’d never seen before. His eyes traced her face, the demon unnerving,h silent, before blinking out of his stupor.

“I love you,” he said, voice breathless.

Barbara froze, staring back at him in shock. He… he said that. He actually said that.

The door opened, causing the two to look up. “You would not believe how much sand a sandworm can carry from Saturn, I’m more dust than ghost right now,” Adam huffed, patting his clothes down as he came in. He looked up and paused upon seeing the scene, before smiling a fond grin.

“What are you two doing now?” He asked, leaning back and crossing his arms. His hair was highlighted with a warm copper tone, dusted a gray-yellow from the Saturn sands, his body framed by the golden sun filtering through the attic windows. His green eyes were twinkling, so fond and happy of the sight before him.

“And I love you,” Beetlejuice said, his voice in awe at the long known realization finally washing over him.

Barbara whipped her head back around to stare wide eyed at a Beetlejuice again, and Adam nearly choked on the sand still built up in his throat.

Beetlejuice seemed to have realized that the room was now silent. His hair became a flustered pink, white and blue. “I-“ he gulped, pale. He’d ruined it, he ruined everything. He went too fast, veered too far off course, he fucked it all up like he always did-

Suddenly Beetlejuice was almost knocked off the couch with an arm full of Barbara. She had his cheeks squished together and was pressing hundreds of kisses to his face. “Love you too, god, I love you too!” She whispered between kisses, reassuring and happy.

They were both enveloped in Adam’s arms as he scrunched into the couch behind Beetlejuice’s back. He pressed a warm, long kiss to Beetlejuice’s ear, grinning widely. “Love you too,” he added, resting his forehead against Beetlejuice’s hair. Barbara chuckled at his long gesture, before looking back to make sure the other colors were gone from Beetlejuice’s hair.

The magenta was back, and the tension was gone. He looked dazed, but there was a huge, drunk grin on Beetlejuice’s face, looking like he’d just been told that hallucinogens were reintroduced to modern medical treatment. “Cool,” he rasped, his voice somehow even more gravelly than before, and his body was lax. He didn’t need to hold onto the Maitlands tight, they were right here, they weren’t leaving. He had all the time in the world to just soak in their softness.

#jessi doodles #beetlejuice #beetlejuice the broadway musical #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice the musical #adam maitland #barbara maitland #lawrence beetlejuice shoggoth #beetlelandsweek2020 #beetlelands #goldenbeetle

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dracothedeatheatingcupcake-ao3 · 3 years

Text

Behind the Scenes: TPWM update.

(Warning, this post is mostly just me complaining about writing and chapter length, ha. Feel free to skip if that ain't your thing. I'll even add a read more, just in case y'all don't care, ha.)

Oh my god.

So, I just finished writing the chapter of TPWM that I've been kind of stuck on, the companion for chapter 16 of TPWP. It took forever and I have a lot of editing to do, but at least it's done, yeah? And, while writing, I kept thinking that, surely, this chapter would be shorter than the original. Right? Because Taka had that whole part where he's freaking out that obviously wouldn't be in Mondo's perspective. That would take away a couple thousand words, and maybe this chapter would end up shorter. Right?

Well. I just emailed the chapter from my phone and pasted it into my word document. And can you believe what I discovered, my friends? Can you possibly imagine what I discovered after pasting it into my word document and saw the word count?

It is over 5,000 words more than the original chapter. The original was around 14k words. The companion is around 19k. Like...

And this isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it concerns me a bit with how long it's going to take me to write TPWM. Like... there are some complicated chapters coming up. These chapters are going to need a lot of detail to be properly written. If I keep going way over the original chapter length, routinely... this is going to take me ages to finish, especially since I'm already getting fatigued at writing this story. I want to write it, but it's just... ugh. A challenge. And don't even get me started on editing! Editing is it's own brand of torture, especially since I'm still editing TPWP. I think I've edited TPWP a dozen times each chapter, but every time I find a new thing to change around and it's just... oof.

Anyway, I do still have plans to finish TPWM, but it's just getting very complicated. It's also hard to maintain my idea of Mondo's voice when I'm writing haltingly. I truly don't understand how people can write in multiple sessions, oof. If I don't write in one solid block of time, my whole process is off and it's like pulling teeth to continue. It also doesn't help that I'm questioning if I'm making Mondo IC enough, which makes it all even worse.

Overall, all I'll say is don't worry too much, this isn't anything major. I don't think. This is just me being overwhelmed more than anything, ha. This just may mean I'll need to take a break between TPWP and TPWM, so I can collect myself. Publishing work is always stressful for me, since I want to make sure it's perfect (in case it wasn't clear, I'm a perfectionist, HA) and that everything is in order. And I need all my excuses and explanations in the notes or else my head will explode. Add that stress into the stress of writing a story that is ending up a lot longer than I expected it to be, and the stress of battling writing fatigue, and you've got a cesspool of anxiety.

Thanks for reading, if you're still here. Here, have a cookie: (::)

#Ramblings #TPWM update #Kinda????#I mean I did finish the chapter I was struggling with so that's good #Now I just have to freaking EDIT IT GOD #The struggle of an author is never done. :-(#Also writing fatigue is basically just my word for when it gets tiresome to write and I'm just tired of it #It's not writer's block #Since I know exactly how this story ends ha #Just...#I'm tired of writing in general #And writing for this story in particular.#Hopefully it gets better soon

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bodyswap101 · 4 years

Note

Do you think you can help? I’m a Brit, pretty smart right now, but I want that to go. Your choice if you help or not, but I’m hoping to go full blown Scally lad, smoking, hands down trousers, middle fingers, etc. No photo requests - literally whatever you can find, I’ll take. I like a surprise. Hope you can help.

I can certainly help you with that, but I know you won't cope with such a radical change, so I've decided to phase you into your new scally body and life in 2 stages. I do hope you realise that ”de evolving” from your smart brit body and life means that you might never be smart again, or ever have money. So long as you do, and you accept that you can never go back, and never get as smart as you are now, then I'll let you have this body to start.

If you accept your new body, just hit the pay link below and the rest will be taken care of. You'll be given a complete new identity, in fact 2 identifies, as this body is only temporary. Your final body is still waiting for you and he's actually saving for an upgraded body, until he can afford it, your stuck at the half way house. It won't be too long though, and if you feel your ready, you can boost his savings pot and enable us to make the switch happen quicker.

Payment received. Thank you.

Sir the next time you fall asleep will be the last time you fall asleep with your ”smarts”. It will be the last time you see any of your family or friends, you will of forgotten whom they are by the morning anyway. Your new body is is named James. He used to be a scally and has all the memories of that time. These memories will be used for you to learn the scally life. He's pretty fit to be honest and since turning twenty, 3 months ago he's stepped away from the scally life. He was fed up of being chased by cops. In fact that's where his story ended. On his final visit to the court room he was given a choice, prison or allow his body and life to be taken away and used for this purpose. He's got a brand new body now, in the form of the cop who arrested him, the cop has changed his life around and he now wants your body which is why you get his. The cop has used this short time to bulk James ’s body up, he sent him on a few holidays, got his head in the right place, and even got him a few tattoos as a reminder if his old life. Gone are his trackies, his smokes. He is now a model citizen. You can continue what the cop did for him or take his life on a new path, the choice is yours. I wouldn't recommend any crime though, the judge doesn't support body swappers, even though they are forced to do so by the law. If James goes in front of a judge, she believes the body does the crime, not the mind. If you get James sent to prison, you'll, be stuck this way. Fore fitting the money you paid and he body you have pre booked.

James, its been 3 months, your scally body has been in touch, he's ready for his upgrade, but is still, 3 months short of being an to afford it. We have told him we would ask if your ready, as we believe you are. You've learned enough about the scally life for it not to be too much of a shock for you. He says he can not wait any longer and wants his new body now. He asked if you wanted to pay the additional 3 months for him then he'll happily give you his body now. I don't know if this will convince you or not, but he said if you do swap with him today then he'd give you a free fuck before you both went on with your new lives. Just a reminder, your scally body and life didn't go to college and left school without any qualifications.

Payment received. Thank you.

So since this swap is going to be your final swap and it will be your new body and life the swap is a little different. Please meet Kyle at his house at 7pm sharp. Address to follow. Everything you need for the final swap will be delivered to kyles house at 7.30pm.

At 7pm I got to the address and there was a guy stood by a car, hands down trackies, smoking a fag.

Kyle?..

Yes. James? Nice to meet you.

Yes I'm James. And nice to meet you too. Err, the car?..

Oh that's part of the deal, we both get one, it's a free gift as a thank you from the company. There will be one at your place too, for me tomorrow. This one of course is yours, well it will be yours tomorrow.

Look, just in case they havent told you, I'm a proper chav or scally if you prefer. I don't have an education, I can hardly read or write. I got no job. But from what they have told me I'm what you want. My body ain't perfect but I'm lean and strong. I can handle my self in a fight. My dick, well that's massive, I've had it in plenty of pussys and never had any complaints. But they told me you were gay. And that I wasn't allowed to enforce straight or gay on you once your me. So since I found out that you might be gay when you become me I've been with a couple of lads, and let me tell you, that lads arse was falling apart by the time I had finished with him. And I actually enjoyed it more than with a bird. No risks of a kid. Init. But in about 12 hours, my body is yours and yours is mine.

And that fuck you promised.

Well, it's a fantasy of mine, shag myself init.

But you'll be someone else, you'll be me.

Yer but ill know that I'm shagging my REAL arse, I'll know my REAL dick is fuckimg my NEW arse. Init.

When you put it that way. I won't let you leave till we've done it.

Init.

Mate, I hardly know anything about the body, the life I'm giving you. I haven't owned it for long enough.

I know mate, they told me all about it. I know all I need to know. Init

Just then a courier arrived with a small package. We headed inside his place and both proceed to open it. There were instructions and 2 small vials if liquid. And a further bottle marked pre swap disinfectant wash.

I shoved at his shoulder and joked, I take it is better read these then?

Init.

Apparently just before we are ready to swap we have to shower or bathe together. I have to wash and scrub your entire body with this disinfectant and you must do mine, it says that the swap happens as we sleep and that we must touch each other while we sleep. It recommends a certain naked spooning sexual position to ensure full contact for 12 hours, it says we must both take the vial by mouth at exactly the same time and then lay down next to each other ensuring as much of our skin is touching each other. It says we will fall asleep after 15 minutes of taking the vial and all necessary steps must of been taken at that point to ensure contact is maintained. It says precisely 12 hours after we have fallen asleep we will both awake together, swapped. It says that we must not ejaculate or cum once the vial has been taken.

So since I'm the ’gay’ one and your just kind of curious I guess it would be best for you to be behind me, so you spooning me. Is 15 minutes long enough for you to get hard and push it in?

Look mate, it doesn't take me much to get hard, I can shove it anywhere and I can do gay too and I've seen your pics so just thinking about them muscles being mine is getting me hard already. But I think your right, I'll shove mine in you, that way I can reach round, play with your dick, massage your muscles in your abs. Init.

And I'm the gay one? It sounds amazing. What time you wanna do it?

I dunno, I like to sleep late, so how about we get some scran, few beers then come back here, take the vile and sleep?

Sounds like a plan but by 10pm I'm getting inpatient and I'm asking him if we can go back. He agrees. As the instructions started I washed his vody with the disinfectant I played around with him, kissed him, made him cum, he then spun me around and fucked me with his massive cock. He then started to clean me and sucked me off. I had never before experienced such an amazing sexual experience. We dried each other off and sat down naked at a table opposite each other.

My dicks still hard from all that init.

So it's almost midnight, we're gonna drink the vile and head to your bed?

Yep, init

don't forget, no matter how horny you get, don't cum.

On 3 init

1,2,3 we both downed the vial and headed to his bed. I lay down first, on my side and then he lay next to me, he proceed to push his erect dick into my arse and we fell asleep. He had one arm under me, rubbing my dick and the other offer me rubbing my abs. Our legs we're inter twined together.

Morning came and I awoke, still with a dick inside my arse. At first I thought it hadn't worked. I looked at the clock, 12.17pm. He was still behind me, he was still rubbing my stomach and fondeling me dick.

Well mate your abs are gone, and your dicks much bigger, feels good doesn't it?

I looked down at myself, I'm still had abs, but they weren't nearly as big as they were last night, I rubbed my hand a cross my head, and realised I no longer had a buzz cut and now had hair. I even felt dumb. And I knew I had become him.

It sure does init.

Bro, you even sound like me.

I know, cool init

You even say init everytime you finish a sentence, it's so annoying.

I know, it's a habit I need to get out of init.

So, you promised a fuck before you left.

I think you'll find it was you who promised the fuck. Init.

Don't really matter who promised who what now does it?

My dreams come true, I'm a scally, init

Fuck me please.

Only if you fuck me later, init.

I'll fuck you today tomorrow. The day after that if you want.

Init

I finally had my dream and I was now a gay scally, I had a cute boyfriend and I didn't care who knew about it. I had a special bomd with my boyfriend and knew his ins and outs, I used to be him. Of course he used to be me and he knew all my turn one and turn offs.

We approached the company who allowed this to happen and asked if there was a way for us to occasionally swap with each other to switch it up in the bedroom every now and then.

They told us it wasn't, but they did say that they had a few scally bodies on file, if we wanted to switch it up, a bit they could send us some vials t9 make us look like some of the others apfor a few hours

#male body swap #bodyswap #malebodyswap #male transformation #male tf #body swap #body suit #bodysuit #scally #scally lads

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desiraypark · 4 years

Text

Like Magnets (Part II)

Clyde x Sherri (Non-Linear Series) [Part I] Remember how Clyde and Sherri broke up, then made up? Well, here is the making up! Content: Unprotected bonin’. Word Count: 2,184

Clyde stepped back into his bedroom, as Sherri followed. He pulled her close and as they kissed, his fingers tugged at the fabric of her dress--scrunching it up so that it was balled in his hands. Suddenly, he let the dress go and pulled away.

“Shit, I ain’t got no condoms, Baby...” he said.

Sherri looked up at him, cringing. She shrugged. “I don’t wanna wait any longer, Baby.”

Clyde pulled her back in his arms, but she tilted his head back.

“But buy some condoms, please,” Sherri said.

Clyde chuckled and nodded. “I will.”

“And I’ll buy some, too.”

“Okay.”

Sherri grabbed her dress and lifted it over her head--her gold bangles jingling with the movement. Clyde stood back and looked her over--she wore a strapless bra with no particular pattern and blue hipster panties--the edges of her underwear pressed into her juicy flesh. He knelt and kissed her on the lips again, then blazed a trail of kisses down her neck and onto her breasts.

Holding on to her waist, Clyde stepped to his bed and sat on the edge to continue worshiping her body. Kisses to her sternum and over her belly--over her pubic bone. She rested her hand on his shoulder to maintain balance as she tugged her flat sandal off. Then, she switched hands and did the same with the other sandal. As soon as her feet were bare and on the floor, Clyde pulled her down on him. The kissing reconvened, and he rested his large hands on her waist.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” he mumbled.

“I won’t,” Sherri said softly.

“Ever again...”

“I won’t.”

With his right hand, Clyde unsnapped the hooks of Sherri’s bra. She helped him pull it off, and before it hit the floor, her left nipple was in his mouth, and both of his hands squeezing her breasts. The sensations were different, but felt oh, so good--massaging out aches she didn’t realize she had. Then, he let go of her left breast--his warm hand found its way between their bodies and over her mound. Sherri moaned when he palmed it and she gyrated against his hand.

“Mmm...” Clyde moaned in her mouth, the feeling of her heat sending a sharp wave through his body. “I need to feel you, Babygirl...”

Sherri sat up and rolled over on the bed beside him. She abruptly sat up, pulled off her bracelets, and placed them on the nightstand. Then, she laid back down and pushed her thumbs under the band of her panties.

“Mmph-mmm,” Clyde said, standing up. “I wanna take ‘em off.”

A dimple appeared in Sherri’s cheek as she smirked. Clyde began to work at his belt, and Sherri sat up and loosened it for him. Then, she pulled it off and let it fall to the floor. Clyde worked at his jeans and Sherri sat back on the bed. She began to rub her breasts--her entire body aching for him. His body tilted to the left, then to the right, as he toed off his shoes--eyes burning into her as she played with her tits. Then, he slid down his jeans and boxers--his thick length sprung out, bouncing up and down until it found its center.

Sherri’s eyes widened and she pressed her thighs together.

“Jesus, Clyde...” she mumbled.

This time, his dimples appeared. Then, he got down on his knees, pulled Sherri’s panties down, and pried her thighs apart. All of his senses came alive: his eyes feasted upon her most intimate spot--slick and weeping for him. He could smell its tanginess and even heard her wetness separate with a tiny squelch when he opened her legs. Now, he just needed to feel it--and more importantly, taste it.

He nuzzled his nose against her clit, pulling a soft moan from her. His flattened tongue glided up her pussy, collecting her sticky slick, and he dragged it up, up, up, until it met her stiffened and inviting clit. He flicked his tongue against it, and she lifted her knees, exposing more of herself to him. Clyde moaned with every lick and every suck, as though he were eating his favorite dessert.

“You taste so good, baby,” he said.

Sherri’s pussy clenched and she let out a hot, lusty breath. He looked up at her, only seeing her neck and her brown arms extended at her sides, gripping his sheets. Then, he grabbed her right thigh with his left hand--even the bionic fingers knowing that her plush skin needed to be held in his grip--the pads pressed into her flesh as the warm middle finger of his right hand slipped into her dripping hole.

“Oh, fuck,” Sherri whispered. “More...”

Clyde slid his index finger inside and worked Sherri open as he continued lapping up her juices. Soon, the sensations became a bit much--not too much, but enough to make her scoot up the bed some. But Clyde wrapped his arm around her thigh and yanked her back to him.

“No running,” he said. “Every time you run from me, I’m gonna give it to you hard.”

Sherri let out a guttural groan and her pussy squeezed Clyde’s fingers. She covered her face to hide her smile, and lifted her left knee to push her foot into his mattress.

“That goes for my dick, too, Babygirl,” he said.

Sherri chuckled with disbelief.

“Oh god...” she said to herself.

Clyde released his grip around her thigh and pulled his fingers out. He licked her off his skin with a hum, then began to stroke his dick. “What’s our safe word, Babygirl?”

Sherri looked around his bedroom and her eyes landed on Clyde’s old boombox on the dresser. She squinted and read the brand name. “Panasonic...”

Clyde looked over his shoulder at the radio and laughed, then Sherri did the same, covering her embarrassed face as she did so.

“Radio,” he said.

Sherri nodded.

Clyde started sit up.

“Do you want me on top?” Sherri asked.

“No. Not yet, anyway,” he said. Sherri scooted back some and Clyde rested between her legs. He held her right leg up and placed it against his chest. He kissed the top of her foot, and--finally--slowly pushed inside of her. Sherri’s hands flew to the covers and she pulled the fabric into her palm. Clyde watched her face as he buried more of himself. When he could go no further, he let out a sigh of pleasure and rested there.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” Sherri said, pinching her nipples.

Clyde dragged out of her, not pulling completely out, then slid back in. He repeated the motion, stroking her walls as they contracted around his circumference. Then, he held her ankle and picked up his speed. Sherri squealed and involuntarily slid backward. Clyde stopped and shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Babygirl,” he said. He slammed into her one hard time, pulling a shriek from her and making her head tilt back. He fucked her faster and harder.

“Oh, shit!!!” Sherri cried to the ceiling. Her soprano moans were music to Clyde’s ears as he pounded her. She sat up, rested on her elbows, and stared at Clyde--her jaw lax and her eyebrows knitted together. She whimpered another expletive, unable to process the monster that was slipping in and out of her body. Her pussy made filthy squelching noises, and Clyde broke their stare to get a look at the sight.

“You got the prettiest pussy I ever seen, Sherri,” he said.

Sherri hummed at the praise. “Your dick is so big, baby...”

Clyde bit his lip. “And you’re takin’ it so well. Wrapped around me like a glove.”

Sherri fell back against the mattress and let the drag of Clyde’s veiny dick excite her every molecule. Her toes curled and her eyes rolled back. This moment couldn’t be real.

“Shit, Babygirl, I’m not gonna last,” Clyde said. Sherri snapped out of her fog and sat straight up.

“Do you need to pull out?” she asked sternly.

“I’m gonna pull out on time, Baby. I promise,” he assured her. “I’m not there yet. But this pussy is just so damn wet and messy...”

“Does it really feel that good, baby?” Sherri asked. She lifted one of her breasts and held the nipple to her lips.

“Fuck,” Clyde mumbled at the sight. “Yes,it feels real good. I’m surprised I’ve been lastin’ this long. You got my dick lookin’ like a honeybun.”

Sherri snorted and covered her giggle. Clyde laughed and grabbed her leg--gently pulling it away from his chest. Getting the hint, Sherri brought her limb down and rested her foot flat against the bed. Then, Clyde gently fell over her--putting most of his weight on his right arm as he dove in and out of her. Sherri wrapped her legs around his waist and ran her fingers through his hair. Their lips collided--their tongues explored each other’s hot mouths.

“I want you on top now,” he said over her lips. He pulled out and lied down on the bed. Sherri tossed a leg over his body but paused. She moved her leg back and turned the opposite way. Then, she got in reverse cowgirl position, but Clyde pressed his hands against her ass, halting her movement.

“Babygirl, we gon’ be parents within three seconds if you do that,” he said.

Sherri readjusted her body and faced Clyde again. He bit his lip and blushed.

“This way I can throw you off if I need to,” he said.

Sherri laughed as she lifted her lower body. She steadied herself above him as she held his dick in her hand, then, she slid down until most of him was inside. She let the prickly chills shoot down her spine, then rested her hands on his torso and began to bounce. Their moans and groans filled the air of the otherwise quiet bedroom and Clyde watched Sherri’s breasts bounce. Eventually, the sight of her body moving up and down over him became too much to handle, and he felt his dick twitch. “Stop, Babygirl,” he said. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush with his chest. Sherri rested her arms around his head and sat still. Clyde breathed in her scent, and she did the same--his hair smelling faintly of shampoo.

“Sit up for me,” he said. Sherri sat up and Clyde pried her legs apart. He flicked his thumb across her clit and Sherri leaned back, pressed her hands down into the mattress on either side of him and began bouncing again.

“Baby...” she whimpered--her eyes closing and her thighs burning. Clyde traded his thumb for the pads of three of his fingers, then he began to meet her thrusts with his own--the head of his dick tapping at the very bottom of her pussy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming!” she shouted.

Clyde felt her pussy clenched around him, and hot liquid squirted out of her and landed on his lap. But he didn’t stop thrusting. “Gimme some more, Babygirl. Gimme some more...”

A breathless scream emanated from Sherri’s throat and her eyes rolled back as two more gushers came out of her.

“OH MY GOD!” she cried. “FUCK!”

“Shit, where do you want it?” Clyde asked, pulling Sherri off of him by her waist, but he gently helped her down to the side of his body.

“My tits,” she answered, squeezing her breasts together. Clyde sat on his knees stroked himself over Sherri. Ropes of cum shot out onto her breasts and stomach. He groaned through his orgasm, and just as he neared the end, Sherri lifted her head, grabbed his length, and sucked him through the finish. She swallowed the last few drops of his climax, and Clyde knelt to kiss her.

They both fell onto the bed, and Sherri tossed a leg around Clyde’s body. And he lifted his right arm. Sherri maneuvered to rest her head on his chest. He kissed her forehead, and they just laid there. Moments of silence passed them, then Clyde got up and left the room. He returned with a wet washcloth and wiped Sherri’s breasts and belly down. Then, he dumped the cloth into his hamper.

“Can we get under the covers?” Sherri asked.

“Sure,” Clyde said. Sherri climbed off the bed, and they both pulled the covers back and got inside. Sherri snuggled close to him and rested her head on his chest again.

“I’ve never squirted before,” she said.

Clyde huffed and smiled. “I’ve never fucked raw before.”

“Me either.”

Sherri listened to Clyde’s heartbeat, then laughed. “Look at us bonding over unsafe sex.”

Clyde’s pec bounced against her face as he chuckled. He looked over at the clock on his nightstand. He had hours before it was time for him to go to work.

“You work today?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm. What time is it?”

“10:15,” Clyde answered.

“Mmm,” Sherri said, snuggling closer. “Plenty of time.”

Clyde ran his fingertips up and down Sherri’s bare shoulder blade. “I love you.”

Sherri lifted her head to look in his eyes. “I love you, too.” _____________________ TAG LIST @aloneandsleepless @direnightshade @finn-ray-nal-beads @a-true-janian-reply @thegreenmatt @sister-winter73 @loewsy55 @mariesackler @clydes-hole @sydneyssmut @kirah36 @lovelyyandtired @morby @tsarinastorm If you’d like to be tagged in Clyde x Sherri posts, just leave a comment below, or check out my Tag List request post where I’ve listed/categorized my work, and leave a comment there or shoot me a message!

#clyde x sherri #dating era

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foradecision · 3 years

Text

THE TOWER, DAY 21 ; 7:03:54.

"yo, cap — hold up a sec.”

crane’s brows lift. he breaks stride halfway down the hall, turning back around on his heel to look at spike. “‘cap’?”

“yeah, you know. captain america. ‘cause of the whole straight - laced, boy scout vibe —”

he snorts. “kiss my ass, man.”

“nah, even better. got’chu a present.”

“oh yeah? it’s not even my birthday.”

“might as well be.” whatever he’s been holding is offered in plain sight, passed over once his strides cover the floor between them. “tried out a new recipe for the firecrackers. old ones’ll give you, what, ten, fifteen seconds? these babies, though — twice the juice.”

“no shit? thirty seconds?”

“yup, just about. means you’ll have plenty of time to get your white ass clear of whatever clusterfuck it’s in, and then some.”

he glances down, starts to tuck them into one of his pockets, then hesitates and catches spike’s eye again. “you sure you can spare ‘em? mine’s not the only ass out there every day.”

“got the prototype set up in back,” spike says. “for now, what you’ve got is all we got, but gimme a few more hours. we’ll have enough to go around.”

satisfied, crane nods and stores the firecrackers. “thanks, spike.”

“we do what we can.” a hand extended to grasp crane’s for a beat. “stay safe, man. next beer’s on me.”

“isn’t that shit communal?”

“hey, i take it back. go fuck yourself.”

crane laughs. the echo of it lingers on his face while he makes his way to the tower’s exit, but it’s quick to fade: the area’s empty, the doors unmanned. he throws a glance toward deniz who’s passing by with a crate of medical supplies, headed to the elevator that’ll take him up to sickbay.

“where the hell’s blake?”

“don’t know. it’s still early.”

“okay, and — ? c’mon, he knows better than that. last time he left his post, we almost lost a fuckin’ kid. do me a favor and track him down, huh?”

deniz nods and disappears around the corner. shaking his head, crane works the doors open and steps outside.

the rustle of a bird startled into flight greets him as soon as he does. two circle, then a third takes wing. hoarse, throaty cries, jarring in the dazed heat of early morning; they’re vultures, he realizes. that isn’t unusual. enough carnage in the slums to draw them, keep them occupied, their bellies full. what’s unusual is their proximity to the tower’s shadow. the courtyard’s kept clean — as clean as it can be, at least, but that means it’s routinely swept of biters, their carcasses tossed past the wall. cloudbursts and regular storms do enough to wash away most of the blood.

forehead creased to a furrow, crane steps further out and lifts a hand to block the sun. the vultures do another lap and three more join in. there’s a noise from somewhere that sounds like a slow leak from a water pipe. the fuck ... ?

he jogs down the stairs and does a full turn so he’s facing the tower again.

that’s when he sees it.

three floors above ground level, dripping gore onto the concrete. that’s where the noise is coming from. that’s where the birds are congregating.

“what the ...”

blake’s voice rings out across the yard. mesut, another of the watch, is in tow. “hey, i don’t know who died and made you boss, but last i checked it was brecken who called th—”

“shut the fuck up and look at this.”

“what? listen, you’re —”

“hey!” crane parrots back sharply. “you wanna come down here and explain how the fuck this happened?"

the two men filter outside and follow the trajectory of his gesture.

“holy —”

a body. the corpse of one of their scouts, gutted, strung up from the window guard with what looks like a combination of cable and rope. intestines spill from the split of her eviscerated stomach, hanging like streamers. like the whole thing is decorative. on display. crane takes the stairs again, two at a time, and lands a solid shove against blake’s chest.

“you’re goddamn lucky brecken’s the one in charge, ‘cause if it were me, i’d throw your ass to the fuckin’ biters right now. how’d you miss this, blake? huh? where the hell were you when they were stringin’ her up?”

“me? what, this is my fault?”

“you’re supposed to watch the fuckin’ door, blake!”

“i was! i stepped away for ten minutes, not even —”

“you don’t step away ever, you hear me? you do your fuckin’ job!”

mesut has to get between them, one hand braced against blake’s chest and the other held out, palm up, to crane. “guys, guys — c’mon, this isn’t helping. stop. take a breath. we need to go inside and tell —”

“yeah, why don’t you get on that,” crane grates out, still glaring daggers at blake. “in fact, while you’re at it, get me a fuckin’ ladder, too.”

“a ladder — ?”

“jesus, do i have to spell everything out for you people? you think we’re gonna just leave her up there for the vultures? no. no, i’m cuttin’ her down. get the fuck out of my sight, blake. i mean it.”

but cutting her down is only easy in theory, not in practice. the bindings are tight. between the deadweight, the birds, and the sheer butchery of her condition, maneuvering her to solid ground — to the tarp he’d laid there beforehand — is a grisly, strenuous task. her name was defne. local girl, mid - twenties, used to be a competitive swimmer before the outbreak. healthy. slight, a head shorter than him, but all muscle, and fast as hell.

clearly not fast enough.

the abrasions on her wrists catch his eye. bruises that aren’t mottled, the way they would be if she’d already been dead at the time they were made. blood had rushed to the area, colored the skin underneath.

she was still alive when they’d hung her up there.

crane, by no means, has a weak stomach. if the things he’d seen during active duty weren’t enough for him to keep any physical response in check, the things he’d seen during his time in harran definitely were. bile washes up his throat anyway, pitches against the roof of his mouth. he has to tug the bandanna from his face and press his lips to the back of his gloved hand, forcing a thick, sour swallow, counting off seconds in his head as he wills the nausea to pass. the prickle of sweat all over him has little to do with the heat. but he counts, and it passes. a breath out and he’s focused again. on getting her wrapped, preparing her for transport to the nearest lot where he’ll be able to start a fire and —

something’s carved into the skin of her rib cage. easily missed at first, because of the blood. it’s an arrow; facing outwards, like it’s pointing to her back.

slowly, mindful of the gaping, weeping ruin of her stomach, crane turns her over.

“what th— what the fuck happened?”

brecken. coming outside, throwing his shadow across the tarp as he moves behind crane. crane, who hasn’t moved at all.

“brecken,” he says, guttural as one of the vultures. “it ...”

five letters, branded red, sliced deep into the flesh between defne’s shoulder blades. his name. it spells out his name.

more people are drifting outside, mesur and deniz, seth, buckshot — spike brings up the rear with deanna close to his elbow, edging past him to get a clearer look at the scene. the four boys are there, nate and peter, omar and rahim, and whatever’s being said, whatever collective murmurings pass through the group at large, crane doesn’t hear.

he rocks back on his heels and looks up at brecken, whose gaze is already aligned with his. it holds for a long, long moment, and then brecken’s turning to address everyone else.

“alright, all of you lot back inside — spike, get them out of here,” that’s a more direct command, and the ‘them’ in question — four stubborn kids — is ushered through the doors first amidst a chorus of griping complaints. “unless you hear me say your name,” brecken continues, “go back to your posts and stay there. deanna, meet us upstairs. jade — where the hell is jade?”

mesut starts to say something and brecken waves him off before he’s gotten out a single word.

“just fucking find her, yeah?”

“on it, boss.”

and still, crane hasn’t moved.

it’s his name. it’s his fucking name, on the skin of a dead girl.

“crane. hey.” brecken’s hand lands on his shoulder. “i’ll take her ‘round back. go on upstairs and wait for me.”

“you can’t carry her by yourself.” his voice is monotone, rasping at the edges. “i got it.”

deanna’s next. unsurprisingly, she didn’t go when she’d been told to. “we got it,” she says, already handling the tarp, and brecken joins in, the two of them wrapping defne up until crane can’t see the letters anymore.

all three get her moved from the yard. get her clear of prying eyes to where she needs to be. autopilot takes over and none of them speak to each other until the body’s burning and they’re gathered in hq, along with lena, spike, and jade.

at first, crane just listens. talk surrounding blake is what jade jumps on first, because it’s the second time he’s pulled this — that they know of — and for the second time, somebody else paid for it. speculation that’s more assumption about what happened, as if there’s any real uncertainty around who’s responsible. it doesn’t matter who made the call, or the cuts. it comes back to rais.

it always fucking comes back to rais.

“they’re trying to rattle us, make us weak,” jade is saying. “the timing of this is no coincidence.”

she means the lull that wasn’t a lull. that span of days following nate’s rescue, where the threat seemed to retreat; it wasn’t a victory. it was a tactical move.

“he wanted my attention,” crane says.

everyone stops, everyone looks his way. deanna’s the only one he makes eye contact with and even then, it isn’t maintained.

“this is all part of his sick game, don’t you get it yet? he left her for me. he wants me. and i’m gettin’ real fuckin’ tired of everyone else bleeding for it.”

“so — what?” spike says. “you gonna go after him yourself? that ain’t the play, man.”

“isn’t it?”

“the hell it is,” brecken puts in, and jabs a finger in crane’s direction. “don’t you even think about doing it, crane. not on my fucking watch. you go after him now, you’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

“fuck it, then!” crane’s voice gets louder and he steps forward so brecken’s finger jabs his chest instead. “hell, if that’s what it’s gonna take, he can have it! one way or another, i’m ending this — and you’re not gonna stop me, brecken. all due respect, man, but —”

“right, right, because making yourself a fucking martyr is the best course of action here, is it? don’t you square up to me like you’re —”

“what? like i’m what, huh?”

“you think i don’t want to see rais’ head on a fucking pike? you think all of us don’t want to end this?”

“yeah, well, it wasn’t your fuckin’ name they knifed into a goddamn corpse!”

“fucking hell,” jade bites off, at the same time lena gets in between the two men like mesut had done with blake earlier.

“enough, do you hear me? that’s enough.”

“oh, my god —” the growling vitriol burns crane’s throat. he backs off, swiping his jaw with the flat of his wrist, hands landing at either hip. he’s gearing up to pop off again but deanna’s right there with a palm at the center of his chest. he’s breathing hard, almost panting. “you know he’s not just gonna stop, right?"

“i know.”

“and i’m — just — what, i’m supposed to fuckin’ sit here with my thumbs up my ass, lettin’ him butcher his way through everyone in this place until he gets to me? is that it? is that the goddamn play?”

“hey. look at me.”

he’s so wound up that he damn near chokes on the next breath he pulls in, but he does as he’s told. this time, the eye contact is steady. the palm at his chest is steady. for a minute, it’s like the room’s emptied of every person except for them.

“blake’s off guard duty,” brecken says, clipped. “i’m putting a twenty - four hour watch on the fucking courtyard, no exceptions. spike —”

“yeah.”

“can you rig another fence trap for that gap in the wall?”

“way ahead of you, boss. just gotta reroute the generators without pullin’ too much power from the floodlights.”

“but you can do it.”

“’course i can do it.”

“good. get it done.” his eyes scan each face in turn. “jade, radio any other scouts in the field and tell them to pull back. i don’t want anybody else leaving until we’ve set up reinforcements. the rest of you, inventory and perimeter checks. find out where that prick blake is hiding,” this, to deanna, “and tell him if he isn’t standing in front of me in the next half - hour, he’ll lose more than just his job.”

then he looks at crane.

“you, stay here. we’re not quite done.”

#battle journals.*#i. do not go gentle into that good night.*#here we goooo

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all-my-novels · 4 years

Text

Carlotta’s Lament / Tool Scene

JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure fanfiction: OC/fankids focused

Words: 1,481

Read on the Ao3 here

Carlotta Brando sees herself as a tool to be used, and assumes Kokoro Kujo sees her the same way. She couldn't be more wrong, though.

---

This is a scene from my fanchild fanpart for JoJo, called "Heartbreak Hotel Heartbreakers." As I'm notorious for never finishing things, I'm writing out scenes from my fanparts so you guys can read them in case they never get written. For more updates on these characters and more, you can find their works here:

My Writeblr -- Fankids Ask Blog -- Fankids Discord (open to anyone, I'm not the only one who posts content there)

Did you like this? THEN COMMENT. Seriously. Leave kudos too, and if you really liked it, bookmark! Creators won't create if there's nothing to create for!!! It's not hard to leave a comment saying "I liked this!" so please do if you liked it!

Carlotta’s Lament / Tool Scene

"Carlotta -- hey, Carla, slow the hell down!"

Kokoro's voice is uncharacteristically loud and somewhat emotional as she chases down her wayward cousin. The blonde stalked off after managing to defeat Hephaestus, a stormy expression on her face and sour parting words hanging in the air:

"I'll be making my own way from here on out."

Kokoro knows it's an illogical decision. The Artemis House is far from defeated, and if Carlotta goes off on her own, she'll most certainly be killed by them. It's what she's been trying to avoid...

So why is she moving faster while Kokoro tries to catch up?

Catching the other girl on the shoulder with her hand, Kokoro whirls her around to face her. Her expression is still stormy, but now there's an undeniable pain on her face as well and in her eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" Kokoro says quickly. "You know going off on your own puts us all in danger, right? Not just you? Making impulsive decisions will drag this whole team down --"

"It's always like this," Carlotta murmurs. Her voice may be quiet, but she absolutely sounds hurt. "I'm always -- always -- doin' shit for other people. Been that way since I was a kid." She bites her lip. Kokoro decides to keep her mouth shut for now, instead watching and listening while Carlotta continues. "Now, nobody asked me t' do that, t' be fair. I took up the mantle on my own, of my own free will. I'm always shoulderin' my own shit to deal with other people's. For their good, instead of mine. Y'know why I do that, Miss Psychologist?" Carlotta jabs a finger into Kokoro's chest, but the red-head doesn't respond.

"Not even gonna guess? Damn, yer borin' as always." Carlotta turns her head to the side and spits, then looks back at Kokoro, in the eyes. Kokoro's uncomfortable with the direct eye contact, but maintains it. "Well, fine. I'll take the fun outta it n' just tell ya: it's cause I think that, mebbe, if I keep helpin' people, even when they don't like me? Maybe they'll start t' like me."

A period of silence stretches between the two, and Carlotta snorts, removes her finger from Kokoro's chest and lets her hand fall back to her side. "I mean, I get it. I get this whole Artemis House deal, I get why people don't trust me or anybody else with th' name "Brando." My Pops did some bad shit back in th' day. I mean... how many folks d'you know who had their brother's body copied t' use as a backup in case somethin' happened to theirs?" She chuckles bitterly, but there's absolutely no happiness behind it. "Course, Uncle Jonathan forgave 'im for that, 'cause he's got a soft heart, y'know? Like me." She curls her hand into a fist over her chest, her fangs sinking deeper into her lower lip. Kokoro can tell that she's drawn blood, but she keeps speaking anyway.

"But the damage 's done. Nobody trusts me when I say I'm not a bad person. So I got to thinkin'... mebbe, if I just... stopped worryin' 'bout myself, how I felt, n' just let myself be a tool for others to use... mebbe I could fix us. Mebbe I could fix my family." Carlotta sniffs, her blue eyes shimmering with tears now as she rubs furiously at her face.

She may be eighteen, and legally an adult, but in reality, she's still just a child. A child with a burden far too heavy to bear on her own.

"Mebbe I could rewrite the Brando story, y'know? So that -- so that we ain't always just moochers on th' Joestar line." She sighs, looks down at her feet and kicks half-heartedly at a rock lying next to her foot. "But that was naive, n' stupid. We ain't never gonna be nothin' but a footnote in somebody else's story at best. At worst... we're the villains." She swallows, wipes away some of the blood trailing down her chin from where she split her lip earlier with her fangs.

"Pa n' Pops always wanted better fer us than what they got in life. 's why I never... told 'em about any o' this. Thinkin' about how Pops'd feel if I told 'im I was depressed after everythin' he's done for me? 's too much. 'sides, he don't need to worry 'bout me when we've got all the little ones, already." Carlotta wraps her arms around herself. She's long since looked away from Kokoro, instead turning her focus towards the ground as she shuffles her feet.

"Don'tcha get it, Kokoro? I'm -- I'm a fake. A fuckin' fake. Everythin' I've ever done is for somebody else, to make somebody else happy, so somebody else'll like me, or at the least, y'know, find some kinda use for me. My Pops used other folks as tools for his own gain..."

And here, Carlotta's hands curl into fists at her sides as her shoulders tremble with the weight of the world; she's become her own Atlas.

"... so I became everyone else's tool t' fix it. But even then -- even then, I couldn't win ya' over. An' not the Avdols either -- sure, J.P loves me, n' I'd die for him like I'd die for August or Teddy, or any of the others, but he's his own brand o' crazy. The others ain't gonna trust me. Even if I did die for 'im, I doubt they'd care enough to leave flowers at my grave. Yer different, though, Koku-chan. I think..." She furrows her brow and sniffs as tears roll down her cheeks. "... I think I wanted t' be friends with ya' so bad 'cause I wanted t' prove we -- the Brandos n' Joestars -- ain't gotta fight all the time. We can be friends, y'know?"

She starts to cry harder now, hiccupping sobs breaking through her words here and there. "But -- but I was -- I was wrong, again. Like a dumb lil' kid, I -- just don't learn my fuckin' lesson. It's my fault. I'm -- I'm not th' cousin ya' deserve, or th' friend ya' deserve either. I'm not good enough for nobody."

She ends her final word with a choked little whimper, curling in on herself before sitting down on the forest floor. Without thinking, Kokoro kneels down in front of her and puts her arms around her cousin, pulling her head in close to rest on her chest -- cheek pressed just above her heart -- just as her father Noriaki had done so many times when she would get overstimulated and panicked as a young child, so she could hear her heartbeat.

"You're wrong, Carla," Kokoro finally murmurs. Carlotta stops crying for a moment, curls her hands into the fabric of Kokoro's coat and goes still against her chest. "I don't hate you. I never have. I kept pushing you away because I figured you would be better off without me. I'm... not very good with showing emotions. I do a better job at analyzing other people's emotions and feelings, and talking them through it. Until you came looking for me, no one had ever tried to be my friend before, besides Axel." Kokoro sighs heavily, rests her cheek against the top of Carlotta's head as a few wet drops fall from her own eyes onto her hair. "I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry that I hurt you. But I don't -- I don't hate you. Not for anything you did, and not for anything your father did. That doesn't concern me -- or either of us -- anyway."

She squeezes Carlotta tight, presses a platonic kiss to her scalp. "Just promise me you'll do your best to live for yourself, and stay alive for yourself, and nobody else? You're not a tool to be used. You've got a path all of your own that's just as important as anyone else's. That's why I agreed to help you with Artemis House, anyway. I did it for you, and your family, not because I wanted anything out of any of you. I just believe living things have the right to live. Even if they are smelly vampires."

Carlotta snorts out a little laugh, pulls her head away from Kokoro's chest to look her in the eyes. She slides her glasses off, and Kokoro removes her shades for a moment, and they both rub at their eyes at the same time before putting their eyewear back on in tandem.

"We're gonna fight this battle together. As friends and equals. Got it?" Kokoro says, extending a hand to Carlotta for her to shake.

Carlotta gives a wry grin, takes Kokoro's hand in hers and shakes it. "Yeah. Got it. Thanks Koku-chan."

They return back to the others, hand-in-hand as cousins, not knowing just how important their bond is for the future of the Joestar family line and for each other.

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harleyquinnbluemoonlove · 4 years

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Welcoming the new Social Movement/Platform/Political Party in the World

Official Name: Blue Dog Bite Mafia 888 *BETA*

Owner/CEO/Founder/Dealer/Player/Delivery BAD B:

Current Name: Monica Gill FUTURE Name: Mercedes Lynnette Giovanni

Email: [email protected]

Current Financial Status: $0.00 ---- You may DONATE by using CASH APP Cash Tag #$bluedogbitemafia888

***MY CYBER FAMILY MUST ENSURE THAT DONATIONS ARE NOT HIGHJACKED/STOLEN****

BASIC IDEA/PLAN OF ATTACK/EXECUTION OR POSITIVE WORDS LIKE “LAUNCH”. We can issue an ATTACK or a LAUNCH CODE.

I will dumb it down a little bit. I am taking advantage of my position of power, now that I am a Celebrity in the World. Its the greatest feeling in the world, feels better than good sex and that is a hard thing for me to admit because I love some good, hot, sweaty sex and I’ve been going without for several weeks. I almost fell like a Nun because I cannot even pleasure myself because I was molested as a child by Lovie Price’s boyfriend “Frank Parker” a gasoline man from an early. I told Connie Price about it when I was 15 and her name at the time was Connie Dunford. It was the same day Brandie Ann Thompson said Curtis Triplett tried to rape her in the bathroom at the house In Frayser, Memphis TN. Brandie Ann in her hayday, resembled a youthful Cameron Diaz. Cameron Diaz dated Justin Timberlake once upon a time. She played in the move “The mask” and the mask was green. At the end of the movie, the dog put on the mask. You all know, when you wear that mask---you become a Shape Shifter, transforming into anything/anyone you think will grab the Hot or Not Rated #10 Woman’s ATTENTION/HEART/LOVE and will do anything, I mean anything to get it. The secret to my success is a compilation of everything good, bad, dirty, evil and let’s call it “The Struggle” or the “Human Experience”.

Old School (OS) Operating System (OS) Back to Basics (B2B) Brandie Thompson (BT) Barry Thompson (BT) Blue Tooth (BT) Brandie Smith (BS) Bull Shit (BS) Rent A Center (RAC) Roger Adren Crawford (RAC) $1K (RAK) Rags to Riches Richard Abernathy (RA) **secret boyfriend shh!!** Douche Bag (DB) or Douglas Belknap (DB) Thomas Jones (TJ) County Road (CR) Danny Thomas (DT) Deanna Thomas (DT) ... Trying to show you how I think period dot. In ya’ll are slow, period dot also equal two dots. You must have two dots to play connect the dots and draw the lines to illustrate inspiration into a masterpiece. The best pieces of Art are very old, have a solid reputation, and is properly curated to ensure it maintains its value for infinity times three.

Basically, you can get with my program, drink my Kool Aid, swallow your pride, do the right thing, if you have done something wrong, you really need to return to your basic religious beliefs what they may be, get right with yourself, because what you have done will come to light, exposed, we are moving on from there. We are, as a society going to change and deliver the children and the children’s children: a brighter future with more options, a limited amount of privacy, give them the world and see what they can accomplish with living in a world of positive vibes, beautiful colors, great music, entrepreneurship, dreams, and now, the little girls if we get married will truly believe in fairytales. This right here is whats up because we have an opportunity, once in a lifetime opportunity, to fix society, establish unity and peace, competition is good but everyone needs a chance to win sometimes to boost their confidence and pride. When there is monopoly or kingdom, it fosters the seven deadly sins, seven capital sins, and the seven cardinal sins, which is systemic to original sin.

Genesis clearly explains that certain things were created on certain days and back time was measured. You cannot just create a man or a woman. First, you need the Universe. Then, you need the Galaxy which creates Space. In Space, you have the moon, stars, sun, planets, black holes, asteroids, comets, shooting stars, orbit, gravitational pull. Here we are on planet Earth with 7 continents and 7 oceans. I like the number 8 because it represent a number, a symbol, and no limitations--infinity. My son was born on 3-8-03 weighing 8 pounds, 8 ounces and 19.5 inches long, color: BLUE, life: No sign of it. It took 10 minutes and PLEADING WITH THE LORD AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS SCREAMING PRAYING TO PLEASE GIVE HIM LIFE, I DON’T WANT TO HAVE GONE THROUGH 35.5 HOURS OF LABOR AND 7 HOURS OF HARD PUSHING WITH NO PAIN MEDICINE, NO EPIDURAL, GAVE BIRTH TO A STILL BORN BABY NATURALLY AND THE GOOD LORD ANSWERED MY PRAYERS AND THAT BOY CRIED AND WENT TO THE NICU AT BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL IN MONTGOMERY COUNTY, MARYLAND. ITS ALSO REFERRED TO AS “THE PRESIDENTS HOSPITAL”.

He is 17 years old, already a MASTERMIND and a Professional Gamer. He is so smart like me, that he had to design/build/code his own computer because there is not a computer on the planet that can keep up with his level of gaming. I saw a photo of it. Its a desktop computer with the case taken off the side--lit up with blue LED lights

It’s Confession Time and Holy Communion Time that means confess your sin, wrongdoing, break bread, eat bread, drink wine, not whine. No days off, no excuse, no immunity, no setups, no blame game, no liars, no stealing, checks and balances, no absolute power because absolute power fosters absolute corruption, which is why were in this position right now with COVID-19, Corona Virus.

I think one person needs a pardon because he has stayed on the job, even though he was originally lied to by the Feds. He deserves a pardon, record expunged, and an opportunity. I see great potential, just needs an opportunity, believe in himself, and have the courage to escape his own prison of gold diggers, groupies, fans, and whores.

In this triad, it is a rags to riches story times three. There is only 1 TRUE VERSION of ME, and its right here in Memphis TN, age: 41(Birth Cert).

To succeed in any sports game, you must be fit, educated, content with yourself to include your pros/cons/demons and knowledgeable & intelligent enough to know that I am certified True OG, I got your back no matter what because to me money ain’t a thing, fame fades just like stars, but loyal dogs do not turn on their master unless they are abused or hungry. I am a Blue AKC Royal Bloodline Pitbull, Staffordshire Terrier. Pitbull is the image you need to have in your mind when you think of ME.

#donations #loyalty #888 #TRUMP2020 #IG #WHISTEBLOWER ACT #RULES #ESPNSPORTS #RAPGODS #GREEKGODS #GOD #CLASHOFTITANS #THEGAME #THEROCK #GLUE #DOCTORS #LAWYERS #COWBOYS #DANCE #L.I.F.E. #LOVE #SM #EM

#NEED SOME COM[ANY AND VITAMIN D

BLUE, COME ON UNLESS YOU ARE “CHICKEN” “SCARED”

I PROMISE I WILL NOT BITE. BUT, I AM STARVING, LONELY, NEED MONEY TO CREATE AND LAUNCH MY DREAMS TO POSITIVELY AND EFFECTIVELY CHANGE THE WORLD WHICH WILL PLACE ME AND PRESIDENT TRUMP IN THE HISTORY BOOKDS. AND THE HISTORY BOOKS ARE GOING TO BECOME FACTBOOKS, AND HISTORY CLASSES WILL BE MANDATORY THROUGHOUT LIFE REGARDLESS OF AGE, POSITION, JOB, FINANCIAL STATUS BECAUSE THE BEST EDUCATION IS A “CONTINUOUS EDUCATION”. IF YOU DO NOT CONTINUE LEARNING, YOU BECOME RUSTY AND THEN, YOU CANNOT KEEP UP THE FAST PACED CHANGES OF ADVANCE TECHNOLOGY IN THE REAL WORLD AND IN THE REAL GAME OF LIFE.

RECOMMENDATIONS ARE AS FOLLOWS:

1. DONATE MONEY TO MY CAUSE ON CASH APP

$BLUEDOGBITEMAFIA888

DO NOT HACK MY PHONE OR MY LAPTOP, DO NOT HACK ANYTHING OR ANYBODY BC YOU CANNOT DO IT BETTER THAN U.S. BC U.S. CREATED THE INTERNET IN WASHINGTON DC AT THE PENTAGON CALLED “DARPANET” IN 1974. THE FIRST COMPUTER WAS AN APPLE, SECOND COMPUTER WAS MICROSOFT. A GOOD BRAND IS A HP WITH MS WINDOWS. I HAVE A BLUE HP LAPTOP STREAM, I HAVE A BLACK APPLE IPHONE 7. I AM ON A WIFI WITH A VPN THAT KEEPS GETTING DISABLED. THE SOUND ON MY PHONE DOES NOT WORK. I AM BACKING UP BOTH DEVICES AND GOING TO RESET TO FACTORY SETTINGS SO I CAN GURANTEE EFFECTIVE DIGITAL SECURITY.

2. I NEED COMPANY TO SIT WITH ME, DRINK WITH ME. I WOULD LOVE SOME JACK AND COKE OR A BUD LIGHT. I WOULD ALSO LOVE SOME FOOD THAT CONTAINS RED MEAT TO ASSIST ME WITH MY BLOOD PROBLEMS. BUDDY OR BLUE OR YO -- FIGURE IT AND SEND ME SOMEONE I KNOW. I AM TOO PRETTY AND TOO COOL TO BE CHILLING BY MYSELF WITH NO FOOD, NO ALCOHOL, NO MONEY, NO WEED, ETC.

3. SELF EVALUATE OR DO A PEER REVIEW/. SELF EVALUATION IS LOOKING AT YOURSELF IN THE MIRROR AND THINKING ABOUT YOUR LIFE. I LIKE TO WRITE THINGS DOWN, IF HELPS ME. IT WILL BRING ABOUT A SENSE OF UNDERSTANDING WHO, WHAT, WHY YOU ARE WHO YOU ARE, HOW YOU BECAME PERSON, AND DESIGN YOUR OWN ROADMAP TO BEING A BETTER PERSON AND OPENING YOUR HEART TO REALIZATION THAT THE CHILDREN ARE THE FUTURE, RIGHT WE ARE THE WORLD, WE CAN ACHIEVE GREATNESS, A NEW TYPE OF MAGIC “UTOPIA”.

WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT? WHAT DO YOU WANT OUT OF LIFE? ARE YOU HAPPY WITH YOURSELF? CAN YOU FREE YOUR MIND? CAN YOU OPEN YOUR HEARTS? CAN YOU COMMIT? DO YOU KNOW WHEN TO WALK AWAY? WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN? DO YOU HAVE CONFIDENCE? ARE YOU IN YOUR OWN PRISON--YOUR MIND, YOUR FEELINGS, YOUR RELATIONSHIP STATUS?

WISDOM COMES WITH TIME, EXPERIENCE, EDUCATION, HARD WORK, SERVICE, LOYALTY, PURPOSE, AND TRAVELING.

At the end of the day, who do you want to be with?

Woman - Wise can deliver the world or drop the world, age 41 -- looks better than 20 & 30 year old GIRLS. Does not care about money, fame, status, power because the game was scheduled and unfortunately, unaware of the OP -- she walked, ran, sprinted STOLE the Flag, and won the game.

Everyone wants to still run their mouths, try to control a man, and those hos, have no power, position, fame, etc. They are with or around you because of who you are, what you have done, and what you can give them---in my opinion that is abuse of power and targeting someone to manipulating them to do what you want them to do.

I like structure, things to be done a certain way because I like cleanliness, organization, faith, love, hope, trust, and loyalty.

I would not cop an attitude with everyone, if I did not feel like the world was against me. Hint, hint -- I don’t trust authority figures because I was molested, abused, targeted, almost died several times, lied to, cheated on, setups, smear campaigns, gossiped about, bullied, beat on, yelled at, called names, jealous women everywhere so dumb they forget I have a hunger against Human Trafficking. People are on this RACISM BULL SHIT.

Its 2020, Racism = IGNORANCE AND IGNORANCE IS NOT BLISS ANYMORE, IGNORANCE IS DEADLY.

Basic belief system of Karma, it is a metaphysical/paranormal reality that is mixed with real, artificial, and soon-to-be virtual reality. It is what it is.

What you set your mind, what you do and the thoughts and actions you put into the world will either grant you your dreams or come back times three by the of karma, what goes around, comes around.

I want/will do good and be a good role model for everyone. I am going to teach, help you, do what I want, when I want, how I want because I know my worth, my value, and what I can GURANTEE/DELIVER.

Greed, jealousy, laziness, and all the ugly things that are in the world

WILL

get you no where but hungry, lonely but free, penniless, candy-less, eliminate sports.

COMMIT OR QUIT

MY MISSION WILL ENDURE AND CARRY ON UNTIL I FEEL MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. I DO NOT HAVE A FAILURE TO THRIVE AND I DO NOT LACK A WILL TO LIVE.

MY ISNT OVER, YET;

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goldensfm · 4 years

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* ╰ 𝐡𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐥𝐮𝐯𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐬 , i’m your resident crackhead steven forced out of early writing retirement by miss rona but i ain’t complainin ! 🤡 i’m here to bring you a decidedly non - crackheaded muse utilizing the absolute goddess that is zendaya . like got DAMN 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 at her ! i’m swimming with muse for lex so i am hoping my control freak ice queen offers some sort of justice — i cant wait to meet you all and love you down endlessly ! if you could spare a 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 for my validation , i’ll offer you all my best plots in return ! 💖

𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕

❛ ✶ ( ZENDAYA , CIS - FEMALE , SHE / HER ) spotted ! ALEXANDRIA ‘ LEX ’ GOLDMAN was spotted singing along to BOSS BITCH by DOJA CAT in hilton grove. you’ve heard of them right ? they are a TWENTY - TWO year old ACTRESS & ENTREPRENEUR who has already amassed a net worth of $31M. you should really follow them on insta @GOLDEN , they’re about to hit 39.1M followers. the tabloids have been calling them the EXECUTIVE because they are known for being + PURPOSEFUL but also a bit - AUSTERE. — ooc info ( steven . 21 . pst . she / her / they / them . )

𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒔

full name : alexandria ( defender of man ) rochelle ( little rock ) goldman ( little golden one ) nicknames : primarily goes by lex . lexie , xan on occasion , and gold / goldie . birthday & age : september 3rd / 22 years old zodiac : virgo gender & pronouns : cis - female , she / her / hers orientation : openly bisexual nationality : american ethnicity : mixed race — african - american , german , irish , english , scottish occupation : former beauty pageant competitor and 2016’s miss teen usa , current film and television actress , model , business entrepreneur , and activist . recognized for : starring in hbo’s television series euphoria , being the first openly queer representative for the usa in the pageant circuit , her advocacy for feminism and criminal justice reform , a bustling social media page , being one of forbes 2019′s top 30 under 30 . char . inspos : meredith grey from grey’s anatomy , spencer hastings from pretty little liars , hermione granger from harry potter , meghan markle , angela martin from the office , alex cabot from law and order svu , and more than anything , claire from fleabag . 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐮 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 , 𝐢 𝐛𝐞𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐱’𝐬 𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝟑 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬 . tropes : control freak , defrosting the ice queen , perpetual frowner , did you think i can’t feel ? , hidden depths , stepford smiler . aesthetics : an intellect that remembers everything ; wild caramel curls with just enough composure to seem effortless ; a fear of failure more crippling than life itself ; the smell of fresh linen and lavender ; a color - coded itinerary ; a perfectly choreographed interaction , each time ; lilac power - suits and an immaculate composure ; unspoken mommy issues ; tenebrous , intent gazes swimming with the resonance of unspoken thoughts ; ‘ don’t touch me please ‘ syndrome ; kicking out hookups before you both fall asleep ; ordering the same thing at a restaurant , every time ; flinching at ‘ i love you’s ’ ; drafting business emails at the club ; an admiration of atlas , with the world’s weight upon your shoulders .

𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚

born the sole continuance of the goldman name to a mother whose pregnancy was all but a career death - sentence , lex bore the weight of the world’s expectations on graceful shoulders from the moment she came into the light . lieutenant olivia goldman , head of the manhattan police department , can deny the salacious accused affair with the district attorney until she’s blue in the face but can’t deny the consequence of their tryst , alexandria being a painful reminder of losing nearly all her mother’s years of hard work while her father simply denied her existence and lived none the more guilted . from the start , the odds were stacked against the goldman progeny , pushing perfection as her only claim to some semblance of attention from liutenant goldman .

as a mixed race child to a white unwed mother in law enforcement , working 80 hours weeks and having spent years building her career , there was little lex saw of her mother that wasn’t something resembling exhaustion or utter disinterest . this forces her to grow independent at an astounding pace , keeping to herself as to not bother her mother with her own whims or desires . at 12 , her mother is courted by an award - winning director who requests her guidance on a police film he’s submitting — she refuses to advise on the film , but goes to dinner with him as a courtesy , and they’re married a year later in a lavish hamptons wedding in the summer . rudy delano is a world -renowned director along the likes of steven spielberg , and takes to lex like she were his own daughter . as if to balance out olivia’s coldness and detachment , he showers lex in adoration and support , encouraging her to pursue her interests of pageantry when she voices them following her 7th grade year .

considering a lifetime spent nitpicking and pushing her own facade of complete calculation , she takes the pageantry world by storm and it seems the rest of her life falls into place . a perfectionist in every sense , she maintains nothing short of flawlessness throughout high school ( taking on student council co-president , heading several clubs , and one of four school valedictorians ) and goes on to compete in the most elite of pageantry circuits . her advocacy for marginalized populations was a major platform and propelled her to miss teen new york and soon after , miss teen usa . in the live aired interview segment , perhaps among the most important moments of her life , lex makes a rare slip and accidentally comes out as bisexual when asked about the LGBTQ+ mental health crisis in her home state of new york . this leads to lex becoming the first openly queer miss teen usa , and would have likely fared well if she were to have continued ; despite its progressions , the pageant world of sponsorships seems to lag behind , and the ‘ controversy ’ of her coming out led to her leaving the pageant world for good .

on her own two wobbly feet , she continues with her advocacy and finds herself excelling in the business element of it all , going on to obtain her business degree from columbia while taking on the big screen in a blossoming film career at the encouragement of her step father . she shoots to stardom upon the release of euphoria , paired with a strong social media presence , a thriving modeling career , and a brand that becomes recognized as a household name synonymous with advocacy and entrepreneurship .

𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

perhaps lex’s most notable quality is being driven by an unyielding fear of failure and mediocrity . there is no task small enough that lex will not accomplish to the best of her execution , and if she can’t ensure perfection , she will refuse to give it an attempt at all . this all or nothing attitude stems from an obscene obsession with control and remaining in control , something those around her are all too aware of .

despite a rather charming and gregarious disposition on the red carpet , many will note that lex is incredibly reserved when meeting her in real life . the pageantry training has kicked in to give her a facade to push when she’s in the spotlight , though her true disposition is much less play and much more work . she’s stoic and serious , knowing just what to say at what time to continue the narrative that she is completely in control . cool and calculated , her affect is usually stern and unwilling to reflect any sentiment of softness or goofiness — many business associates note her absolute maturity and rationality even at the tender age of 22 . her energy , as subdued as it may be , commands the room with a power of self-assuredness that only stems from a confidence rooted in something to back it up . she’s an elderly woman in a millennial’s body , and this tends to show in her dry wit humor , relative moodiness , and general propensity for wanting things done exclusively her way .

lex’s intellect has always been a strong suit of hers , a photographic memory that allowed her to glide through school with the least of struggles . astute and well - spoken , monotone and unlikely to crack in her stony temperament , she’s a force of nature to be well reckoned with . luckily , lex shows little to no interest in engaging with petty drama and tends to keep in her own lane , losing interest nearly immediately in the mindless pettiness some of her friends wrap themselves up in . rational , arguably to a fault , lex has a bad habit of censoring herself and limiting her own commentary when in the company of anyone she needs to maintain her reputation with ; close friends , on the other hand , will easily characterize her as blunt and straightforward , almost too aggressive with her honesty for her own good . though she’d rarely voice it , she has an undeniable superiority complex stemming from a recognition that whatever she does , she’s incredibly good at ( ignoring her unwillingness to step out and try anything outside her comfort zone . )

this is the curious dichotomy of alexandria goldman , considering one of her most notable flaws is her unwillingness to invest . despite being perhaps overly honest , the moment a conversation ( or relationship ) runs the risk of becoming too emotionally risky , she shuts down . flames have been ghosted , relationships have been ended , and friendships have been cut off simply because lex deemed them to be a danger to her mission of remaining in complete control of herself and her life . the select few that have plowed through lex’s rather prickly initial interactions have earned themselves a friend forged from gold , loyal to a fault and ready to drop anything at a wind’s blow to aide those she loves most . defensive and ornery , the pageant girl facade soon blows over to reveal an anal retentive , emotionally stunted grandmother who loses her lid over the most minute of inconveniences if they step out of her pre-established plans and routines .

hiding beneath her layers of fake smiling at redundant questions , unapproachable hostility and being an otherwise unmeltable ice queen , lex harbors a deep intensity that overcomes her when allowed to reign ( and very rarely is allowed to reign ) . she does not invest in small doses and despite the relative unlikelihood of her allowing a distraction such as a relationship , the few she’s had have been intense whirlwinds led by lex’s own inability to limit herself — she’s all , or she’s nothing , but nowhere in the middle .

#hilton:intro #late. to the. party. : yes #ready 2. party ? : also. yes #😤✊🏽

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leisureleech767 · 3 years

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What is the purpose of a gaming website

On the web Gaming Weblog

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“keep it moving” | lil’ kim by mtv news, 2003.

"I'm locked in a five-year contract with [Kim]," said Cease, who's signed as a solo artist to Queen Bee Records. Other than albums that Kim herself has recorded, Cease's poor-selling but critically acclaimed 1999 solo debut, The Wonderful World of Cease A Leo, is the only release to come from the Queen Bee Records imprint since it was founded in 1998.

-- by Shaheem Reid, with additional reporting by Sway Calloway, Jeff Cornell and Quddus Phillipe Kimberly Jones is dying to go Hollywood, but some people are hissing that she already has. She definitely isn't the same 'round-the-way girl the Notorious B.I.G. introduced us to in 1995. Little Ms. Jones has estranged herself from old ideals and friends from her 'hood that she once considered family. She's got a fresh attitude to go with her new set of Hollywood and high-society buddies and associates, people such as Hugh Hefner, Pamela Anderson, Carmen Electra, Don King, Donatella Versace and Victoria Gotti.

Kimberly doesn't even look the same — she switches hairstyles almost as often as she changes rhyme flows. Plus she's got a new surgically altered nose to go with her voluptuous, augmented breasts. "When I decided to finally do that is when I realized I was a sex symbol," she has said about her implants. "It's something that I felt would make me have more fun with my photo shoots and enhance my look a little bit." But going Hollywood for Kim really means just that: She wants to make movies. Her dreams have nothing to do with forgetting where she came from, or — as they might say in her native Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood — "acting brand new." Kim maintains she's the same Brooklyn girl at heart: feisty, focused and determined not to fail. Like Will Smith and, more recently, Queen Latifah, rap's Queen Bee wants to make it big in Tinsletown. Yeah, she's appeared in such flicks as "Juwanna Mann" (2002) and "Zoolander" (2001), but Kim knows she's capable of bigger roles and more explosive performances. "Being involved in different entities of the game is so much fun 'cause you don't just get stuck in one genre," she explained. "I like to be here and there. My personality and my character are versatile." But unlike the aforementioned rap legends, she still wants to keep the music industry buzzing about her material. "That's one thing I don't like," Kim said, referring to how some of her fellow MCs' music careers suffered as their movie careers took off. "Will [Smith] was doing it at one point. Regular rappers were trying to [sell] five million [albums] and he was doing seven million, with flicks out that were doing $50 million a week. That's the type of success I want to follow. I think what happens is that the rappers [who] have success in Hollywood kinda start ignoring their music. I don't think it matters to them anymore. I ain't gonna front, [if] you're getting $20 to 25 million a film ... even $10 million a film is enough to make you say, 'I don't have to do an album this year.' [But] I wouldn't do that." And that's no Hollywood talk, either. Kim not only has a movie called "Guns and Roses" due out this summer, she has a new LP, La Bella Mafia, in stores now. Named La Bella Mafia after a 1997 made-for-TV movie, "Bella Mafia," in which widows of mob figures take over the family business, this LP has been heralded as Kim's best work since her trailblazing 1996 solo debut, Hard Core. On Mafia, she runs away from the syrupy melodies and hooks that hampered 2000's Notorious K.I.M.'s "How Many Licks" and "I'm Human," which seemed to pander to radio and dancefloors. Kim's latest opus is a return to the streets, where she enlists such sound-shapers as the always-unpredictable Swizz Beatz, Scott Storch, who has co-produced some of Dr. Dre's classic jeep thumpers, and Mobb Deep's master of morose tracks, Havoc.

"She's a star, [and] people respect stars," said Havoc, who first worked with Kim on Mobb Deep's remix to "Quiet Storm." "She's smart, and most of the decisions she makes are good musically. She's among the top people in the game, and she's better than a lot of [guys]. You don't have a choice but to give her that respect." "I think she's on top of the game," concurred Queen Latifah, who recorded with Kim on the soundtrack for the Academy Award-winning film "Chicago." "I just bought her album the other day and I love it. I think it's [about] her growing up. She still ballsy, and she's still gonna pop junk to any other female rapper out there, but I like where she is right now. I like to see her in control of where she wants to go. I'm proud of her." And while Kim loves the praise she's received from her peers and fans, she feels things could still be a lot better. Although Mafia put her on pace to equal or surpass the numbers she posted with her biggest selling LP, the double platinum Hard Core (despite its lukewarm reception, Notorious K.I.M. still sold over a million copies as well), Kim wasn't pleased with La Bella Mafia's first-week sales of close to 167,000 copies. "A lot of people say 'Kim is up there,' " the Queen Bee lamented, "but I don't feel that I'm up there 'cause I haven't accomplished my goal yet, which is to sell 10 million records of one album. Imagine what people will say when I reach that point." One thing people do talk about is how long it takes Kim to churn out albums. There was a four-year gap between the first two records, and even with the widely heralded Trackmasters and the spirit of Mafia co-executive producer B.I.G. fueling this album's beats and rhymes, it took years to make as well.

"It's kind of hard because I like to take my time to make things perfect," Kim said, explaining why she always has such a long gap between projects. "I went into this album thinking, 'I'm just going to have fun with it.' I said, 'I'm going to do what I want to do. Let me do this the way I feel B.I.G would have wanted me to do this.' He's the one that taught me everything I know, and he tells me things still. That's why B.I.G is listed as the co-executive producer on my album. It's just me and him." What also slows down production is the fact that you just can't keep the black Erica Kane locked in the studio for too long. She's got her manicured hands dipped in far too many projects to be getting stuck in a sound booth all night. For one thing, she's got a new clothing line, Hollyhood, still in development, with a launch tentatively planned for the fall. A true fashion aficionado, Kim's wild outfits, trend-setting hairdos and modeling stints for Mac and Candies and have given her a strong presence in the fashion world. Hobnobbing with clothing kingpins with last names like Prada, Versace and Armani have only strengthened her cause. "When she did 'Guns and Roses,' she was on the mark," LisaRaye said of Kim's spin as Chastity, the vixen of the bunch. In addition to the movie, the two worked together on a song for the film's soundtrack. "We filmed that movie in 18 days, so you know how quick and steady the flow was," she continued. "She was actually excellent." "It was fun," Kim said with a grin. "It's like a female 'Young Guns.' Us five females, we're like sisters. When we all got together it was nothing but love. For the most part, we were all sisters on that set — we all had each other's back. I like to surround myself with good people — positive people committed to their work."

And make no mistake — if you're not committed to Kim, you can't be down. At her album release party a few weeks ago, celebrities such as Dave Chappelle, Mobb Deep, Jagged Edge and Wayne Wonder came out to one of Manhattan's newest hot spots, the Lobby, all ready to hail the Queen. Conspicuously absent were Kim's longtime running mates, Lil' Cease and the rest of the Junior M.A.F.I.A. Kim and the J.M., all friends and protégés of Biggie's, had been virtually inseparable since they were introduced back in 1995. The originally nine-member crew appeared on classic songs together, put out a gold album and performed at countless shows nationwide. When B.I.G. died, they leaned on each other during their collective time of mourning, and his memory was the glue that held them all together. And the bond was deep. When Kim went solo, she looked out for her boys as their careers stagnated. If they needed money, she hit them off. If one of her guys got in trouble with the law, as Larceny and Cease were known to do on a few occasions, Kim, the perennial mother figure, always bailed them out. At one point, the clique was so close that they all lived together in Kim's New Jersey mansion. But since then, the group's relationship has soured, and the Queen Bee has had to literally clean house. "Well, you have to move on and you have to grow," Kim said, visibly holding back venom and opting to give a more politically correct answer as to why she no longer associates with Cease and Co. "You can't be taken advantage of for too long, and it's a case where unfortunately, [the relationship] just went bad. In the same sense, I hope they do well and [that] they can find God in their hearts." On La Bella Mafia's "Heavenly Father," however, Kim's a little less restrained. She raps, "And was it enough that I split 20 percent of what I make?/ Was it enough that I cut n----s half of what I bake?"

Lil' Cease is just as angry with Kim these days as she is with him. His biggest beef with her is not that she cut him off — it's that she won't let him go. He's so miffed at his onetime homegirl that he's started a "Free Cease A Leo" T-shirt campaign.

"She's putting all this stuff out like she's not messing with me right now," Biggie's puffy-cheeked former best friend fumed. "I feel like if you [are] not messing with me, give me walking papers so I can do me. We had our differences [and] I thought we could patch them up, but honey is doing her thing. I'm not knocking her, but she still got me under paperwork. [I've] been trying to get in touch with her, [but] she's ducking me. I call the office, [but] she don't want to talk to me. I go to the office [and] I can't see her."

"There's a lot of truth to what Cease was saying," Kim retorted with a snarl before clamming up. "I don't really want to get into that. The only thing I'm concerned with is La Bella Mafia being in stores. The whole truth will come out later and I can't wait." Although Kim is being clandestine and won't say exactly when her and the Mafia started to fall out, she is more than willing to reveal when her relationship with her former manager, mentor, friend and Notorious K.I.M.'s executive producer P. Diddy went south. "I can honestly say that during the whole process of [making Notorious K.I.M.], Puff and I were like a brother and a sister arguing," said the 26-year-old. "One minute we'd be the best of friends, and then the next minute things weren't working out at all," Kim said. "Sometimes Puffy likes people to do whatever he says. I'm a creative person, an entertainer. I'm a boss lady. A lot of times when you [are] working with a boss man, you have to respect each other's opinion. I just wanted my respect and because I was young and female, I don't think he gave it to me fully." "I'm a hard coach from beginning to end," Diddy said unapologetically about his meticulous work ethic. "I'mma push an artist to [be] the best. Some artists feel [like], 'I've grown up, and I don't want you to push me this hard no more.' I can't really do that. I'm not crazy or anything, I just want to be the best. We gotta be the best every time." Kim said she was also hurt because when times got tough for her after Notorious K.I.M. received mixed reactions, Diddy abandoned her. "I loved Puffy with all my heart, [and] if you look back, I was the only one supporting him. [At the time we were making my album] I wasn't even signed to Bad Boy," she vented. "During those times I held his hands, like, 'I know these people hate you right now, but I'm with you, dawg.' Puffy can be very selfish. I had to let him go do him and I had to go do me. I needed people at that time that was going to support me 150 percent. I was only getting 50 percent. Unfortunately, I don't speak to him at all."

P. Diddy, who seems indifferent about the split, offers a simpler explanation: "I think it's [about] people outgrowing each other and people wanting different things." While Kim hasn't cut off all her old friends, she has been gravitating toward a new crowd on the road to becoming a better-rounded person. One of her biggest cheerleaders now is Victoria Gotti, a multimedia personality and the daughter of late mob boss John Gotti. The two met over a year ago at an event in New Jersey and have built a nurturing relationship. They've done their share of partying and have at least one big adventure in common: The line-slinging siren recently held her buddy to a long-standing promise to appear in one of her videos. In February, the pair braved the bitter cold to shoot the unreleased clip for Kim's song "I Came Back For You" in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. Gotti says she'd do anything for her homie. "It's weird because she's everything she is onstage and nothing like her [persona]," Gotti said, describing why such a diverse group of people show Kim love. "She is a chameleon. She can just rise to [any] occasion and fit whatever mood everybody's in. That's the one thing I adore about Kim, [and] that's the first thing that shines through. Forget her looks, forget her outrageous outfits — she's got personality that's second to none." And what Kim's hoping for is that soon, her success in all fields will be second to none. Even as her fan base broadens, she maintains that she'll never forget the gig that first put her on to all the other opportunities. In fact, she is as hungry as ever to stand out and rock the mic. "I don't ever worry about competition," she says confidently in regards to her fellow female rappers. "I do a totally different thing from all these females. Everybody feels that 'I have to be at the top.' We can all be at the top selling records. There is no 'I'm better.' I know I'm a Queen and I do what I do.' "

And what she is doing is everything.

#lil' kim #interview #mtv news #2003

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