#as like a way to entice people to keep watching that shit was so :|

[liinos]

i didn't watch the girls season so idk if it went to shit then but it's so crazy seeing the difference between qcyn1 and qcyn3 like i don't know what the fuck they were doing for qcyn3 but that might be one of the worst structured shows ive ever seen

[darkworkcourier]

Could you write Ghost x fem!reader where she finds him attractive but is too shy to actually tell him but also can't hide the way she's feeling, so Ghost notices her interest and eventually they end up in bed (*cough* you know what I mean)? Also Ghost being gentle and protective towards her, plz

Ps. I love your writing!

Word Count: 8314

i’m incapable of short prompt fills, apparently! o, but i am filled with grief!

anywho, reader’s codename is ‘ladybird’ (hc that soap gave it to her because she’s lucky) but is otherwise nameless.

contains masturbation, oral sex, lots of feelings, wee bit of slow burn, ghost being like weirdly emotional and soft, and soap’s gratuitous and unfortunate use of emojis. 💀/🐞4ever

---

The first time it really hits you, you're in a helicopter about two miles above the ground—honestly a terrible place to face your feelings. It's a velvet-dark night, strategically chosen for the new moon, the countryside below nearly invisible. You're almost in a doze, caught up in the Chinook's blades' low, thunderous pulse and the sporadic rocking as it hits little glades of turbulence. Your eyes lose focus on some of the running lights, until they turn hazy, and its only when the man across from you moves his boot do you snap back to attention.

Ghost. Right. You learned his name a few weeks ago during your orientation, but he was deployed on a recon mission only a day later. Price summoned him back for this mission, but aside from a few gruff comments at the all-hands meeting, you haven't heard him say much.

For a moment, you think he might have dozed off, too. He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. And that’s fair, you think; Soap told you he didn’t think Ghost ever slept.

You silently study him, the way his head rocks a little with the turbulence, how much taller he is than everyone else in his row, the peculiar illusion that the eye sockets of his mask are empty—

And suddenly they aren’t.

He’s looking back at you, dark eyes regarding you passively, even though the mask makes every look significantly more intimidating. For moment that goes on way too long, you don’t look away, your gazes locked. Your heart takes the tracheal elevator to your throat, beating loud enough to drown out the Chinook’s roar.

You look away first, and you swear you hear him snort.

The rest of the journey to the drop-off zone, you deliberately don’t look at him; but when you close your eyes, there he is.

All you can think is ohhhh, shit.

---

Military crushes aren’t abnormal. Put enough people at the peak of physical excellence in a room, throw around some form-fitting uniforms, and mix in a few adrenaline rushes—it’s a goddamn potent mixture. You’ve had your share of mess hall dreamy-eyed gazing sessions, and a few ‘I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go’ moments in gyms and fitness centers. That’s fine; that’s normal.

What you start feeling for Ghost isn’t that.

Nevermind that he’s rarely out of tactical dress, and if he is, he usually defaults to a hoodie or something that doesn’t exactly entice the imagination. And he’s never out of some variation of his mask, so you can’t think woah, pal, do you cut glass with that jawline because as far as you can tell, he doesn’t have one. No mooning over cheekbones, admiring the curve of lips. He has nice eyes, but ever since the night in the Chinook, you haven’t been able to meet them for more than a second before your heart does that terrible little samba again.

Per your mental checklist, aside from being tall and muscular, he doesn’t check all your normal boxes. By all those counts, Gaz or Soap are way better fits. Hell, Soap likes to hang around in his silkies like they’re pajamas, showing off plenty to keep your fantasy fodder trough filled. And you’ve caught Gaz doing push-ups in the lounge, his tight shirt doing wonders for his shoulders.

But it’s Ghost who makes you feel like a hormonal teenager. It’s Ghost that gets you antsy and fidgety when he enters a room. And it’s Ghost that you think about during your rare alone time in the shower, when your hands start drifting south and the tile walls are your only support.

You’ve got it bad for him, and you have no idea what to do about it.

---

You’re doing recon in Berlin when Soap notices.

The mission details are simple: a drug lord known as Keiler using a night club as a go-between for his suppliers and dealers—all further complicated by the fact that he has plenty of friends in the arms trade, and by Laswell’s reports, he’s very generous to those friends. The club is a front, a money laundering wonderland. Through your observation, drugs and alcohol are doled out in equal volume, all to the backdrop of skull-splitting bass and sharp scalpels of strobe lights.

The biggest obstacle is that Keiler likes to use a private room overlooking the club as his perch, and your intelligence says that at any given time, he has a small army defending him. Getting to him requires an incredible degree of finesse. Naturally, Ghost is the one to do it.

You, Soap, and Gaz are scattered around the main floor of the club. Gaz is out on the dance floor, Soap’s taken up a spot near the bar, and you’re in the lounge. It’s the first time you’ve done something like this (and in an outfit with so little fabric), and you’re really not used to being ogled and pawed by a bunch of drunk, drugged, or horny Berliners.

Soap must see your discomfort from his position, as you hear a dry, amused, “Feelin’ a little tense, Ladybird?”

You swallow hard and chase it with a sip of your drink, which definitely needs to be watered down. “I’m fine,” you say.

“You look like you just drank petrol.”

“You’re the one who ordered it for me.”

Gaz cuts in with a weary, “Do we have eyes on Ghost, yet? I’m starting to get tired of people grabbing my—”

“I’m here,” Ghost’s voice scrapes over the comms, causing you to sit up straight and look around. You catch sight of Soap who has his hand curled in front of his mouth, clearly snickering like a heathen.

“Think you scared the shit out of Ladybird, LT,” he says.

He’s lucky he’s on the other side of the room, otherwise you’d pretend to be extremely clumsy and find an excuse to spill your drink on his (very, very tight) shirt. You mouth ‘shut up’ at him, and he reaches up with his pointer finger to draw an invisible halo over his head.

Ghost ignores him. “I’m near the east stairwell, headed to second deck. Got one guard at the far end. Gaz, you seein’ anything I should know about?”

A pause, then, “Negative, Ghost. I’ve got what you’ve got.”

“Copy. Going to second deck now.”

Out of habit, your eyes go to the east stairwell, peering through the haze pierced with multicolored lights to see a single dark shape ascending. He disappears behind a catwalk, then reappears to the right, mingling with the crowd near the second floor bar. Once he’s there, he seems to fade into the throng of people, most in dark clothing, some in masks. Just like that, he’s invisible.

It’s hard to focus on looking calm and happy to be there, but you keep sipping your drink, watching the dancers and feeling the bassline of yet another techno song thrumming in your chest. You’re glad you’re not out on the dance floor, or being called to give come-hither glances to bouncers and guards.

Then, “Coming back down to first deck,” Ghost says, clearly agitated. “Too many guards and too many people. We need another way up.”

Soap grins. “Violence isn’t the answer, LT?”

“Negative. Start looking for another route.”

On cue, you stand up and cross the room to the bar, sliding in beside Soap. He’s fishing for another couple Euro from his wallet, pushing it across to the bartender with two fingers. The bartender gives him a brief nod and refills his glass, while Soap turns his attention to you.

“Any bright ideas?”

You frown and adjust the straps on your top again. It’s a stupid piece of clothing, always feeling like it’s going to fall off. “Only the emergency stairs by the front doors, but I can’t imagine Keiler leaves those undefended.”

Soap looks thoughtful and scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, but probably no civilians, either. And if the door’s alarmed, Ghost can take care of that.”

As if summoned, you feel Ghost appear before you see him, a huge presence over your shoulder that makes you jump. “Jesus!” you hiss.

And Soap, the traitor, laughs to the point of wheezing as Ghost takes up the bar stool on his other side. “I think you’re giving our Ladybird here a complex,” Soap says through his laughter.

Ghost rolls his eyes. From this angle, you can see Ghost in more than just the dim light you’ve been working with most of the night. He’s not dressed too far outside his usual fashion wheelhouse—heavy boots, black trousers, and a loose black hoodie. His hood’s pulled up over a black beanie and a skull-painted gaiter, and he’s foregone his usual thick coating of greasepaint for black-ringed eyes (is that eyeliner?) and a streak of smoke-colored paint that just manages to obscure the color of his brows. The downside (for you, at least) is that the combo manages to draw his eyes into sharper contrast, making them that much more intense.

Suddenly, your heart’s doing the thing again.

Ghost doesn’t seem to notice any change in you, but you think Soap’s actually looking for it. He watches you, brows lifted, mouth curled like a flirtation of a smirk. Briefly, he glances between you and Ghost, and then the smirk appears in full force, enlightenment dawning.

Before he can insinuate a thing, you’re shoving your half-empty glass across the bar top with a too-high, “Bitte.” The bartender only gives you a brief, unamused look before taking your glass and remaking whatever godforsaken cocktail Soap ordered.

It’s not a good distraction, and the damage is already done. Soap knows, damnit. His smile is too easygoing, but he turns to Ghost and starts talking about the emergency stairwell, which is a relief. Ghost looks over his shoulder toward the stairwell in question, and as he does, Soap looks at you and makes the gesture of zipping his own mouth shut, throwing away the proverbial key with a wink.

As he does, Gaz pipes back up with, “Ghost, you copy?”

“Yeah, Gaz?”

“You, uh, know anything about a big guy with a tattoo of a boar on the back of his head?”

Ghost looks toward the dance floor, brows furrowing. “Yeah, that’d be Bauer, Keiler’s right hand man.”

“Great. Glad you know him, because he’s here.”

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to be. If Bauer’s here, then either Keiler’s doing something more than his usual partying upstairs, or Keiler knows someone’s here looking for him. Either way, the mission just got significantly harder, and your night got that much longer.

With a grunt, Ghost pushes off the bar and starts making his way to the emergency stairwell. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Keep your eyes open. Out here.”

Once he’s gone, there’s a pause—a very heavy pause. Then, Soap looks at you with an expression that is just a hair too pleased. “Ghost, huh?”

Your face heats up, right as the bartender hands you your drink. You reach for your wallet, only for the bartender to put a hand up and shake his head. “Nein, für das schöne Mädchen,” he says.

For the pretty girl.

“Bet Ghost thinks so, too,” Soap says, and you resolve to definitely spill your free drink on his too-tight pants.

---

Weeks after Keiler’s nice and cozy in a maximum-security prison and the 141 is back at base, you have another miniature existential crisis.

It’s all an accident—just a tempest of bad timing and bad luck. Ever since you came back from Germany, you’ve had a tough time getting a full night’s sleep. It’s easy to blame the natural stress of your work, the long hours, the high-adrenaline action you see more than you ever did before this job. And, well, part of it has to come from Ghost. He’s occupied your thoughts more than ever since the night club.

Your solution is to hit the gym late at night, pushing yourself until you can’t keep your eyes open and no amount of insomnia can overcome it. The first few nights of this effort work fine—you end up in bed around one or two in the morning, and sleep until your alarm goes off. No one bothers you; no one hogs the machines. It’s kind of nice.

However, you don’t account for all the night owls that share the base with you.

You head to the gym late on a Friday night, towel around your neck, water bottle at the ready, podcasts preloaded. If you ever hit the gym during the day, you usually do so in a t-shirt and sweatpants. At night, you’ve started opting for PT shorts and a tank top, happy for the lack of eyes around the room.

Except for tonight.

You open the door into the gym, only to hear the mechanical drone of a treadmill and someone sprinting damn fast on it. For a second, you freeze, hiding behind the corner. Then, slowly, you peer around it, clutching your phone and water bottle close to your chest.

Jesus Christ. It’s Ghost.

Ghost, in a t-shirt. In sweatpants. Running on a treadmill set to the highest incline. Panting.

Ghost, with bare arms, showing a detailed tattoo on his left arm, and prominent veins running over his chiseled muscles. He looks like a fucking Greek statue, and that’s just what you can see.

“Ohhh, my God,” you whisper to yourself, immediately working on an exit strategy that doesn’t involve catching his attention.

Which obviously doesn’t come to pass. It’s something you probably should have learned on the helo ride—Ghost knows when he’s being watched. He turns his head, dark eyes fixing on you immediately. Briefly, he looks back at the treadmill, then down at his watch, and back to the treadmill’s controls. He slows it down, dropping the incline, until he finally steps off and starts walking toward you.

Abort, abort.

You think about fleeing, running back to your room or rolling under a table or hiding behind a counter like he’s a goddamn velociraptor in the kitchen. You do none of those things, because despite your training, you freeze up. No one could blame you, you think. It’s hard to do much else when a six-foot-something skull-faced wall of muscle walks up to you. And you must look stellar, holed up in a corner by the door, your water bottle and phone held up like a shield.

Ghost takes in the sight of you, eyes flicking up, down, up. Heat rises to your face, and down to—to nowhere, because it’s better not to think about it. You suddenly feel too vulnerable in your choice of outfit, naked under his gaze.

“Ladybird,” he says. Your nickname becomes a hot scratch of sound, losing its whimsy in favor of a tone you can’t define. “You need somethin’?”

There’s a patch of sweat by his collar. You stare at it, then at the floor.

“No, I just—  I was, um, just about to leave, and... Yeah, I’m gonna go.”

He’s silent until you finally look up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what what feels like an eon. He looks amused, but there’s a quirk in his brow like he can’t quite get a good read on you. “You look like you were about to use the gym.”

You look down at your bottle, phone, and towel like you’re just now noticing them. When you bring your attention back to him, you feel like you need to just kick the door open and escape, dignity be damned. “I... was,” you say slowly. Then, you rally yourself, trying to look upbeat and resolved. “Y’know what? You can keep using it. I’ll come back later.”

He shrugs, but you see it. Some secondary expression slinking around in his eyes like it’s working through the perpetually-moving cogs in his head. He gives you another one of those assessing glances, and for a second, you think he’s going to step into your space. His body language looks primed to do so, and you hold your breath in anticipation for it, unsure of what he’s going to do.

Then he takes a step back, and another.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind it, though.”

Before you can process his words, he’s back on the treadmill, tweaking the settings and raising the incline again. The belt starts moving, and he’s back to looking like power personified, a vision in motion.

You have got it so bad.

It’s a hasty retreat to your room, and once the door’s shut behind you, you’re panting like you had run on the treadmill and lifted weights.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss, discarding your things on the table beside your bed, kicking off your running shoes, then laying down and staring at the ceiling. He knows. He has to. Ghost’s whole job depends on him being observant, and he looked at you like he was reading a fucking book. 

You groan and press your palms into your eyes until phosphenes appear, dancing around and shimmering like fireworks behind your eyelids. You’re going to have to leave the 141 out of pure mortification. You’ll have to go into some kind of witness protection, change your name, and move to the other side of the earth. Or if you stay, you’ll have to pretend Ghost doesn’t exist. You’ll hide behind walls, slinking through the building’s HVAC just to avoid him like you’re working on a heist. Maybe you can convince Soap or Gaz to accompany you everywhere so you can hide behind their bulk.

But then, your horrible brain reminds you of what you’ll miss out on. It runs through a greatest hits reel of your crush so far—Ghost’s eyes, his presence stretching long over you like a shadow, his massive frame, his arms. The tattoo, detailed enough to tell from a distance, and then the thought of running your fingers over it, tracing all the fine points and lines. And are those his only tattoos, or are there more?

And his voice. Jesus, you replay the few words you’ve heard him say over and over, savoring each syllable, each quirk of his accent. Even the last thing he said—

I wouldn’t mind it, though.

That makes you open your eyes again, widening them as you take in the pocks and scrapes on the ceiling. He wouldn’t mind what? Having company in the gym? Having you, specifically, as his company? You don’t know what to make of it, or what he meant by it. Honestly, you feel like you don’t know anything right now.

Except that you want him. That’s the only thing you’re sure of. You want to know how his hands feel on you, how they would run over your bare skin, what the callouses on his fingers would feel like on the most delicate and sensitive parts of your body. Your imagination leaps ahead of you, guiding your own hand down into your shorts and under the band of your panties. You tease yourself, just dipping your fingers into the wet heat, trailing them over your clit like a hint to yourself, coaxing your arousal out of your panic.

His hands would feel different. When you rub your index finger over your clit, you imagine his finger instead, pressing gently against you, building up friction slowly, making you ache. You wonder if he’d savor your reactions, watching you get worked up, grinding against his hand to seek any kind of relief.

“Easy, Ladybird,” you imagine him saying, the nickname now a tease. And he’d know your real name, the one hidden away in your file. He’d whisper it into your ear, breath hot on your neck, his whole body eclipsing yours.

Your pace quickens, fingers running urgently between your clit and opening, causing your core to tighten and your breath to come in short gasps and barely-concealed moans. Ghost would tell you to let them out, let the whole damn base hear how aroused he makes you, how badly you’ve wanted him.

You breathe his name into the small space of your room, a whisper in the still air broken only by the low hum of the forced air in the vents. When you finally plunge your fingers in, it takes every bit of self-control not to outright moan and let everyone nearby know what you’re doing. Normally, you can stay quiet when you get yourself off, but you’re damn near frantic with this, whatever it is Ghost has done to you.

His fingers in you, fucking you in long, languid strokes, drawing himself out and pushing back in—all the while, watching your reactions. When you rock your hips to the pace of your hand, you imagine his voice again, “That’s right. Fuck yourself on my hand. Let me see you.”

You’d show him. Hell, you’d soak his hand, and it would remind him that it’s his fault you’re like this.

The wet sounds of your hand on your cunt is lewd and loud. It’s almost too much, enough to make you stop at the apex of your pleasure, to hide yourself under the blankets in shame and pretend that none of this happened.

But the vision of Ghost keeps you going, keeps your fingers moving in and out, crooking them inside and forcing out a gasp as a white-hot shock of pleasure lances up your spine and settles warm in your belly. The pad of your thumb presses against your clit, and you multitask on yourself, building up that friction, bringing yourself to the precipice.

He’d take you there. He might even pull you back from the edge over and over, teasing you with the fall.

“Do you want it? How bad? Show me.”

God, you would. Any way he wanted, you would show him. You’d beg and plead if that’s what got him to finally make you come.

So you whisper, “Please,” into the night, to a man who is never going to be in your bed, never going to touch you like this, never going to see your pleasure through to the end. The Ghost in your imagination has to stay there, behind locked doors and bulkheads, secured and contained for good.

But until then, you chase your orgasm with him, hitting that divine height and going into a freefall. Blood rushes in your ears, muscles twitching, heart racing. Your head comes off the pillow, back arching, toes digging into the mattress, mouth open on a moan that you refuse to let loose. You come way harder than you ever have using your own hand, enough that when you finally lower yourself back onto the bed, you grimace at the feeling of a wet patch on the sheets.

“Fuck,” you say, very emphatically. To yourself, to Ghost, to the whole damn situation.

Groaning, you reach over and grab the towel, wiping your hand and tucking it under your ass before rolling onto your back again and wondering what the hell you’re going to do.

---

You’re going to hide from Ghost, that’s what.

Captain Price gives the team a few days off to rest up for the next mission, and you decide right then and there that you’re going to spend every second off base, as far away from the barracks as you can get. You’ll get a hotel, order a ridiculously expensive amount of room service, and marinate in your feelings for a couple days until it’s all out of your system. Maybe you’ll go to a bar or coffee shop and chat up some nice person who isn’t a tall, broad, terrifying British soldier. And maybe you’ll have a night of incredible passion and twisted sheets, and it’ll be so cathartic that when you come back to base, you’ll be a whole new person.

That plan holds until your phone goes off while you’re packing up.

It’s a text from Soap: ‘wyd?’

‘Going off radar for a couple days. Why?’

He sends a sad emoji, then two beer glasses clinking together, a soccer ball, and then a big red question mark. Apparently, Soap only knows how to speak in hieroglyphs.

You smile, and type back, ‘Sorry, need to go clear my head.’

Skull emoji. Question mark.

‘None of your beeswax,’ you send, followed by the soap emoji.

‘that sucks,’ he types back. There’s a short pause, and then he types again. ‘cause he was looking for u earlier’

Your heart damn near comes to a stop, and you very hesitantly respond, ‘Why?’

‘idk. think he wanted to ask u smth’

Nope. You’re not taking the bait. If Ghost wants to talk to you, he can come right up and—and you can walk off in the opposite direction and act like there’s something incredibly interesting that you need to see right that second.

You type a few variations of ‘Then he can come and talk to me himself,’ but none of them sound particularly nice. Ghost hasn’t done anything wrong, so there’s no reason for you to act like he has. And for that matter, you’re supposed to be hiding from Ghost, not encouraging him to find you. Instead, you send back a clipped, ‘Okay.’

Nothing.

For one hopeful second, you think Soap’s mercifully let the conversation go, allowing you to go in peace to your nice hotel and your overpriced room service food.

Instead, you get the sunglasses emoji, a wink face, and, ‘k i told him to come see u’.

‘WHAT’

The only response is the skull and the little running cloud dash emoji, suggesting that Ghost is making a beeline right to your room. Panic seizes you and you fling your phone on your bed like somehow it’s going to help. It bounces harmlessly, then lands screen up, emojis taunting you.

Quickly, you start shoving the rest of your clothes and toiletries in your bag without a care as to where everything goes, eager to book it out of there as fast as your legs can take you. Once your bag is zipped up and thrown over your shoulder, you think you might be in the clear. Mission nearly accomplished.

Nearly.

Two solid knocks on your door almost make you hit the ceiling. You hold still, using that Jurassic Park wisdom again: if you don’t move, he can’t see you.

That applies to fictional dinosaurs, not trained killers, and certainly not Ghost. He knocks again, then follows it up with, “Ladybird, it’s me.”

Yeah, you know. That’s the problem.

Briefly, you consider going out the window, shimmying out and potentially getting caught on a base security camera for someone to laugh at later. That doesn’t make the problem go away, though.

You can just tell him you’re in a hurry, that your ride is at the gate right now and you don’t want to keep them waiting. Whatever conversation he wants to have, it’ll have to wait until you get back. It’s a good response. Solid. Foolproof.

And it dissolves the second you open the door.

He’s there, not vanished in the disappearing act you were hoping for, and all that want flares up again the moment you see him. He’s in casual dress like what he wore to the club—boots, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, balaclava. His posture’s more relaxed, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other hanging at his side. You meet his eyes, and your regret mixes with desire welling up inside you.

It’s that intense gaze from the helo, the brief but incendiary look from Berlin, the thoughtful gaze from the gym. You’re drawn up in it immediately, and this time, there’s no possibility of looking away. Ghost has you locked in.

He takes in the sight of you, dressed in your civvies, backpack on your shoulders, and raises his brows. “Going somewhere?”

Your mouth is cotton-dry, and you’re proud of yourself for putting a little syntax together. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m headed out.”

Right now, you should say. I’m going out right this second and I cannot be stopped. Do not engage.

But you don’t say that. You leave the words as they are, hanging between the two of you. In that moment, you’re two opposing fronts of contradictions—you want him to go, stay, talk, stay silent, touch you, leave you alone.

Ghost seems to sense this, that you’re not making any move to either speak to him or push him away. He doesn’t get into your space, staying right where he is while looking at you with his head slightly tilted. “Can I come in a sec?”

No. “Yes.” Please.

You take a step back, allowing him to walk into your room. His presence seems to fill it, like there’s too much of him and too little space to contain it. He closes the door behind himself, then finds a spot against the wall (the rare section that isn’t covered by posters or mementos) and leans against it. Still, still giving you your space.

You’re all nerves, waiting for him to speak, yet feeling like you should say something—to get all your feelings out in the open, exposed and waiting for him to pick over and do with what he will. But your anxiety and silence wins out, and instead you fidget, trying to find a point in the room to fix your gaze. Ghost takes all your attention though, holding it in a firm, invisible grip that can’t be broken no matter what you do. You get now, more than ever, why people are so scared of him when they end up at the wrong end of his skill set—he immobilizes them, rendering them completely unable to do a damn thing.

He watches you for an agonizingly long moment, then sighs. “Look, I didn’t want to bother you if you were busy, but Soap said you were around,” he says. Ghost doesn’t trail off or leave a space in his words for you to fill in the blanks. It’s a good thing—no place for you to misinterpret him—but it suddenly leaves you terrified at the possibility of what he’s going to say.

“Just for a little bit,” you hear yourself say, voice subdued and small.

He nods. “Then I’ll just get it out now before you go. More or less a question.”

Fuck. You feel a strange, uncomfortably cold sensation curl up tight and tense in your stomach. The feeling of standing at the edge of a long drop, knowing you have no choice but to let go.

His eyes are locked on yours, unrelenting, pinning. And then he says, “Do you have feelings for me?”

Right. No way to misinterpret.

You suck in a breath—a gasp, jerking at the question even though you knew it was coming.

You could lie. It’d be easy to do, just a few movements of tongue, jaw, and lips. No, I don’t. Three easy words. You could say you appreciate him as a teammate, as a professional, as someone you can trust in tough situations. He has your back; you have his. Anything beyond that is too much, to far outside of the commanding officer-subordinate hierarchy.

But you can’t lie to him. He’ll know. He’s trained in looking for tells, for the slightest quirk to denote that you’re holding back the truth. That, and you don’t want to lie to him.

Instead, quietly, you say, “Yes,” and inwardly brace for impact. Any kind of dressing-down from your C.O. and reminder of responsibilities and duties; or on a personal level, that Ghost doesn’t do relationships. You’re tensed up, waiting for its inevitable blow and all the shrapnel that’s definitely going to land right in your heart.

“Oh,” he says.

Oh.

Just one syllable, said deceptively, uncharacteristically soft. It belies so many things—possibilities, dangers. This man is fucking complicated.

And then he takes a step toward you. Just one. Just enough to close the gap that many inches. You don’t back up, but you’re too afraid to walk to him, unsure of what’s coming next.

He’s looking down at you, gaze passive, calm, and strangely open. You’ve learned new and interesting ways to read his eyes since you fell for him, but this one has an unknown definition, a kinesic oddity that you can’t translate.

And for a moment, you let yourself hope.

Then, he says your name. Not Ladybird. Not your rank. Your name. The sound of it is a rush in your ears, in your whole head, through every artery, vein, and capillary. He takes another step, slower than the first, drawing in closer before he says, “Do you want this?”

You nod. There’s nothing else you can do. You take a step toward him, looking up into his eyes and trying to read everything there. “Do you?” you ask. You’re still waiting for the rejection, as though Ghost is the type of person to lure you in only to shut you down.

Rejection doesn’t come. Instead, he steps forward to close the gap, one of his hands finding your waist.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Holy shit.

You stare at him in surprise, and the look on your face must be ridiculously easy to read. His other hand goes up under your chin, tilting your face toward him. The touch of his fingers is exactly like you imagined, the callouses on his thumb brushing over the soft skin underneath your jaw, causing you to shiver.

Ghost leans in close to your left side, skull’s grin close to your ear, and whispers, “Thought you hated me. Every time I looked at you, you’d look away.”

A near-hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat, and comes out as a compressed, breathless giggle. All that time, you were so hopelessly in love with him, you couldn’t look at him without feeling like your heart was about to give out; and he interpreted that as dislike.

“God, no,” you say. “Total opposite.”

He laughs in your ear, and the sound chases out the remainder of that cold tension, replacing it with a newfound heat that feels good. “Wish I’d known sooner,” he says, and one of his hands goes up to push a strap of your backpack off your shoulder.

You ease out of it, dropping it to the floor, before reaching out and tentatively touching his waist in return. Through the fabric of his hoodie, you can feel how solid he is underneath, and you run your hand along his side in silent wonder.

Ghost moves back suddenly, and you only have a second to question why before the light goes out, leaving you in muted darkness permeated only by the bare sliver of sunlight filtering through your curtain. One hand finds your waist again, pulling you close, walking you toward your bed.

All you can think is no fucking way over and over, even as the back of your legs hit the side of the bed, and Ghost is lowering you down. Your back touches the mattress, head on the pillow, and Ghost is over the top of you, his hands bracketing your head. He looks down at you, mostly in shadow, only the bright white of the skull motif visible in the darkness. Then, his eyes flicker to his left, and he abruptly snorts.

You furrow your brow. “What?”

Wordlessly, his hand moves to the right of your head, and he picks up your phone.

Your phone which is still on, showing the emoji-heavy conversation with Soap. Ghost flips the phone to show you the last text he sent.

Skull emoji, kiss, black heart, red heart, ladybug, eggplant, peach, confetti ball, birthday cake.

“What the fuck, Soap?” you say under your breath, grabbing the phone from Ghost. You quickly turn it off and shove it onto your bedside table, groaning in embarrassment.

Ghost shakes his head, and unlike Soap, he doesn’t remark on it. Instead, he brings the situation right back on the rails with one hand going up under your shirt. Then, he says, “Close your eyes a second.”

You do, without question. You hear a faint rustle of fabric, and then his lips press against yours.

You gasp against his mouth, and that thrill you felt at hearing your name seems to rush back through you twofold at the thought that he took his mask off for you. He kisses you firmly, a guarantee that this is what he wants. You reach up with one hand, combing your fingers through his hair, nails scraping along his scalp and drawing out a quiet groan. He smells like standard-issue soap and laundry detergent, and the faint spice of cologne only just clinging to his skin. The feeling of kissing him is dizzying, entrancing, and the sound of it just hammers home that this is happening to you, in your room, with him.

He pulls back just a little, kissing a trail from the corner of your mouth down to your chin, then your jaw, and up to your ear. The sensation makes you shiver again, arching up into him involuntarily. You hear and feel an amused huff of breath, before he says, “What do you want?”

Good god, what don’t you want?

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

He nods against your neck, then tilts his head up to press a kiss to your temple. “Tell me if it’s too much, or if there’s something you don’t like. Communicate.”

You grin, mostly at the sotto voce version of his command voice. “Yes, sir.”

He huffs a laugh and continues kissing down your neck, down to the hemline of your shirt. Undressing comes as an easy next step, shoes off first (and they were on the bed, ugh), and then Ghost pulls your shirt up; you lift yourself enough to help him pull it over your head. In the darkness, he does the same, and you watch his silhouette remove his hoodie, then pull his shirt over his head and drop it off the side of the bed. You can’t see his face, but the faint beam of sunlight touches his hair and brings out a hint of pale gold. It feels like a secret shared between you, adding to that warmth building up inside.

He leans back down, kissing down your sternum to the upper hem of your sports bra. He starts to go lower, and you decide then that you’d like to take at least a little initiative.

“Wait,” you whisper. “Come back up here.”

He does, like he’s accustomed to obeying your orders rather than the other way around. You reach up and touch his chest, eager to feel this part of him, the one he typically buries under layers of clothing and gear. He sighs at your touch, head dropping down to rest on the pillow beside you.

He’s firm and toned with well-honed muscle earned through endless missions and exercise. At the same time, the skin of his chest is surprisingly soft—even the scattered network of scars and keloids that mark his body. You feel old and new wounds, some still raised as they heal, some concave with age. They’re long, short, thick, thin, orderly, and jagged. Starbursts of bullet wounds, hard lines of cuts, spatters of shrapnel, textured lines of old stitches. His whole torso tells a long, tragic story from cover to cover, chest to back.

But he leans into this read of him, letting you feel every scar, every painful moment. His breathing is steady in your ear, giving way to the occasional sigh as your fingers trail over his skin.

In turn, he touches you. You don’t have even a fraction of his scars, but you have a few he can note. You know when he touches them, by the way his touch lingers, learning each one. It feels reverential, or communal—the two of you engaging in a silent trust exercise. He doesn’t ask about them, and neither do you. All of that is for another time.

Ghost presses a kiss to your shoulder, then pushes up until he’s over top of you again. His free hand goes down to the waistline of your jeans, finger tracing teasingly over the zipper. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. As if you’d say anything else.

He undoes the button, then the zipper, slowly pulling your jeans to your hips, then removing them entirely. He sits up on the edge of the bed for a moment, removing his boots, then his jeans. You lay there, watching him move, feeling your arousal start to grow and burn like a low flame.

When he touches you again, you silently agree that you wish you’d said or done something sooner. It’s bliss. He’s gentle with you, mindful even, in a way you’ve never experienced or anticipated from someone like him. He helps you out of your bra, letting you pull it all the way off before his hands palm your breasts in slow, deliberate movements. It’s an extension of his exploratory touches, learning your body inch by inch.

Your breathing quickens, and Ghost looks up at you in what you guess is concern. “Doing alright?” he asks.

Your face grows hot, and you nod, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “I’m fine,” you reply. “I just don’t know what to do.”

It’s not like you haven’t had sex before, but sex with him feels completely different, like it doesn’t belong in the same category. You’ve never wanted someone this badly, or had someone respond to you like this. It’s almost overwhelming, but Ghost reaches up and combs some of your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Lie back a bit,” he instructs. “And tell me if you need me to stop.”

You do as he says, leaning up against the pillows as he moves down your body, leaving a trail of kisses down your torso to your hips. He’s a shadow moving over you, long and languid, and every touch just adds to the mounting heat. When his fingers touch the hem of your underwear, you shiver in anticipation, then arch your hips to give him a little leverage in removing them. In one motion, you’re exposed to him, even in the dark. Yet after touching him, and him touching you, you don’t feel as vulnerable. If anything, this feels safe. This feels right.

His hands go to your hips, then run slowly along the outer sides of your thighs. You think he might fulfill that fantasy from earlier, fingering you until you’re a mess, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure with his skilled hands.

Which is why it surprises the hell out of you when he goes lower, until his head is between your thighs, sunlight leaving gold stripes along his back.

“Ghost,” you gasp.

He looks up at you, and now more than ever, you wish you could see his face. You only see the faint shine of his eyes, but at that moment, it’s enough.

Then he spreads you, and licks a stripe from your opening to your clit.

If you were entertaining any thoughts before, any fantasies carefully curated in those rare hours of alone time, they flee in that single movement. Even the Ghost of your imagination never did this, tasting and savoring you in long, slow laps that make your whole brain short out like a blown fuse. The sound is goddamn obscene, especially as he leans in close and starts to lap at your clit. It’s a shock of sound in the silence, louder than even your own noises when you got yourself off.

Your right hand finds his head, fingers running through his hair as he licks you. He alternates between short laps and long strokes, tongue circling around your clit, teasing you, making you shudder and moan. It’s frustrating and fucking heavenly, the sensation of ebb and flow, receding and rushing waves of heat building up then flowing back.

Right when you think you can’t take the teasing anymore, he switches tactics. The teasing abruptly ends, and Ghost gets relentless.

You moan way too loud when he sucks at your clit, tongue swirling around it, the sound of his mouth on you loud as a gunshot. You swear they have to hear it down the hallway, or anywhere on base. At this point, though, you really don’t care who hears you, because they don’t have Ghost between their legs, getting them off in ways no deity ever intended.

Then his fingers join his mouth, index tracing circles around your entrance, dipping in slowly, tauntingly.

“Fuck.” The word is sharp in the air, as you arch at the sensation.

It’s too much; it’s not enough.

He tilts his head up a little, but when he speaks, you feel his warm breath ghost over your sex. “Let me hear you,” he says, words drawn straight out of your fantasies. Every door containing that imaginary version of Ghost is unlocked, every bulkhead breached—that Ghost and this one are one in the same.

And when he pushes that first finger into you, you follow his order to the letter.

It comes out as a broken wail, cut off when he starts thrusting and licking you in alternate strokes. His pace quickens, merciless, sharp eyes watching you from the shadows as your head rolls back on the pillow, chest heaving to catch a single solid breath. Your hands drop to your sides, fisting the sheets just to have something to hang onto, any kind of anchor as Ghost guides you through a tempest.

You moan his name, last consonant catching on a sob of pleasure when he starts to add a second finger. Only then does he pause, and the absence of his mouth is stark. 

Then he says your name, temporarily drawing you out of the cumulonimbus of arousal you’re flying through, briefly bringing you back to earth.

You look down at him, the silhouette of his head, small locks of hair sticking up from where your fingers combed through. You see him tilt his head to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, and his voice rolls out like a dull roar of thunder in your ears. “It’s Simon,” he says. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, hearing his real name in the midst of all this is almost too much. Like the last little vestige of a play on stage falling away and revealing the inner workings of the backstage, all the ropes and pullies holding the show together. He’s more exposed now, more raw, more human.

You reach down, trembling hand brushing over his cheek, over stubble and scar tissue, and the soft skin of a very real face.

“Simon,” you whisper. It sounds like a confession.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel him smile against your hand, briefly turning his head to press a kiss against your palm. Then he’s lowering himself down again, coaxing you out of the eye of the storm and back into the maelstrom. Two fingers thrust and curl, filling you, leaving you empty, touching places that send bolts of pleasure through you.

Your pulse becomes the thunder of the helo’s blades, your body trembling with midair turbulence. Simon fucks you on his fingers, tongue lathing over your clit, mouth fucking worshiping you. He takes you to that precipice, the long fall, the drop through cloud cover to a faintly-marked point on the earth.

The step off the edge feels like perfect, natural progression.

Your orgasm sweeps through you from toe to tip, a roll of white-out pleasure shaking you, wringing a cry out of your mouth that makes Simon fuck you harder. His fingers don’t let up, working you through the tidal wave, taking you to shore on the other side.

You’re boneless at the end, slumping back on the pillow and panting, shivering, taking stock of your limbs and extremities as they each come back online after the outage. You only vaguely register the feeling of Simon moving on the bed, coming up to lay beside you.

He murmurs your name, then kisses you, and you can smell and taste yourself on him. Your hand goes up to run along his jawline, one rogue thought telling you, yeah, you can cut glass with it.

How everything gets so gentle afterwards is beyond you. Simon’s hand is on your face, thumb brushing the soft skin under your right eye. You can feel his erection against your leg, and somewhere in the back of your mind—still tingling with pleasure, shimmering bright and brilliant—you know how you’re going to take initiative.

You break the kiss just for a moment, delighting in the soft sigh of protest you hear and feel against your cheek. Then you lean in close, pitching your voice low like his, hoping it has the same effect on him.

“Hope you don’t have any plans this weekend,” you say, brushing your hand over his shoulder.

You feel him smile against your skin, and he shakes his head.

“Thought you were heading out,” he says.

“Only if you’re going with me.”

One arm goes around your waist, pulling you close as he nuzzles against your neck. “We have some time, though, right?” his voice slides over you, suggestion clear and presented like a gift.

God, yeah you do.

---

Somewhere in between rounds, your phone goes off on your bedside stand.

Once.

Twice.

You don’t hear it, and the short buzz is drowned out by moans and the soft slap of skin on skin. When Simon makes a move like he’s going to check on it, you hook him back in place with your leg around his waist, pulling him in close, then kissing him silent. He falls into it, all too happy to oblige.

So you miss the skull and ladybug emojis, then the volume symbol.

[queenvidal]

Welcome To The Sanctuary

Negan x Reader (Rick’s Daughter)

Chapter 1: Something Eerie

Chapter Summary: It was supposed to be just another pickup day - not a nightmare. Rick is ready to strike against Negan, but all war efforts come to a complete stop, when the life of the woman both men care about the most is on the line.

Wordcount: 2157

Era: Season 7

- Part 5 of the The One And Only Series -

Chapter Index: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 - COMING SOON!

Masterlist / Negan x Rick's Daughter Series

It’s late in the morning, when a small convoy of trucks makes its way down the deserted roads. 

The Saviors are heading to their bosses favorite community. Negan is almost mindlessly driving behind one of the trucks, watching the all too familiar suburb passing by his windows. Today is pickup day for Alexandria and he can’t wait to see what Prick’s people got him this time. It better be good after all the trouble his son caused last week. 

It probably won't be much, he muses. Not that he cares too much about it but the town is now short of three more people. It certainly has to put their scavengers under even more pressure. But then again, Rick and especially his Sweet-Thing had to deal with even worse conditions in the past, when coordinating their teams and if anyone can get shit done, it’s her.

After the events of last week's pickup, Negan had to think of her constantly. She must have known about Spencer's plans or at least had to have a suspicion, given how stressed she was, when he first approached them. What a slimy asshole and a coward on top. There is no doubt in his mind his Sunshine would have killed him for what he tried to do. Luckily she didn’t have to lift a finger, she is already close enough to getting exiled as it is and also Negan was more than willing to lend a hand in that matter. 

As much as he can't stand Rick, he's got to admit that he's doing a good job - that is keeping his people alive and scavenging good stuff. Also he is well experienced from his years outside of that town and kept so many people alive during that time. That knowledge is priceless in times like this and Negan actually respects him for it. That Spencer really thought he'd not just be as good but even better than Rick as a leader is not only astonishing but also downright pathetic. That asshole got what he deserved. 

Still, there is one thing from this whole ordeal that’s still leaving a bitter taste in Negan's mouth and that is the death of the fat woman. He disliked her and was never subtle about it but he knew she was somewhat close to his Sunshine and although it was Arat’s decision to take her out, he still feels sorry for Y/N. 

He can’t forget that burning anger in her eyes, when she glared at that bitch that tried to shoot him. He'd be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little bit turned on by the sight of it, as out of place as it was. After all his Sweet-Thing is hot as hell when she’s pissed and she’s been seething. 

Negan can’t help but smile at that memory. He’s so excited to see her again. It surprised him how much he actually enjoyed their little game of hide and seek. It made the whole affair even more enticing. Still he’s glad people somehow found out eventually. Hopefully this will result in more time with her than rushed quickies every now and then. Given the new circumstances, Negan decided to retire his RV for the time being and left it in The Sanctuary. There is no need for it anymore and her bedroom will do just fine. He really can’t wait to take his time with her.

Finally the high walls of Alexandria are slowly coming into view and the head of the Saviors  focuses back onto the road ahead of him. Slowly the gate opens up, making way for the convoy. Negan scans the guards standing on the wall but his Sunshine is nowhere to be seen. She’s not on duty right now it seems. 

The trucks drive through the gate onto the parking lot and Negan stops his car right on top of the convoy. The Saviors gather around their vehicles, ready to go through today's pickup. Negan jumps out of his car, shutting the door shut. 

Uncomfortableness is creeping up his spine immediately - Something is wrong. 

Somehow he has the feeling that something is off but Negan just can’t put his finger on it and it's making him feel quite uneasy. Suddenly on high alert, he's looking around the area. Usually around this time Alexandrians would roam the street, watching the activities but the streets are empty. 

Except for one person. 

“Ah, Rick!” Negan calls the approaching man with a bright smile that quickly dies again. The closer Rick gets, the more his sorry state becomes visible. The man looks like he’s seen a ghost. His skin is pale, only accentuating the redness of his sunken eyes. The hell happened to him?

Once he’s reached the Saviors, Rick greets them with a weak nod of his head. “Negan. Your stuff’s at the pantry.” 

A frown settles on Negan's face. Rick’s not meeting his eyes and while that’s nothing out of the ordinary, in fact it’s quite welcome, it still seems off. The other man’s not avoiding his gaze like he used to but is just staring into the void. What the hell is going on here? After another quick glance around the area, still not seeing his Sweet-Thing, Negan asks, “Where’s Y/N?”

Rick swallows hard. After a moment, he states. “She’s out scouting.”

This statement only adds to the distressing feeling in Negan’s gut. Rick is so obviously lying. She would never go out scouting with a different car than her stupid Mini. The Mini that is clearly sitting in the far corner of the parking lot. 

Negan takes one step closer to Rick, his eyes narrowing. But before he can confront Rick about his observations, he sees a woman appearing in the corner of his eye. She’s stepping out of the infirmary. That’s one of Sunshine’s team, he realizes. The woman is crying and wiping her tears. Blood is dripping from her hands.

Negan’s eyes switch between her and Rick. Something is going on. After one final glance at the other man who’s still not meeting his eyes, Negan gets moving. He pushes himself past Rick without a word, heading for the infirmary. Rick’s about to say something but when he sees Sasha standing on the porch, he keeps his mouth shut, following Negan with his head down.

Knots tighten in Negan's chest. The air feels tense, almost eerie. There is not a single person in sight and the whole town is silent. Only the sound of boots moving over the gravel can be heard. It’s quite goosebumps inducing. The head of the Saviors tries to calm himself down, he can’t have his nerves get the better of him. 

When they reach the porch, Sasha moves out of their way to the side. She looks at Rick, even more tears are running down her cheeks when she slowly shakes her head at him. Negan can’t see Rick's reaction but at the moment he doesn’t care. All he wants is to find out what’s going on. With the unpleasant feeling in his gut quickly growing, he opens the door and moves inside.

Once through the door, the man is being hit with the pungent smell of blood. His nose crinkles to its own accord and he is met with another puffy red eye. Rick's boy is sitting on a chair next to a cot, looking up at him with a tear stained face, holding the hand of the person lying there. 

When Negan's eyes eventually wander to the cot, he stops dead in his tracks. Sunshine. Negan almost forgot how to breathe. There is so much blood. 

"It's been an accident." Rick's small voice sounds behind the boss, but he barely registers the other man. Negan moves forward, coming to stand right next to Carl. The boy doesn’t say a word, only holding the hand of his sister in silence.

Negan’s eyes roam over her. His Sunshine is almost unrecognizable, the way she's lying there, completely still, unconscious. Her skin is so pale, almost gray. Bandages are wrapped around her exposed middle but there is still so much blood on her, the cot, the equipment. A rusty metal rod on the cart catches Negan's attention briefly but he quickly moves his eyes back to the big crimson red spot on her belly.

"It happened so fast." Rick tries to explain, "We couldn't-"

"Got a doc or something?" Negan cuts him off immediately, his eyes not leaving her.

Rick’s just looking at his daughter. "She's… she’s our medic.”

Negan’s clenching his jaw. A quiet fuck is leaving his lips as he’s running his ungloved hand through his hair, still taking all of this in. 

She’s dying. 

Once that thought passes his mind, Negan snaps back from his spinning mind. He moves his attention back to her father, “Prepare her for transport. I’m taking her with us.”

“No-” Rick is about to argue, but there is no room nor time for a debate right now.

“I see you still don't understand what your daughter means to me, Rick.” Negan states in a serious tone, towering over the other man. “I’ve got a doc and a clinic. She’s coming with me.” 

“I'm coming with you.” Surprised, both men look at the boy. “So she won't be alone.” 

After a short moment of consideration, Negan agrees and nods at him. “Fine. Pack her some things.” Carl carefully places his sister's hand on the cot again, before quickly rushing out of the room. Negan turns his head back towards Rick again. “You get her ready,” he orders, before brushing past him, getting his car.

Rick watches him leave before moving his attention back to his daughter again. Slowly he comes closer, taking her hand in his. His eyes well up again as he looks at her. He raises her hand to his lips, praying to any God who cares to listen, to make her stay, to not take her away. “I love you so much,” he whispers against her skin. It pains him so much to see her like that.

After a new wave of tears are threatening to stream down his face, Rick realizes he has to get going. With as much care as he can muster, he puts a blanket around his daughter, wrapping her up into a cocoon before slowly lifting her up into his arms. Cautiously he hugs her against his chest. “Please don't leave us, Y/N.”

Eventually Rick starts moving, bringing his daughter outside. Sasha is sitting on the railing, still fighting the tears, trying to take a breath and calm down. She offers to help him but Rick doesn't seem to notice her as he’s passing her by without a word. Negan parked his car right in front of the house, Carl is already waiting next to it with a duffel bag in his hand. 

Rick walks down the steps attentively, going towards the car. Negan, who just finished instructing Simon to carry on with the pickup, comes closer, ready to take over but Rick moves past him. Carl quickly opens the door before helping his father to slowly and carefully lay his sister down onto the back seat of the car. Rick tugs her in one more time, whispering to her to keep fighting, to please wake up again, before he has to reluctantly let go of her.

As much as he hates Negan and as much as he distrusts him with every fiber of his being, if that man can save her, he will swallow all his hatred up. He’d do everything in and beyond his power for her. All he wants is for his daughter to open her eyes again.

Negan comes to stand next to Rick, looking at him with something close to compassion in his features, “Whatever happens, either way, I’ll let you know.” He's reaching out his hand, offering the other man a two-way radio.

Rick only nods silently, taking it. After one final look at his daughter, he's moving away. Negan lets out a sharp whistle, gaining Carl's attention. “Jump in.” The boy does as he’s been told, hopping into the passenger seat while Negan hurries onto his. 

The engine roars to life as they quickly take off and hit the road. Rick watches them drive out of the gate. His heart is shattering into a million pieces. This feels way too much like a last goodbye.

Sasha’s slowly approaching him. She puts her hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture, but there is nothing that can console him. 

Negan is racing down the streets as fast as he can. Adrenaline is rushing through his veins. Please, let it not be too late. It’s dead silent in the car. Now more than ever is he afraid of noises. 

Dreading to hear the tell-tale sound of quiet groaning. 

Chapter Index: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 - COMING SOON!

Masterlist / Negan x Rick's Daughter Series

Taglist: @starry-night-20 / @joceymoo / @srhxpci / @ladykxxx08 / @sunneeflower / @frombloodandflesh / @aleeeesa /@lanamiller / @fanfic-n-tabulous / @noirfan12 / @abbiesxox / @elinafresk / @obsessiveformiyatwins / @kokushibosgirl / @syrma-sensei / @oceandolores

[zayn-210]

little black dress ~ beelzebub edition

fem!reader x beelzebub ~ fluff, cutesy shit fr, ugh he needs to exist before i lose my mind

You always hated these stupid student body gatherings. Lucifer insisted that you attend them, considering you held pacts with all seven rulers of the Underworld. Most people respected you because you were the first human to forge a pact with Lucifer. Others respected you due to their fear of upsetting the brothers or, worse, Diavolo. 

So, here you were, standing against a wall, a glass of sparkling Demonus in one had while the other smoothed out your dress. You had tried to stick with Levi, but he got swept away by his phone pinging with a dozen messages about some game update. After trying to stick with Mammon and then with Asmo, you gave up and decided to find somewhere semi-quiet to stand. 

“Mc? What are you doing over here alone?” 

You look up and see Beelzebub standing before you. He’s holding a ceramic black plate piled high with desserts. 

“Just trying to keep my sanity. How’s the dessert table?”

Beel starts talking, but you can’t focus on his words due to how enticing he looks. He’s wearing a black button up, a white suit jacket and pants, his signature belts, and white high top Akuverse you had given him for his birthday. There was a bright orange rose pinned on the left side of his chest. 

“Mc?” 

You snap out of your trance, your gaze snapping up to meet his. “I’m sorry, I spaced out. What were you saying?” you ask, smiling sweetly. 

“Do you want to come sit and try these with me? I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together.”

You can’t help but smile brighter. “I’d love to, Beel.” 

He offers you his free hand, and you take it. Beel swiftly leads you to a round booth that was set back from everything else. He gestures for you to sit first, and you thank him softly as you slide in. 

Beel sits next to you, quickly shedding his suit jacket and rolling his sleeves up. You almost drool at the way his arms flex as he adjust his shirt. “Here, I got this for you. It’s a dark chocolate cherry tart. Diavolo told me Barbatos made them.” 

You thank him and take a bite. “Oh, these are amazing!” you gush happily. Beel sits there with a content smile on his face as you rave about the different flavors and textures overwhelming your tastebuds. 

An hour passes by as you feast upon the sweet treats together. “Hey, want to go out on the balcony? Solomon told me about some small comets we might see,” you tell Beel. 

“Absolutely,” Beel replies. He stands up and offers you his hand. You take it and let him pull you up next to him. He grabs his jacket and leads you towards the large French doors. You snag two glasses of his favorite Demonus from a passing waiter before you step outside. 

The night was warm enough for now, but you knew you’d be cold before long. He leans against the railing beside you, raising the glass you just handed to him. “Here’s to us,” Beel says, smiling. 

“To us!” you reply, tapping your glass against his. The smooth liquid warms your body as it settles. A soft jazz tune floats through the open doors. You watch Beel’s face light up. He stands up straight, offering you his hand once more. 

“Mc, may I have this dance?” You can’t help but giggle and take his hand, setting your glass down gently beside his own. His arms wrap gently around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You let your arms wrap around his neck as your body temperature starts to rise. The solid planes of Beel's body pressing up against you start to make your brain space out a little bit. Being this close to him was like a fever dream for you.

The two of you sway gently to the rhythm of the small quartet playing as it filters out onto the balcony.

"Thanks for hanging out with me tonight," you say as you keep dancing together.

"Of course, Mc. There isn't anyone else I'd rather be with." Beel smiles at you, which makes your heart flutter in your chest.

With a sudden surge of bravery, one of your hands reaches up and cups the back of his head while the other cups the side of his jaw. You pull him down into a kiss, his arms around you tightening significantly.

When you move to pull back, Beel doesn't let you, and he kisses you again.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to do that," he mumbles quietly.

You giggle, a blush spreading across your face. "Let me guess, since I fell from Earth?"

He smiles at you. "Just about," he says as he kisses you again.

back to masterlist! ⇒ 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍

[infinite-orangepeel]

kas!eddie/monstefucker!steve: pt. 2

read pt. 1 here !!

steve never thought he’d see eddie munson again. but there was nothing in this world or any other that could have stopped him from venturing back down to the depths of hell to save him once he realized he was alive.

after dragging him out of the upside down two weeks ago, they’d kissed, touched, fucked, told secrets, cuddled, and cried together. it was absolute bliss.

steve felt like he’d been transported to wonderland. so he didn’t hesitate to move eddie into his house in order to help him recover and heal. everything seemed fine and strangely normal.

eddie was still eddie. a bit different on the outside, but on the inside—his wicked sense of humor, selfless heart, nerdy interests—all remained the same.

except for the fact that he was kind of oddly possessive over steve.

which steve didn’t really mind because he was so used to dating people that couldn’t give less of a shit about his well being. the amount of times he’d shown up to a date with obvious marks or bruises on his arms after fighting supernatural creatures and had them ignored was off the charts.

by stark contrast; eddie watched his every move, protected him from harm (including from mundane things like hot stoves and rainy weather), called him ‘beloved’ ‘perfect’ and ‘mate.’

but if there was one thing steve was learning that eddie hated—it was the thought of anyone else laying a finger on steve. especially in a romantic or sexual sense.

which was how they ended up here.

steve fucked up. he fucked up badly.

of course, steve doesn’t realize how badly until eddie—or; this new super strong, muscular, bloodthirsty killer, undead in a way that still doesn’t quite compute version of eddie—is pinning him to the bed within seconds of him walking in the door post-work. name badge still attached to his polo.

“holy fuck! jesus, eds! i literally just got home. give a guy a minute to decompress!” steve’s words are vastly ineffective and get muffled into the pillow as eddie makes quick work of his clothes.

“shut up. be quiet. face down. my turn.”

he strips steve down to his gray briefs with little ceremony. steve groans as he listens to the seams of his family video uniform rip—sharp claws grazing his skin as the fabric falls to the wayside in tattered shreds.

how many times can he tell keith his dog ate his uniform before he gets fired?

doomed to be fired or not, it doesn’t matter, because steve’s so gone for eddie munson that he’d give up his job, dignity, and livelihood just to keep him happy.

he wags his ass back and forth to taunt, play, and entice. not that he needs to with how eddie’s acting, but because he wants to. he wants to rile eddie up even more.

“someone missed me, hm? can’t stay away from my pussy, can you? such a perv, munson,” steve jokes, but his laughter’s cut off when he receives a sharp slap to his ass. it’s certain to bruise.

“who the fuck touched you? who thought they were good enough to get so close, huh? where are they? i’ll kill them,” eddie’s voice is dark, deep, dripping otherworldly ichor and heat.

“n-no one! no one touched me, eddie! i swear! you can trust me!” steve always finds it alarming how easily his cock starts throbbing when eddie threatens to kill someone on his behalf.

but that’s neither here nor there. right now all he can think about is cumming and surviving, but mostly cumming.

eddie’s fully naked. steve has no idea when that happened or how, but suddenly his briefs—his brand new calvin klein’s—are being bitten off and discarded along with the rest of his clothes while the thick, leaking, barbed dick of his ‘friend’s’ is rubbing between his ass cheeks. it slips and slides and makes noises that would have definitely embarrassed the hell out of steve prior to this. squelching obscenely.

“who is she? why did she touch you? smells like girl. you smell like girl. don’t like it. hate it. hate her,” eddie’s crying which breaks steve’s heart, but he’s grown used to this too.

“it’s okay. you’re okay, eds. you have me. we’re safe. we’re in our nest,” steve says as calmly as possible, “no one’s going to hurt me and if they tried—you’d protect me, wouldn’t you?”

“always protect you, stevie. always,” he cries into steve’s skin, breathing hot and heavy. steve twists to grab his hand and squeezes three consecutive times.

“i know. i’m so proud of you. i’m so lucky,” he adds.

all of ‘new eddie’s’ emotions are insanely heightened in this way. he’s volatile, temperamental, and loves harder than anyone steve’s ever known. it’s terrifying and beautiful.

something clicks in steve’s head. a very vague, seemingly inconsequential moment from earlier that day. he needs to be more careful.

“baby, listen—it’s not what you think. this girl i used to go out with—years ago,” he stresses that part to dilute the importance, “came into family video today and she hugged me to say hi. we caught up for a minute. that’s all! and then she left.”

“don’t want to share, stevie. mine. you’re mine,” he’s nuzzling into the side of steve’s neck and licking at his throat, “mine. mine. mine.”

“yours. all yours. always yours.”

steve breathes a sigh of relief as eddie starts purring—that’s the closest thing he can compare it to—against him and rocks his hips back to let him know everything’s going to be okay. he still wants to be fucked, bred, filled.

“need to get rid of her scent. make you clean. make you mine again,” eddie grunts and lines himself up with steve’s hole. his hole, which, is still dripping and gaping from the events of that morning.

“good. that’s real good, baby. that’s what i’m here for. take what you need.”

eddie likes to cum inside him before he goes to work as a way of marking his territory since he can’t follow steve out into the world outside of this house (for now).

most days, steve wakes up with that huge cock buried in his ass. usually already pumped full with three or four loads and somehow eddie will still be rock hard and insatiably horny. nothing quells his constant arousal.

steve jumps when eddie’s tongue dips past his rim and begins lapping at his inner walls. eddie grips him by the waist, hands encompassing him with ease, and holds him in place. he finds his spot quickly and presses up into it with the tip of his tongue.

“taste like mine,” eddie slurps and then gathers a mouthful of saliva to spit directly into steve’s ass. it tickles, makes everything sloppier just as eddie likes it, “put babies in you this morning. going to put more babies in you now.”

it’s not exactly the truth but the possibility of pregnancy—specifically of eddie getting him pregnant—makes his dick ache for release and hang heavy between his legs.

“yes, sir. please, sir.”

“good human. good stevie,” eddie praises.

steve shivers from head to toe and whines into the pillow. his back arches to give eddie a better angle and he reaches around to spread his ass as far apart as possible so eddie can eat him out properly.

as he licks into him, steve gets a funny idea in the back of his mind. it’s risky given eddie’s physical prowess and unhinged state, but he’s feeling bratty.

“there is one other thing—she did tell me i looked hot in my uniform, but don’t worry i don’t think she meant anything serious by it,” steve bites his lip and smirks to himself.

he likes when eddie’s rough. he wants eddie to be rough with him.

the reality of the situation plays out so much better than it ever could have in steve’s imagination.

eddie flips him onto his back in one swift motion. kicks out his legs from underneath him and growls deep in the back of his throat.

steve sees his face finally and mewls. he’s fucking gorgeous. his eyes are blown out—pupils the size of the full moon. his sharp, elongated incisors are visible and bared. he’s snarling, panting, and his dick is swollen to the point that it’s slapping against his stomach with every move and barely fits between his thighs. it’s going to hurt like hell and steve wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything. he’s ready for eddie to break him.

“stay,” eddie orders him as he pushes steve’s knees into his chest and holds him by the ankles.

he’s drooling which should be gross, but steve opens his mouth to catch the droplets like they’re snowflakes. he moans on each swallow and eddie licks over his mouth in a sloppy half-kiss to express his pride.

and when eddie enters him in one forceful stroke, steve screams bloody murder. he sobs, whites out as eddie thrusts without pause. as he renters consciousness, he finds a puddle of his own cum pooling in his belly button.

a second orgasm building while eddie dips down to lap at his milky release. gathers it all in his mouth and feeds it to steve from the fat part of his tongue.

“thank you,” steve moans, as his body gets moved up and down the bed by sheer force and strength, “thank you for making me cum. thank you for making me yours. please breed me. please get me pregnant so girls won’t flirt with me anymore.”

eddie pins him down further, bending him past the point of comfort. steve’s a human pretzel, contorted in ways he didn’t think possible. eddie’s hips snap into him and steve knows it’s only a matter of time before his barbs will lock into place.

“my stevie,” he punctuates his words with bites to steve’s nipples, suckles on them and drags the sharps of his teeth over the buds to tease, “keep you safe. protect you. give you my babies.”

eddie’s trembling. tears back in his eyes. this is emotional for him. steve’s surprised to find that he’s welling up too despite the filth and pleasure.

“come on, eddie. cum in me. get rid of her. make me forget she exists. i’ll never think about her again,” steve whines, desperate to feel the spread of warmth in his sore hole. it purifies him every time. heals him.

the barbs take hold, lock in, and eddie cums with a violent cry. he chokes steve out while he does it, drags his talons down his chest and marks him up. and steve cums moments later, watching eddie’s gruesome lust turn into a soft smile of satisfaction and adoration.

he’s purring and rutting into steve ceaselessly. hips rolling in circles as he bends to lick steve clean. drags his tongue from top to bottom as his cock pumps seemingly endless spend into steve’s body.

by the end, his stomach is fuller and more rounded. be it from a baby or otherwise, they’ll have to wait to find out.

taglist (message me to be added or removed at any time <3): @estrellami-1, @disastardly, @ilovecupcakesandtea, @the-redthread, @asbealthgn, @bestofbucky, @vampireinthesun, @carlyv, @shrimply-a-menace, @lordrrascal, @jjoesjonas, @malachitedevil, @anxiouseds, @feraleddiekinninghours, @gay-little-bitch, @jhrc666, @pinkdaisies1998, @mcneen, @perseus-notjackson, @eiddets, @corroded-coffin-groupie, @three-possums-playing-human, @stevesbipanic, @plutoshelm, @arkenstoned, @indiearr, @they-reap-what-we-sow, @gleek4twd

[unseededtoast]

Turtle Doves | Joel Miller

Part Five

Chapter Directory

Series Summary: In which two broken souls connect so deeply, that if one should perish, the other would surely die of a broken heart. (slow burn, timeline changes. After TLOU1, before TLOU2, assumed knowledge of infected, uses elements from both show and game)

Series Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, and sexual content.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted!

The man is wearing a dark green flannel, medium wash jeans, brown boots, and a broken watch. He's got a rifle leaning against the table beside him.

With the back of my hand I wipe sweat off my brow. Unfortunately, I was not placed on graffiti cleanup today. Instead, they're making me dig holes for new fence posts on the QZ border. FEDRA is trying to rebuild what the Fireflies blew up, and digging deep holes for hours on end only makes me more bitter towards the wannabe mercenary group. Manual labor paired with no sleep for the past two days is not working in my favor. I have to constantly fight to not pass out from overexertion. But, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered passing out to get out of work.

The hours pass by slowly, but surely. As soon as we get cleared to leave for the day I make a beeline for my apartment, wanting to at least get a shower before I start my activities for the night. I've got a list of things I need to accomplish, and I'm hoping to do so before curfew. However, with the luck I've been having lately, I'm not holding my breath about being back before curfew.

After I've showered and made myself presentable again, I leave my apartment and head towards area four. I'm counting on someone to have reported those poor girls in the alley today, there's just no way nobody found them. And I'm hoping my contact will have some good information for me. As an incentive for information, I brought along a few pills. Information like this is sure to come at a hefty price, and free narcotics usually does the trick.

I locate the familiar apartment and knock on the door. It's not unheard of for regular people to be in area four, but it is unusual. Thankfully, the soldier opens the door and lets me in quickly without asking questions. I stand in the doorway of the rickety apartment and nod to the man standing across from me.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is callous, but curious. We had just delivered to this guy last week and I know he isn't due for another round of pills until next week, so it is weird for me to be here right now. I clear my throat,

"I need information, and I'm hoping you can be of assistance." I start off. The man's eyes narrow,

"What kind of information?" His eyes briefly look me up and down, probably searching for obvious weapons. I move from the doorway to the man's living room, where my voice is less likely to be heard by bystanders.

"I know there have been bodies found. I need to know what FEDRA is doing to find the killer." My voice is stone cold and serious. On our drug runs, I try to stay friendly to the clients, so they keep quiet and keep coming back. But this is something else entirely. The man scratches the back of his neck and takes a few steps towards me.

"How do you know about that?" His voice is equally as cold. I look right into his eyes, trying to pierce his soul so he sees just how serious I am about this.

"I have my sources." I decide against confessing what I really know. He licks his lips and shakes his head,

"Noelle you know I can't tell you shit like this." He sounds frustrated, he has to know something. Otherwise he'd be asking for more elaboration.

"What if I gave you these?" I pull out the small bag of pills from my back pocket. The man's eyes grow wide as he sees them. His gaze flickers between me and the pills.

"What's the catch?" He asks and I shake my head innocently.

"No catch, just information." I say, hoping that the thought of free drugs is enticing enough to get what I need from him. He paces back and forth before he gives in.

"Fine. I'll tell you what I know." He says, eyeballing the pills. I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and motion for him to continue on.

"You'll get these after you fess up." I explain my terms more thoroughly to him. Thankfully, he starts talking without argument.

"Three bodies found, ages fourteen to seventeen. Two girls, one boy. All had the same marking on their forehead. All killed brutally. I heard from another guard today that they had concluded the girls had been sexually assaulted before they were killed. Same with the boy." He explains, and my blood boils at his words. It's bad enough these children were ruthlessly killed. But to have been defiled before? It's sickening and awakens a rage in me I've never felt before.

"List of suspects?" My voice is uncharacteristically dark and I take a few steps towards the soldier. He shakes his head,

"I don't have names, nobody has a name. But, I did hear something about a man, or some small group, staying out near the wharf in area five. I guess we've been having perimeter issues around there. It's no surprise, there are a few empty warehouses out there and nobody ever patrols them. My best guess, start there if you want to find who did this. As far as I know, all FEDRA is planning to do is to sweep the warehouses tomorrow and then call it if they don't find anything. They don't want people knowing about this, they're hoping it just stops. They're worried a riot will break out. We don't have the numbers to go investigating this, we still have our orders. My guess is that we're just going to blame the first man who looks at someone the wrong way." He spills more information. My fists clench involuntarily as he says FEDRA is basically trying to sweep this under the rug to stop a potential riot. It seems that good old-fashioned vigilante action is going to be needed after all. Appreciative of his cooperation, I toss the pills over to him.

"Thank you. Those are on the house." I say as I make my way out of his apartment, on a newfound mission.

I feel as if I'm practically flying to area five, near the wharf. I'm familiar with the empty warehouses, there are plenty of transactions I make there. But, I've never noticed any sign of someone living there before. Usually, even just one straggler leaves some sort of evidence. Unless they're dumping their evidence into the water.

I begin searching the warehouses one by one, knowing that this might take a good while to be thorough. I intend to search each warehouse with a fine tooth comb. Those children deserve someone to fight for their justice. And if FEDRA isn't going to get these families justice, then I sure as hell will. I know I would want someone to do the same if it were my child.

The sudden thought of Lucas makes my heart constrict with sadness, and I find myself clutching the necklace that never leaves my neck; a constant reminder of my family who are only with me now in spirit.

The first warehouse proves to be empty, every surface is covered with a thick layer of dust and nothing has been recently disturbed, save for rat droppings here and there. The second warehouse is also empty, but I did find some spent shell casings. Probably remnants of some shootout, but I don't know if the killers had anything to do with it, they seem to be keen on using blades.

With hope, I step into the third, and final, warehouse that sits on the wharf. The creaky old building looks like it could fall over at any second and so I'm careful of where my steps land. I take my flashlight out to look at every minute detail, looking for anything that suggests someone is staying here. I take a deep breath and stand up straight as the faint scent of a fire tinges my nose.

Carefully, I make my way up the warehouse stairs to where a small landing overlooks the rest of the building. To my surprise, there's the remains of a poorly constructed fire. It looks like it's been put out for a while, but was lit recently, as evidenced by the warmth of the wood. The floor surrounding the fire suggests that there were at least two people here, there are two different shoe tracks imprinted in the dusty floor.

I walk over to what looks like a makeshift mattress, made out of broken down cardboard boxes. Crouching down, I examine some scattered papers. There's a hand-drawn map of the QZ and there are circles drawn around areas with accompanying notes. I read the notes scribbled on the edges of the paper and realize I'm looking at the killer's plan. I feel like I could throw up as I read what it written on the paper.

They had singled out their victims, made note of their physical appearances. The notes imply that the killer wanted nothing more than to defile the victims in any way possible. It's almost like the killer, or killers, were playing a game. After I've read everything, I fold the map and tuck it in my back pocket, looking for any other evidence they might have left.

Sticking out of the cardboard boxes is another piece of paper. I turn the paper around in my hand and read what's written on it. It's a checklist, or more of a goal list, and it's clear as day to me now that these killings were a game, and that there are definitely two people in on this. The listed goals include finding suitable victims, seeing who could stab their victim more, who could kill their victim the quickest without a headshot, and who could get their victim to give up the most information.

On the left and right hand side of the paper there are numbers listed, along with words. The numbers correlate to the listed goals, and the words are all about what they learned from their victims. The killers got information about their victims' personal lives, it seems they weren't after much more than that, which I find to be a little odd. Usually infiltrators want to know where the armory is, where the food is kept. But it seems these people may have a steady flow of food and weapons if their focus was on personal information; making it all seem more like a sport. Like they chose this QZ as their hunting ground. I fold this paper and put it in my pocket as well, and search for anything else. However, that seems to be it.

The lack of personal belongings, weapons, food, paired with the lack of additional fire wood tells me that these people left and don't plan on returning here. Perhaps they knew they were going to be tracked down and so they left before anyone could find them. Maybe they were satisfied with the carnage and fear they created, so they just left before they could get caught. If my experience in this world has taught me anything though, it's that people as vile as this will never stop hurting others. It's possible they may even return here, maybe with more people. Maybe this was some sort of test run, to see what they could get away with. It's hard to know for sure.

I fall back so that I'm sitting flat on the floor, and tears make their way down my face. These predators killed those children for sport and just left without any sort of repercussion.Tears of sadness and frustration fall for the children who lost their lives, for the families who lost their dear loved ones. After a few minutes of anguish, my sorrow turns to anger, and I stand to my feet, wiping my face and making my way back to area one.

Each time my foot hits the pavement, the anger intensifies. These people will not get away with what they've done here, they will face consequences. I will hunt them down until I find them, even if that means I must go to the ends of the Earth. In this world, there is no place for evil offenders such as them, it's bad enough the infected threaten our lives everyday. Life is valuable, and those who don't treat it as such must be taken out of the equation for the greater good and the order of civility.

With one last sniffle, I knock on James' apartment door. He doesn't answer after a few minutes, so I knock again, louder this time. I hear a chair scrape against the wooden floor, and heavy footsteps come my way.

"What?" James' gruff voice demands before he even sees its me. His hard exterior immediately softens as he sees me standing there. I let myself in and am surprised to see an unfamiliar man sitting at the table.

The man is wearing a dark green flannel, medium wash jeans, brown boots, and a broken watch. He's got a rifle leaning against the table beside him, which should intimidate me, but in my current state, it doesn't phase me.

The man stares back at me like he's angry I'm here, like I interrupted something. But, I can't seem to find it in myself to care what I interrupted in this moment. My mind is on one track and one track only. James closes the door and stands between me and the unfamiliar man. He clears his throat and for the first time, I think James is uncomfortable. I tear my gaze from the stranger and look to James.

"I need to talk to you." My voice cracks as I speak. James nods and glances back to the other man.

"Can it wait?" He asks and I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep my anger at bay. I cross my arms, not backing down.

"It can't actually." I keep my words vague because this other man doesn't need to know anything about what I'm doing. James lets out a huff of air and runs a hand through his hair. The other man shifts in his seat. The two men exchange a glance, and I can tell it's loaded with some sort of silent communication. James nods his head, as if he's coming to some sort of conclusion.

"What is it then?" James asks, taking me aback. He knows what's going on, and I'm surprised he even suggested that I talk in front of whoever this man is. How do I know this man isn't going to go talking about everything I say here? I glance quickly at the man, who's now leaning forward on the table.

"Really? You know what I'm here about." My voice is tinged with anger and I set my jaw tightly. James takes a seat across from the other man and gives me a reassuring nod.

"It's okay Noelle, he's a friend. And he's leaving the QZ tonight, he won't talk." James promises me. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, struggling with what I should do. But, I don't see any other option but to tell James what my plan is. With an exasperated sigh, I uncross my arms and start talking.

"Fine. I went back out after curfew and found two girls, both killed like the boy was. I let someone else report them, I couldn't be the one to do it. And so later I went to area four and talked to one of our clients to see what's being done about this. He gave me more information about the kids, led me to the wharf in area five. I searched them all and this is what I found." I take the papers out of my pocket and spread them out on the small kitchen table, giving extra space to the unknown man. The two lean in to see what I've presented. I give them time to read the papers, and I see James' face grow pale. The other man's face seems to be set in anger.

"It was more than one." James states as he finishes reading the papers. I nod my head in confirmation.

"I think it was two. There were two sets of prints on the floor. But I think they left the QZ. The firewood was going cold, and there were no possessions left behind." I take the papers back and put them in my pocket. James scrunches his eyebrows together.

"So if they're gone, what's the issue?" His question shocks me.

"What's the issue? Three kids are dead because of them. One of them died in my fucking arms. They're just going to keep doing this. Maybe not here, but to others. I came here to tell you I'm leaving. I'm going to hunt them down." I stare right into James' eyes as I tell him I plan on leaving. Immediately, he shakes his head.

"No, Noelle, you can't leave." He practically begs. I shrug my shoulders,

"Why not James? I do the same damn thing every day here. I do my duties and then I run pills. Over and over again. These children deserve justice, someone has to fight for them. Why not me?" I tell him, feeling only slightly awkward that a stranger is present for this conversation.

"Who's going to keep things going? Theresa won't." He says, only caring about the pill smuggling operation we have going here. I shake my head, he just doesn't get it.

"There are plenty of others who can run pills just as good as me. Get one of them to do it, James. Hell, I'll even give you a list of who gets what and when." I say, more than willing to leave behind the schedule I've got going with our clients. James throws his hands up in frustration.

"So after all these years you're going to leave? Just like that?" He incredulously asks. I'm almost at a loss for words, he's acting like he's never going to see me again.

"I won't be gone forever. Once I kill these bastards I'll be back and it'll be like I never left." I tell him the truth. I do fully intend on coming back here. This shouldn't take me but a few days. James runs a hand through his hair and then focuses his attention on the man across the table from him.

"Man, do me a solid. Go with her." I'm almost offended that James thinks I need a security detail to go with me. Before the man can reply, I interrupt.

"No James, I can handle myself. Have some damn faith." I protest, but James keeps his eyes trained on the other man. Feeling patronized, I turn on my heel and leave James' apartment before either of them can say another word, slamming the door behind me. Sure, it's a little juvenile, but so was James' blatant display of his lack of confidence in me.

I go to my apartment to gather things I'll need, being sure to bring all the ammunition I have, my good hunting knife, and other survival necessities. I was planning on leaving first thing in the morning, but I know James will just come over here and bother me, so I'll leave tonight before he gets the chance to.

It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, how things left off between James and I, but once I return I'm sure we'll be able to patch things up, we always do.

Part Six

[xoxoavenger]

Style

pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

summary: He says, "What you heard is true, but I Can't stop thinkin' 'bout you and I" I said, "I've been there too a few times"

word count: 2167

warnings: drinking while driving (very mild, only sipping beer), Henderson!sister but it's a stepsister that Ms. Henderson adopted so it's inclusive, mentions of sex, mentions of cheating but they're not official so it's not really cheating

1989 masterlist main masterlist

Steve doesn't like the way he feels during the SnowBall, watching Nancy chaperone as if she didn't break his heart into tiny little pieces. It's all so sickening that he can't take it. So, he drives to the only person he can think of; someone who had been willing before he was dating Nancy and he's hoping still is.

He pulls up to her house quietly, headlights turned off so that her step mom doesn't wake up. He hopes she's still awake, because one look at his watch before he shuts off his car tells him that it's later than he originally thought. He sneaks around the back of the house like a pro, finding her window with ease. His first words to her when he knocks on the window and she lets him in is that she needs to get her own place.

"Oh, because you have your own?" She teases, as if no time has passed and he didn't leave her to date Nancy. He heard she got around after they cut each other out, with people ranging from Eddie Munson to Billy Hargrove. But she smiles at him like he's the only one she's ever seen.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here?" He prompts, laying on her bed. She's changed the layout of her rom, but otherwise the furniture and decorations are still the same from when they had been together. It puts him at ease. She smirks and lays down beside him as he tries not to stare at her boobs through her thin pajama shirt, as if he'd never seen them bare before.

"What are you doing here, Steve Harrington?" Her smile is alluring as always, and he finds himself smiling at her as well.

"Well," He starts, moving to lay on his back. "I figured we could go on a drive, catch up."

"Why are you here?" She repeats, now curious. Her head is tilted and her eyes sparkling, which can only mean trouble for Steve. She isn't exactly sure why she let him in her room in the first place, considering all her friends would kill her if they found out she talked to him again. "I mean, we haven't talked in, like, a year." She's skeptical, and rightfully so after their twisted history.

"I'll tell you in the car." He entices, standing. She sighs and stands as well, grabbing a sweatshirt and following him out her window and to his car. She's never been able to deny him, and arguing won't do anything except wake her mother up.

"So, Nancy broke your heart." She guesses as they fly down the freeway. The windows are down but the music is soft enough that they can hear each other talk.

"Pretty much." He admits with a nod, looking straight ahead. She sighs and looks in his backseat for the beer she knows he keeps back there. She knows him like the back of his hand, and when she offers one to him he can't help but crack it open, despite driving.

"Heartbreak's a bitch." She tells him, taking a sip and realizing that this is beer he's stolen from his father, which makes her smile slightly. It's rich and still tastes like shit, but she'll drink it if only to take the edge off.

"Like you would know." He scoffs, which leads her to roll her eyes.

"Just because you can't break my heart doesn't mean no one can." She tells him with a fake smile, annoyed that he would even bring that up.

"Okay, then who broke your heart?" He asks smugly. She shakes her head and looks out to the fields decorating each side of the road. "Come on, Y/N. I know some of your darkest secrets and you don't wanna tell me this?"

"What do you know?" She snaps her head toward him in time to see him smirk. It's so easy to kiss that stupid look of his face that she would give in if it weren't for the fact that he was driving.

"I know you lost your virginity to me." She's immediately stiff, ready to be defensive because she knows she never told Steve that.

"I did not!" She lies, but it sounds compelling to her.

"Y/N," He leans his head back and looks at her, and she puts her beer can in the cup holder before crossing her arms. Clearly, she did not sound compelling to Steve. "Come on."

"Are you trying to tell me I was a bad lay?" She frowns, mostly teasing. She knows she's not a bad lay. If she was, Steve wouldn't keep coming back.

"Oh my God." Steve rolls his eyes and stretches his arm as he slows down, turning off the freeway and into a random neighborhood. She's pretty sure they're not even in Hawkins anymore. "Just fishing for complements."

"Who told you?" She asks after a few moments, turning the radio down. It's now muted, and all they can hear is each other's soft breathing and the thrum of the engine as they slowly cruise past houses.

"I can't reveal my sources. That's just wrong." He tells her with a sly smirk.

The truth is, she knows who told Steve. They only have one mutual friend; Nancy Wheeler. She hadn't meant to tell Nancy, she was drunk and hurt. She hadn't known at the time that Nancy had begun dating Steve, which effectively ended their superficial friendship anyway.

"So," She starts, running her tongue over her teeth as she thinks of how to approach a serious topic. "Why did you really pick me up?" She asks, looking over. He stops, in the middle of the street in a random neighborhood, the sole lamp ahead of them illuminating only half his face. Part of it was right in her eye, but she continued to stare at him.

"Same reason as why you let me in," He shrugs, giving her a smile that looked more sad than happy. "I got my heartbroken."

~

The reason why Steve and Y/N worked was because they were so aesthetically pleasing.

Steve with his dark hair swooped to the side looking effortless, his light freckles and smirk that screams not giving a fuck but somehow personal and swoon worthy. Y/N with her short skirts, bright lipstick and winks that open doors. Her nails were always done, her hair was always perfect, her makeup always flawless. And while it was a lot of work, just like Steve's hair was, she enjoyed it. She liked getting up and pampering herself, having the time to herself to prepare for the day ahead. If she didn't enjoy it, she wouldn't do it, and Steve knew better than anyone that no one could make her do what she didn't want to do.

The only problem was, they'd never been official.

They went out. They made out. They had sex. They didn't plan study dates. They didn't kiss just for fun. They were not actually dating, a hard set boundary that was never fully discussed but still mutually agreed upon.

But that didn't matter. When they were on, everyone knew. And when they were off, everyone definitely knew. They had been in the on phase for awhile the last time, so long that people eventually forgot about their history, which was only a little embarrassing that everyone in Hawkins already knew about her love life.

And then he went and dated Nancy.

That falling out hurt. He didn't even tell her, just stopped calling until she found out from her step-brother Dustin. It was all he could complain about, coming back from Mike's house and having to endure Nancy and Steve.

"Honestly, I think it's better for her. Steve's a dick." She heard Dustin saying on the phone. She waited in the hall, wanting to hear the rest of what the little shit was going to spill about her. "I know she's your sister, dude, but she could probably help Steve. When he's with Y/N, it's like he doesn't give a shit about anyone else. At least now he seems nicer." And while it was cute that Dustin cared, it also made her furious.

Probably because it was true.

She marched over to him, taking the phone out of his hand and slamming it on the hook. He gaped at her, ready to call over his mother, but they both knew he wouldn't. Ms. Henderson was always on Y/N's side, especially after her father died, and Dustin had been talking about her.

"It's not like you guys won't get back together." Dustin scoffs, which makes Y/N narrow her eyes.

"He's with Nancy, and he seems a hell of a lot more interested in her than he ever was with me." She tells him, and he just rolls his eyes.

"You are so blind, God."

~

"If you're going to pick me up, the least you can do is make sure we don't die." Y/N chuckles, holding onto the side door of Steve's car. He had been staring at Y/N since she stepped in the car, causing him to almost crash multiple times.

"You're doing this on purpose." He tells her. It had been a couple weeks since he had gone through her window, and of course they had fallen back into old habits. He had picked her up almost every night, which alerted Dustin, and then before they knew it the whole town was once more in their business. Except this time, she was called a slut for hooking up with Steve so soon after Nancy. It didn't matter that Steve had come to her, or that Nancy had stolen Steve from her first. People just heard what they wanted to hear.

"Doing what on purpose?" She knows he's talking about the fact that she's wearing the short burgundy skirt, which is coincidentally the same one she wore the first night her and Steve had sex. She knew it would get him riled up, and she wanted to see it, since he was taking her to see a movie.

"You're just angry because I didn't pick your movie." They both know Steve is limited on friends right now, having lost his popular friends and also Nancy's friends, so Y/N agreed to go to the movies with him every once and awhile. Because he insisted on paying, he also insisted on picking the movie.

"Possibly." She tells him with a smirk. He makes a sharp turn, one that does not go in the direction of the drive-in, but she knows where they're going. It's exactly where she wanted to go anyway.

She always gets her way.

They arrive at Steve's empty house, racing in through the garage and upstairs to Steve's room, where he doesn't bother with lights or heating and just grabs her, pulling her mouth to his as he toes off his shoes.

"Hold on," She mutters as he pulls away to take off his jacket and shirt in one go. He doesn't go back to kissing her, but he puts his hands under her own untucked shirt and trails them up her bare back. "We need to talk." She whispers, and he just nods. He should have seen it coming, honestly.

They walk to the bed, Steve reaching over to turn his lamp on before he lays back. He'd rather not be looking at Y/N when she asks, which gives her every answer she needs.

"You know Dustin is my brother, right?" While they don't have the last name nor look alike, they both know that this question is rhetorical. Steve doesn't need to give a nod before she continues. "So what makes you think that you could get away with it?" She expects him to deny it, to tell her that Dustin heard wrong or that he doesn't even know what she's talking about, but they both know where that path leads.

"I didn't think I'd get away with it." He tells her, sitting up. "But I heard about you and Hargrove." Steve sighs, not taking any pleasure in the way her eyes widen and she presses her lips together.

"He doesn't have better hair, by the way." She's not quite sure what to say, both of them caught in the act.

"Does he have a bigger-"

"No," She shoves Steve with a small chuckle, rolling her eyes. "And he's not better, either." She looks up at him through her lashes, silently asking a question he's already going to answer.

"She's nothing compared to you." He mutters as he shifts on the bed, clearly ready to continue their previous activity. He ends up laying back on his pillows with her on his lap, his hands exploring her bare ass under her skirt. "I swear to God, I was worried I was going to say your name." He tells her as she leans in to kiss him. When she grinds her hips down, he tilts his head back while still keeping eye contact.

"Yeah, I've been there too a few times." 

//

tags: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @one-sweet-gubler @sadbitchfangirl @gloryekaterina  @oblivion-void @alexshaff2002 @m-rae23 @icequeen1371 @mcueveryday @xxhellfiregirlxx @parkershoco @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @peculiarwren @freezaz123 @mads-weasley @munsstertwo @johnricharddeacy @sweetdreamsshifter @param8re @ashlynhasmanyhyperfixations @wish-upon-a-star-1310 @fangisms

[koorminii]

WHAT LIES IN THE DARK — bang chan (m)

What was supposed to be a chill night alone turns into a fight for your life; Chan has been watching you, waiting for the best moment to strike, and he’s finally found the right time — but why are you so utterly enticing?

pairing: bang chan x f!reader

genre: enemies to lovers (?)

word count: 3.5k

warnings: CHAN IS A SERIAL KILLER, NO EXPLICIT MURDER SCENES, predator and prey dynamics, mentions of murder/violence, breeding, mating press, degrading, mentions of stalking, morally grey character, dumbification, size kink, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, pussy eating, oh and they have sex outside… on the ground. lmk if i’m missing anything !!!

authors note: I helped my friend sisi write this for her tumblr account, and she was nice enough to let me post my own partially edited version for chan!! so if you like jujutsu kaisen and wanna read this twice then go follow her at @kugokizs !! also holy shit i haven’t posted in almost two months 😭 the amount that i missed you all and missed writing is insane and the never-ending support even throughout my absence and inactivity means so much, i genuinely could never imagine anyone, let alone all of you, could like my writing as much as it seems you do, so thank you! i hope everyone is doing well 🫶

Bang Chan is a very sinister man.

He holds grudges, is very keen on practicing “eye for an eye”, and he holds dear his power over weak, vulnerable, young women. He prowls for the pleasure of it, for the thrill — to hear them beg for mercy, for one more chance. They beg on their knees as if he’s a God, the bringer of all evil, the grim reaper, the devil himself. And, Chan thinks, maybe he is. After all, who else could invoke such fear in people. Who else could cause someone to shiver just at the mention of his name? To run for the hills at any sign of danger. Who else could do what he does? No one, and that’s what makes him enjoy it even more.

Bang Chan is a very sinister man, and right now he has his eyes on you. It’s been months, bumping into you at the grocery store, handing you things that you’ve dropped accidentally, holding the door open for you, dropping food on your doorstep — he’s seen it all. Late nights with friends, early morning at university, skipping lunch to study in the library… Chan has been there. Watching, waiting, prowling. Ever since the first time he saw you he’s wanted you, to add you to his ever growing collection, to keep you, to make you his. You’re his. And the only one between you both who didn’t know that yet, was you.

He has a foot buried in your grass, a cap hanging low on his head and a knife tucked inside his jacket. He makes sure to move with precision, watching out for the automated sprinklers and for any animals that might come looking. After all this time he knows the routine well. He knows when you’re staying home all night, what time you usually shower, when you eat, everything. He knows you’re a naturally anxious person, jumping at any sudden movements or noises, and he also knows you’re careless. Blasting music on flimsy headphones, falling asleep to the sound in your ear, oblivious to the world around you. Oblivious to the devil creeping on your doorstep.

He crouches down low, your blinds open just enough that he can see you plopped down on your couch with a bowl of ice cream in hand and a silly movie playing on the TV. Your legs are curled up, oversized pajama pants falling over the soles of your feet, and your attention solely on what’s playing in front of you. Chan’s been inside your house before. On the rare days where he wasn’t following you around he made his way through the place, memorizing the layout, seeing which rooms were the most lived-in, taking his time to appreciate your bedroom and all it had to offer.

Drawers upon drawers of lingerie greeted him when he peaked inside — he didn’t think you had it in you. His fingerprints would’ve been all over the place if not for gloves, his face on every camera if he hadn’t known all the blindspots, and thank God you didn’t have cameras inside, because then it’d only make it harder for him, and if you wanted something a little less painful when your time was up, it was best you didn’t piss him off.

Though Chan thinks he might play with you a bit. You’re interesting, just anxious enough to get by yet careless and reckless enough to get caught in a stupid situation. You’re pretty — innocent in the sexiest way possible. You look like you’d go dumb for a taste of his cock and that’s exactly what he likes most about you, but he knows you’ve got a good head on your shoulders and he appreciates that, too.

The moon shines a ghastly glow over his features right as the end credits of the movie start to run, and that’s when he decides it’s time to play. He picks up a smooth, round, pebble — no bigger than a quarter, and throws it so that it hits the window pane. He crouches down just the smallest bit lower, eyes peeking over the blinds, and he trusts the darkness to obscure him. He knows that you won’t ever get close enough to actually look through them, and he’s right. Always so easily frightened, like a little lamb. You freeze where you’re sitting, head whipping around to look at where the sound came from, and you pause for only a few moments, watching and waiting to see if it comes again. At least a minute passes before you turn back to the TV, curling in on yourself and tucking your lip between your teeth.

Chan can barely stifle the chuckle that threatens to leave his lips, it feels like childish glee watching you get so scared from a measly little rock against your window, but he does it again, throwing it harder now, and the sound echoes so loudly that he can hear it bounce back from inside your living room. This time you stand up, looking back towards the window and stepping forward, head tilting downwards as you try to see through the blinds. You squint at the glare from your lights and otherwise stay silent. Chan is sure your heart is beating erratically, your hands starting to shake, and he thanks God that you have so many windows. You don’t sit back down, instead looking around the room and muting the TV. You stay like that for a long time, you’ve always been so overly paranoid, and it fills Chan with immense satisfaction to know that he’s the one doing this to you.

He walks away from the window, allowing you to rotate methodically on uneasy feet and a rapidly beating heart, creeping around to the back door and picking the locks. He’s already deactivated the back camera and dropped a cat by your front porch so it didn’t seem too suspicious that you weren’t getting alerts. He knows that’s it’s rare anything ever triggers the back camera, and you feel too secure with the gate locking it from the outside. He’s easily bypassed those barriers, and now he simply opens the door. He knows you have sensors to tell you when the door has been open and shut, and he didn’t bother shutting those off. He wants to see how scared you can really get.

He shuts the door and slips into the closet, covering his lone figure with various jackets and scarves that hang from the hooks. There’s boxes and bottles of cleaning supplies piled at the bottom, and they block his legs from view. He’s still, silent, and patient. He hears your footsteps rushing towards the door, your heavy breathing, your frantic whispers of “Oh God,” and his eyes all but roll back in undeniable pleasure. He’s going to ruin you.

Your footsteps get nearer before they stop, you’re most likely looking through the window of the now closed back door, hands trembling and knees weak in fear. You’re probably on the verge of tears, barely holding in a whimper. He doesn’t hear you step away, but he can see your shadow from under the door. Hmm. You’re trying to be cautious now, are you? Chan already knows this routine. You’ll run to grab your phone, call someone, try to get in your car and drive away. Maybe grab a large kitchen knife just in case, but what are the chances of you actually using it? Chan has practice, he’s skilled, he’s used to this. You, a lone studious girl who’s paranoid but way too careless for her own good, has never stabbed anyone in her life. Has never even imagined it, so what’s the chances of you dropping the knife before it can even plunge into him? Maybe trying to get away with a scratch in the arm or a stab to the leg, but Chan has enough scars for that to not even matter. He’ll keep coming and there’ll be nowhere for you to hide.

But he’s gonna let you try, let you think there’s a chance for you to run for the hills, that maybe you’ll get to some help in time. He’ll let that relieved smile flit itself upon your face before he comes back to rip that hope from your body, just to do it all over again until the fight leaves you completely. Maybe he’ll let you reach someone in time, someone innocent, and then kill them right in front of you. Make sure you realize that this is your fault, you did this, you put this innocent person in danger. You murderer. You killed them. You.

Chan realizes he has a lot to think about.

Your chest pounds with the rapid beating of your heart. Your legs barely hold your weight and threaten to crumble with every movement, shaking every time you stop and wobbling uncontrollably when you run. You grab a knife from the kitchen counter and run back to the living room and grab your phone. It all started with the random sounds coming from the window. They came out of nowhere, pounding harder and harder until they stopped completely. You had thought you saw someone moving behind the blinds but chalked it up to paranoia. It’s been raining a lot more recently, so maybe it was just the rain pouring down onto the windows.

You tried to go back to your movie after that, you had clutched your phone tightly despite reassuring yourself multiple times that it was nothing. There was nothing there. You were almost able to relax. Almost, before your security system alerted you of the back door opening. At that moment it felt like your heart had lurched out of your chest, as if the shock and fear had paralyzed and crippled you completely. The silence was suddenly too thick — too loud, and it was all you could do to attempt to heave yourself up and off the couch to investigate. You already knew you should never venture deeper, never look for the source of the sound, but you needed to see.

When you got to the back door it was already shut. You’d ventured on tippy toes to look through the small window and there was nothing there. Yet you couldn’t stop the way your breath left you in heavy gasps, the acrid smell of fear and anxiousness seeping from you in waves. You didn’t forget the closet right in front of the door, but you knew you’d never be able to open the door without shaky limbs. If there was someone in there, you’d let them leave of their own accord. You , however, were leaving immediately. You slowly stepped away, looking up to the ceiling and clutching your lip tightly between your teeth. Sweat formed at the top of your mouth and you felt like you were going to throw up. Your throat ached, your stomach was in knots, and you felt like you could collapse at any second.

You crossed the living room with amble speed, grabbing a jacket from the hook by your front door and running outside. Rain dropped down in an angered flurry, beating the pavement with troubled fists, and your shoes were soaked with water before you could fully cross your front lawn. You scrambled to get the car door open, throwing yourself inside ungracefully. The first thing you did was look in the backseat before locking the doors and wasted no time taking off out your driveway and into the streets. You wanted to play music, blast it even, it was what calmed you always and without it you were leaving yourself vulnerable to the fear you’d been trying to ignore. You’d be able to get away — far, far, away — and sometime in the future you’d forget this night ever happened. You’d contact the authorities, move somewhere tropical maybe, and pray they never came looking.

The fear was slowly starting to easen, there were no cars following you, no weird men in the road, nothing but the stars and the moon and the lone sound of rain. You were slowly starting to relax, allowing yourself to take a few deep breaths, before a hazard sign started blaring on your dashboard.

Flat tire.

Flat tire !??

You kept driving, desperate for a few more miles between you and home, but your car didn’t appreciate that, and you came to a stop. A fear-mongering, bone-chilling, stop.

You couldn’t afford to waste time. You had to keep moving. You jumped out the car, a tight grip on your knife in one hand and your phone in the other. Your feet splashed in large puddles, the streets lined with thick trees that had never looked so imposing until now. A quick look around told you that you were alone, but you couldn’t be sure. You kept moving, rushing but not moving too fast where the sounds of your splashing would drown any other noises out. Your hand curled tightly on the knife as if it was a lifeline, and your phone was inside your pocket — kept safe from the rain. Streetlights shined down from above, blinding white lights that illuminated the entire area before you, and you were grateful for it but loathed it all at the same time. Bright lights mean you could see everything around you, but it also meant anything around could see you too.

Your breath was shaky, every exhale felt like it would be your last, but you didn’t stop moving. The brushing of trees or a snap of a branch would make you jump and squeal in fear just to see it was a product of the wind or your own feet pressing against wood. Ahead you could see the shadows of houses, loud and imposing in structure, and your legs carried you faster with a new found determination. Your vision was blurry with tears of relief and raindrops that sat on your eyelashes, just to be blocked by something — something warm and soft, something sturdy, something breathing.

You couldn’t help the shrill scream that left your lips, but it was drowned out by the storm anyway. You stomped hard on his boot and sliced, not sure if you hurt him but giving yourself a chance to run away. Your legs pumped with adrenaline, your eyes wide in fright. Your grip on the knife only got even tighter, your nails embedding themselves lightly in your palm, but you had to keep going. Any noises became muffled as you ran, the sounds of trees rustling in the wind, rain slapping against the pavement, your feet slamming against the ground. His own feet moving leisurely behind you. It all became nothing but background noise to the pounding of your heart.

You screamed at the top of your lungs but it was to no use. Every clap of thunder, every downpour against shut windows, every burst of lightning fought for the right to be heard and you were losing. Your legs never stopped moving, you never stopped screaming, but you were reaching a dead end. There was nowhere to go. If you stopped to knock on someone’s door there was no guarantee they’d come open it, and it would allow him to catch up to you way too quickly. You couldn’t hide in any abandoned homes or under any structures because he’d surely see you, and that’d only trap you. Briefly, you contemplated running into the forest, but it was so dark. You didn’t know where you were going, you’d probably get lost and lead yourself right into his arms.

“There you are, little lamb.”

The whimper that leaves your lips has Chan grinning in delight. He surges forward, trapping you between strong arms and a broad chest, pressing against you tightly and dragging you backwards. You claw at his arms, kick your feet, and use the knife to slash at any part of his body that you could. You didn’t make it easy, and you could hear him growl in frustration. He tipped the knife out of your hands and then gripped your arm with a frightening intensity, you bit your lip to stop the cry of pain from leaving your mouth.

“Stop fighting.”

Ugh, get off me!” You cried, and you bit at the skin of his arm, hard, and he pushed you off, allowing you to fall flat on your back. You groaned, rolling over on your side before a dark shadow loomed over you. You winced, your eyes shutting in fear before strong fingers gripped your chin.

“Not so fiesty anymore? We were having lots of fun,” He cooed, a devilish grin forming on his — and you hate to say it — near perfect features. The only blemish on his face was the long scar over his eye, and even that made him look attractive. You lost your breath for a short moment, staring into unforgiving eyes and at pearly white teeth, before you came back to your senses and jerked your knee upwards into a firm abdomen. When the man didn’t even bother to pretend to be hurt you did it again, but this time you used your arms to push him backwards as well. He stumbled just a little, but it was enough for you to jump to your feet and start running back in the direction you came.

“You’ll stop if you know what’s good for you,” The man grumbled, but you didn’t stop moving. You wouldn’t. You didn’t bother screaming for help this time and ran straight through unforgiving trees and underbrush. You weren’t worried about getting lost anymore and could only focus on losing him and getting away.

Except he must’ve known, because gone was the leisurely pace he’d originally held. He ran through the trees with crippling speed, and it was all you could do not to yelp in fear and keep moving. But it didn’t seem like any speed you took was fast enough, for he kept getting closer and closer. It was just your luck that you’d trip over the roots of a large tree, falling flat on your face. You attempted to scramble backwards before he could reach you, but your limbs were growing tired, your brain was ready to shut off, and not even the adrenaline could keep the paralyzing fear from your veins. you whimpered as a large hand grabbed at your ankle, dragging you through the mud and leaves.

“Come on, little lamb, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

All you could do is bite your lip to stop the whimpers and cries from flooding out. You squeezed your eyes shut, stiffening when soft lips brushed against your skin. “We can have fun, can’t we?” He murmured, and your breath left you in a shudder. Calloused hands rubbed against the skin exposed by the lift of your shirt, and small puffs of breath knocked against the shell of your ear. “Do you wanna have fun?”

Your heart kicks up a notch when he slides a warm hand up your shirt. You can feel the way his fingers ghost over your skin with an unnatural intensity, as if his touch is amplified tenfold.

“Look at me,” He growls, your eyes opening at his command against your better judgement. His pupils are dilated, staring down at you with desire. The way he looks at you is an awakening, and with a foreign feeling surging through you, you bury your fingers into the collar of his shirt, bringing him down for a kiss. It’s a little awkward with your apprehension, your fear, your desire to just give up — all teeth and clumsy movements until he takes the lead. He licks into your mouth, coaxing feelings out of you you've never felt before— kissing you into submission.

"I wonder why you're so pretty, hm? Been torturing me for months, sweet thing," He hums, pressing your thighs apart, tongue pushing against yours, his lips cherry red. You want to kiss him again.

Your breath hitches when his hands move to your pants, slipping under the hem and unbuttoning the fabric. When he pulls your pants down slowly, so slowly it feels like time stands still, all that’s on your mind is him. His breathing, his touch, the cold feeling of his fingers. When your pink, lacy panties come into view the chuckle Chan lets out is so deep it feels like a heavy blanket over your mind, soothing you yet igniting something in you that you didn’t know existed. God, you’re in the demon's bed but you feel like you’ve gotten a taste of heaven, and when those soft, cherry red lips ghost over your skin, trailing over your pelvis, leaving light kisses along your skin, all you can do is jerk in his hold.

"Pretty little lambs deserve to know what it feels like to have me right here,” Chan starts, leaning down to press a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. He bites and marks along the fleshiest parts, chuckling at your quiet whimpers and yelps. He slides a hand up between your thighs and rubs between your folds, still covered by your lacy panties. “Aren’t you scared?” Chan murmurs, before splitting them to rub your clit through the fabric. You feel like falling as he circles between your thighs, a gasp hiccupping at the base of your throat before it gets stuck— you can’t make a sound.

You faintly hear the rustle of clothing and the absence of Chan’s touch, opening your eyes to see him pulling his shirt off, biceps flexing as he does. He’s so big, and fuck, his whole body could cover your own if he really wanted. He towers over you, caging you in and surrounding you from all sides. When his shirt is off and thrown somewhere to the floor, he looms over you, his hands pressing into the ground at either side of your head, and all you can do is gasp— your eyes widening at his proximity.

You allow him to pull your underwear down until they’re hanging off your ankle, your arousal sticks to the fabric, but with a flick of his wrist they’re gone. They’re gone. Oh god. You’re really doing this. You take a deep breath, and when a warm hand comes to press against your cheek you yelp. It’s okay. You’re okay. Right?

Soft lips press against your skin, tainting the unmarked flesh with bites and bruises. He paints your neck purple and blue, fingers ghosting between your thighs, tracing and playing with the obvious wetness coating your arousal. His mouth travels upwards, pressing against your own as he claims your lips in a devouring kiss. Everything is on fire, hot and burning as lust begins to entirely consume you.

A small moan slips past your lips as he dips a finger into your slick, warm cunt, and you clench around the digit almost immediately as instinct. The cool air and your nerves make your thighs tremble, but it doesn’t seem to affect him— not at all— if the way he keeps eye contact with you while he fingers you slowly is any indicator. Painfully slow. You don’t know if this is to pleasure you or torture you, and you can’t help the way your thighs tense under his ministrations.

Look at you. His eyes roam over the look on your face, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, bright eyes glazed over and hooded in a bliss that’s otherwise foreign to you, a particular ease directed towards him. Then he shamelessly lets his eyes drop down to your thighs that tremble even harsher under his gaze. The action only forces his mind to run wild. He can’t help but wonder how you do it. God, you don’t know what real pleasure is— and it’s Chan’s job to teach you. Fuck, did he want to be under you, gazing up at you through half lidded eyes, hungrily eating up the sight of you bouncing on his cock like the slut you could be.

He dips his head down, and your hands automatically perch themselves on his shoulders. He grins, moving the finger thrusting into your cunt harsher, faster.

“Oh, god,” You moaned, loud, your grip on his bare shoulders tightening ever so slightly. His skin was warm under your fingers— soft and smooth and fuck if it didn’t feel good.

He groaned, cock stiffening more than it already had. At this rate he was probably going to cum in his pants untouched, but he held himself back. He moved his mouth from yours to slip lower, down lower and lower still until he came face to face with your arousal.

“Fuck. You’re driving me crazy.”

You tried to quiet your moans by clamping a hand over your mouth, but sitting up and watching the way he sucked and licked at your arousal made your head spin. He made the action so nasty. So filthy. He was wild yet careful. But what did you know? All you knew was that it was driving you insane and you didn’t know anything could feel this good.

One hand supports his weight on the ground by your head while the other is preoccupied, curled around his cock as he stares down at you— something akin to a beast in his gaze. Tip reddened and precum oozing from the slit while he groans. The tingly feeling in your groin was coming back, similar to the fluttering you always felt whenever a boy you liked would come bother you. It intensifies when Chan wraps your legs around his waist and pulls you closer to him, your body dragging grass from under you.

He rubs the tip of his cock against your pussy, teasing actions feeling more like torture before he finally sinks in. Slowly, deliberately, but you still tense. It’s scary, having something stick itself inside of you. Having him stick himself inside you.

“Relax,” Chan murmurs, pressing his mouth to your cheek. “You’re having fun, right?”

Dark eyes are locked intensely on your cunt, Chan watching the slide of his cock as he thrusts inside. His hair is plastered along his forehead, and he sinks back into your inviting walls with another roll of his hips.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.”

You moan, high and light, your eyes fluttering closed in bliss while Chan’s chest expands with a satisfied breath. He rolls his hips into yours— sinking his cock into your cunt saying the filthiest words you’ve ever known, before his words break off into a moan, his tone lower and deeper.

“Oh, please don’t stop— be nice to me,” You babble, your hands grabbing at whatever you can— his shoulders, his back, his hair; and that’s all it takes before he suddenly takes up a pace that’s a little faster, rougher as your pussy squelches, wet and messy while your arousal smears along your thighs and the ground below you.

Your body jolts with each thrust, pussy clenching around him as Chan moans—every twitch and squeeze of your heat leaving him breathless. “Come on, little lamb,” He groans, and you don’t know what to do. You’re too lost in the haze of pleasure that’s taken over you— you can’t hear past the slap of your skin and his groans in your ear. You know you’re moaning, but you can barely hear yourself. It’s all him. Him all over you, surrounding you, making you feel good.

He grunts as you clench down on him with another roll of his hips, sinking deeper into you with each thrust. “That’s it, pretty,” he grunts, “Taking me so well, fuck. So greedy for me.” And you tense up, your body convulsing and arching upwards as his thrusts grow more frantic— harsher and harsher as he groans gutturally in your ear with one last thrust long and deep, and when something shoots deep inside, you shiver one last time before your body sinks into the grass and debris and Chan’s weight cases you in.

You feel boneless. You feel when the man gets off you, when he closes your legs after slipping your underwear back on. You hear it when he sighs, something deep and satisfied, and you barely manage to answer when he asks you how you feel. Yet, somehow, it all comes back to you in a flash. You sit up, head throbbing, and stare up at him. Wide-eyed and fearful.

“Please don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel.”

He grins, “I think we can work something out.”

[crusherthedoctor]

Hey all, hope everyone's doing good. Thought I should give an update on my current perspective on things around here, as it's shifted for reasons I'll get into.

In a nutshell, I'm feeling better than before... but I also think it's time for me to semi-check out of current Sonic discussion.

By now, you all know that with the exception of Superstars and Dream Team - and Jimbotnik, because of course - I've not been enthusiastic about much of the current stuff. Whether that be the likelihood that they'll continue with a Frontiers direction, the SA2 milking that has made me more sick to death of its influence than I thought was possible, the Year of Shadow in general not being all that enticing if your top ten does not include him, IDW still causing the same repetitive back-and-forths with its characteristically terrible decisions and disproportionate praise from fans who don't actually buy the comic, various other bits and pieces that plant further Eggdad seeds into people's heads, a bunch of other stuff that I'm just apathetic about while everyone else goes crazy over them... it's not been a great time for me. I'm the Garfield, and the current direction is the Monday.

That would all be one thing, but as you may expect, it's the fandom that really irks me. I don't like how it's considered necessary to make every post a bestseller in order for your opinion to be seen as valid and insightful. I don't like how you're expected to not criticise something just because it's popular or "iconic". I don't like how everyone dedicates themselves to the same old lengthy discourse that will continue to not change anyone's minds either way, since the only people listening are the ones who already agreed with them. I don't like how you have Flynn/Archie/IDW stans on one side, and an increasingly common "Japan only, no one else should ever touch the series, also the Japanese fandom is the only one with good people in it, I was born in the wrong country uwu" mentality on the other side.

And... I don't like that I've brought these concerns up so many times before when I know it'll always fall on deaf ears. Why do I do this? Why do I bother? For the fandom, I guess. But if the fandom doesn't even respect me, if my words are always doomed to ring in an empty hallway, why should I bother?

While all this has been going on, the Paper Mario Thousand-Year Door remake has been on my mind quite a bit, as it has been for a lot of folk. As someone who has always loved TTYD, as well as the original N64 Paper Mario, I'm happy to report that I absolutely adore the remake, and quickly considered it a gold standard as far as faithful remakes go. :) There's a lot of reasons for that, but that's best for another time. Anyway, after a certain point, it occurred to me... hasn't it been a while since I've been able to just relax and join in on the hype for something? Hasn't it been a while since my opinion lined up with that of the majority? Hasn't it been a while since, regardless of not actually posting, I felt like I belonged somewhere, and wasn't being made to constantly feel like I'm worthless because I'm not an artist, animator, etc?

I think this is something I've been needing for a long time now. The irony of it coming from the bing bing wahoo man is not lost on me.

After how the past few years in the Sonic fandom have felt like a classroom more than anything, watching everyone repeat the same Why ___ Is Secretly Good/Bad three hour manifestos over and over, and flogging themselves for being Not-Japanese, can you see why the simple pleasures of "hehe Vivian :3" would appeal to me? Can you see why I'd prefer to unwind? I made a valiant effort, but now, I can't force myself to keep up with shit that I'm not passionate about for the sake of a community that doesn't care about what I have to say anyway. I need to find myself a place on here that I can be at ease with.

So what does this mean for my blog? Well, nothing too jarring, just that my focus may shift a little for the time being. Despite what all of the above may imply, I'm not turning in my Sonic badge. I still love the franchise, even if I'm not so fond of its overall current direction. And obviously, I still love Eggman, that'll never change. I'll still answer asks about the series, talk about things I like, reblog stuff I like, work on Stellar, spread Egg Propaganda, and so on. But unless I'm asked about them in certain contexts (ie: "how would you improve this character"?), I refuse to talk about IDW, Frontiers, or anything else whose contents and fandom circles cause me migraines.

Not because toxic positivity, but because after the joy of gushing over Vivian TTYD, and remembering the feeling of belonging, I can't do this again. I can't change Tails calling himself Wildly Inconsistent. I can't change The End being a nothingburger. I can't change Lanolin being an arsehole. I can't change Surge's shilling. I can't change how unprofessional the IDW crew is. I can't change what they're doing with Eggman, and various other characters. I can't change any of these things, no matter how much I or anyone else rants about them, and half the time, no one is seriously listening anyway. So many words for so little results. So I need to move on, stop wasting my time, and turn my attention on things that actually make me happy instead of just... deflated. Maybe if I do that, I can belong again. Maybe when the direction inevitably changes again in the future, it'll feel like it came faster.

So yeah. That's where I'm at now. I hope you guys can understand.

[cactusnymph]

first kisses for bloodweave or wyllstarion? 👉👈

Astarion cannot believe that he somehow ended up with two people who couldn't for the life of him seduce no matter how beautiful or enticing or alluring he makes himself. Well, to be fair, his allure is absolutely working. It's not like he's an idiot who can't tell when people find him attractive. But he's not used to people deciding to abstain from their impulses to. Be mindful of him.

It's frustrating and Astarion hates it.

He knows that Karlach wants to bend him over the next table and he can see the way Wyll swallows heavily whenever Astarion lounges half naked in the sun and yet neither of them do anything about it.

In fact, neither of them even kissed him so far.

They keep kissing each other, which Astarion doesn't care about, of course. They can do whatever they want. It's none of his business. Of course, they keep inviting him to sleep with them at night—the non-sexual, quite literal type of sleeping— and more often than not he can feel Karlach's godsdamned hard-on pressing against his ass but she never acts on it.

Sometimes she mumbles an apology and shuffles around as if she's trying to be respectful of his boundaries or some other ridiculously soft and gentle thing she has going on in her life. Astarion wants to strangle them both. He also wants to kiss them and that is new for him, because that's not what he does.

Of course he's kissed hundreds of people over the course of two hundred years, tasted their lust and their shallow adoration, but he never really wanted to do it for himself. Was never really into any of the kisses.

And now his lips burn with how much he wants it.

Astarion wants to stab the two of them. Well. Maybe he wants to kiss them first, then stab them, then shout at them and then kiss them some more before doing even more stabbing. Why in the Nine Hells must he punished with this amalgamation of feelings as if he doesn't have enough shit to deal with without any of those?

While Karlach is out with Gale, Lae'zel and Tav to find the Creche Lae'zel keeps hissing about Astarion stalks through the camp at night, feeling restless and on edge without really knowing why. Halsin is snoring loudly over in his tent and Shadowheart is fast asleep next to the fire, curled on her side with her cheek squashed against her own hand.

Astarion doesn't want to go to Wyll's tent. He doesn't.

It's simply his turn to take watch and he wants to make sure that the perimeter is clear, so he walks around camp to check on all the tents, even the empty ones. Seeing Karlach's stupid stuffed bear sitting on her empty bedroll makes something inside him pull tight and he snarls at the bear as if it is the single cause of all of Astarion's misery.

It turns out that Wyll is not, in fact, in his tent.

He's not panicking. Not at all.

And if he walks a little faster to see if he can find Wyll over by the lake, then no one has to know. It's not like anyone can see him right now anyway.

He stalks over to the shore, shoving aside the memories of going skinny dipping with Wyll and Karlach, of them holding his hands to make sure he feels safe, and looks around for Wyll. His eyes find him quickly by another fire he lit close by and all Astarion can hear right now are the crickets, the soft lapping of the water, the crackling of the fire and Wyll's feet moving through the dirt as he practices some sort of dance.

Astarion watches from the shadow for way too long to justify that he's here for the camp's safety and because that pisses him off he finally steps out into the light. His heart does not stumble when Wyll looks at him with a soft smile.

Astarion crosses his arms in front of his chest and raises an eyebrow.

"What are you doing over here?", he wants to know.

"Practicing my dance moves for my partner", Wyll says. And Astarion knows, of course he knows that Wyll is talking about Karlach.

"Oh? And who would that be?", he asks despite of himself because apparently his self-control was lost at the bottom of this fucking lake when Karlach carried him around in it bridal style with a smile on her face that rivaled the fucking sun.

"He just arrived", Wyll says and quirks his lips and Astarion feels like his stomach is dropping out of his body when Wyll holds out a hand for him and does a silly bow. Astarion should scoff and make a snarky comment about this. But his mind flashes back to silly fantasies when he was young about a handsome prince holding out his hand just like this and asking Astarion to dance and.

He swallows heavily, the casual smile wiped from his face as he stretches out his hand. It almost feels as if he's lost control over his body which is scary because it reminds him of how Cazador used to pull him around like a puppet. But this is not Cazador, this is Astarion's own stupid desire and his fucking yearning and whatever else lurks underneath his cold, dead skin.

Wyll pulls him in and it's ridiculous how easy they fall into the right steps, circling each other slowly while their hands never stop touching. Astarion wishes Wyll wasn't this handsome, that his hand touching Astarion's wouldn't feel as electric as it does.

Wyll's eye never leaves his face while they dance and Astarion's heart that stopped beating so long ago feels as if it might just burst out of his fucking ribcage.

Wyll's gaze absolutely drops down to Astarion's lips. But he doesn't do it. Doesn't lean in for the kiss, doesn't chase his desire like any other normal person would because Wyll is a goddamn knight in shining armor, a prince on a white horse, the most respectful gentleman that ever walked under Faerûn's sun.

Astarion has had enough.

He can't take it anymore.

Wyll's eye widens when Astarion grabs his face with both hands.

"You are—the most infuriating—", he hisses and then he lunges. Wyll makes a sound at the back of his throat when their lips finally, finally touch and Astarion presses closer, licks along Wyll's bottom lip before pushing it into his mouth.

Fuck, it's so good. And it's even better when Wyll kisses back, his hands gently carding through Astarion's hair, stroking down his back, carefully finding a place on Astarion's narrow hips.

Astarion doesn't even know for how long he wanted to kiss Wyll, but it must have been for a while. His whole body is on fire and fuck, he doesn't want to stop, but of course. Of course Wyll pulls back and his eye is glossed over, his lips wet from kissing and the smile he gives Astarion shouldn't make his knees weak. But gods. It does.

Astarion has to kill them both for making him feel this way.

"You dance beautifully", Wyll says, his voice hoarse. Astarion wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

He scoffs and steps back, looking away as if he's completely unbothered by what just happened.

"You could use some more practice", he answers and Wyll laughs and bows his head.

"Hm", he hums, still smiling softly. "Are you offering to teach me?"

Astarion opens his mouth because fuck, that was smooth. He doesn't know what to say.

"I—Get back to your tent!", he hisses and stomps off with his cheeks burning and his heart stumbling.

feel free to send me more of these<3

[calicohyde]

Lady In Red: Chapter One of Curse The Messenger Draft 1.4

I reached a follower milestone hosted a poll about what I should do to celebrate, and you all voted that I should publicly post this chapter of Curse The Messenger! I'm posting this here as well as on AO3. If you prefer to read it there, click here. Listen to this WIP's playlist while you read!

Chapter Summary:

Eddie Alfaro is dissatisfied with her job as a clairvoyant private investigator. The community of witches that makes up her clientele are prejudiced against her for her gift of Seeing, and the cases are always inconsequential and boring anyway. Infidelity, stolen heirlooms, that kind of thing. On top of that she's struggling with survivor's guilt, grief, and alcoholism, and she thinks her sibling is starting to get sick of her shit.

Then a gorgeous, elegant stranger shows up on Eddie's door and offers her an interesting case - a murder with no body. The woman says the case is Eddie's to solve, provided Eddie can figure her out first.

ENTICEMENT TAGS: Horror, Detective Noir, Urban Fantasy, Modern with Magic, Murder Mystery, Suspense, Surrealism, Character(s) of Color, Queer Character(s), Autistic Character(s), Nonbinary Character(s), Neopronouns, 1990s, Private Investigators, Romance, First Meetings, Butch/Femme

CONTENT WARNINGS: Body Horror, Sleep Paralysis, Possession, Unreality, Blood, Alcohol Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Smoking

All nights are dark, and a fair few are stormy too. On those nights, the trees lining the streets shake in vengeful winds. Water comes down sideways. It could soak a loyal guard cat through all the way down past its thick undercoat. It would have to swim through the intersections.

Human beings don't mind the wet so much, though. No city truly sleeps, and Cane Street still enjoys a sluggish cacophony of visitors even late on a night like this. The chatter of people - and of the things besides people that hover around them - rises above the din of the rain pattering down on the striped awnings. The soft, desaturated glow of decorative string lights in the shallow darkness casts ill-fitting halos over the heads of smoking diner patrons. Lightning snaps bright across the dark sky, forcing any wandering shadows back into place beneath their casters.

On the residential streets, the noise from the commercial block is muffled but still present under the rain. It's darker here too. There's less light pollution of course, but that's not the only thing keeping the night black. Shadows would be wise to stick a little closer when walking here. The cats watch from the trees and the quiet apartment buildings, ready to catch anything that makes itself a little too interesting.

The houses are dark for the night and just shy of uniform, each with brick porches and wrought iron banisters. But every now and then there is one that has the air of witchery about it. Lots of people have power, though there aren't many with enough to do anything with. That's luckier than not.

Barely audible to a particularly sensitive ear is the click click click of someone in heels coming nearer and nearer. Most nights, there isn't anyone there. The gutters are full with rushing water and the stench of stirred up sewage, and beady little eyes. Some of them are just rats.

There is a two family home on the corner of Seventh and Spring, right across the street from a hole in the wall bar that would never let itself be seen closed. The house is exactly the same as every other in the neighborhood - when observed with only five senses.

The pillars are square and brick. The wrought iron railing along the concrete porch steps is the same boring twists as all the others. It has two dark wood front doors, both with even darker curtains covering their thin windows. The birch tree in the yard is ostensibly for shade, but was more likely planted for the benefit of the property value.

The only thing that separates the house that two eyes can see is the lively honeysuckle vine crawling its way up the right side, the buds reading out into the cramped alley in between this house and the next. Currently, it's wilting pathetically under the onslaught of rain. Fragrant crushed petals litter the alley gravel. What makes it special is that it blooms all year round, heedless of the seasons. Rumor among the local coven says that the residents of the building were given the plant by their absent father when he left them.

Rumors are loathsome as a rule. That one is in especially poor taste.

On this particular dark and stormy night, a long-haired person in an ankle length beige skirt comes out of the right side door of the house, crying softly enough not to be heard in the rain. Another person comes out after them - Fred, the elder of the siblings that live here. Xe's dressed in xyr typical ensemble: a fitted suit in some pale color, the exact shade obscured by the darkness of the hour and the ugly yellow of the porch light.

If an observer could look with more than two eyes - as more than one might like to think can do - the house is a stinking, glowing locus of magic. The two people on the porch stand out from it with their own auras of power.

Fred gives the impression of the palest of purples, like the honeysuckle flowers growing unnaturally in xyr yard. The other person isn't as powerful as Fred, but still of note. Their metaphysical shade matches their skirt, a pleasant light tan. The two auras interact strangely with the glaring overhead porch light. Occasionally the thing flickers, throwing their faces into drastically alternating shadows and relief.

Eventually, Fred claps a hand on the stranger's shoulder, ever more personable than xyr sister. Xe steers them toward the steps. The beige person doesn't have an umbrella with them, and yet they don't seem to get wet as they walk out from underneath Fred's porch and into the downpour. Fred does not watch them go.

Inside is dry and warm, but not much quieter. The windows are open to let in the noise and the washed-clean air. The spicy, earthy scent of burned sage almost covers up the smell of grease and salt from Chinese food take-out. Eddie sits cross legged on top of the work desk.

The desk is an imposing piece of work that was given to them by their papá before he left. Unlike the bit about the honeysuckle, that's a fact. It looks just like him too - hard, brown, and square. It's more than a decade old now and it shows; it's covered in scuffs and scratches and condensation rings. There are noodles on top now too, because Eddie still can't use chopsticks for shit.

The strap of Eddie's black coveralls falls down over one of her slouched shoulders. Her thick brown hair is dry and tangled, just beginning to curl over the collar of her white t-shirt. She'll be taking to it with a pair of kitchen shears some time soon.

Eddie's aura is stronger than her sibling's. That means she's more powerful than Fred, but for unfortunates who have to perceive it, that's no blessing. Eddie's presence is angry and sour, dull even despite its strength. It's the same bloody piss shade of brown as the whisky she's gulping down in between bites of lo mein.

"'Watchtower,'" she slurs derisively, continuing on from some age old argument that deserved Fred walking out on it. Her voice is thick, both with drink and with scorn. "What are we watching, anyway? Not shit. We're a joke."

"Don't say that," Fred says quietly. Xe could stand to be a little less feather light on xyr sister, but xe won't be. Not tonight. Tonight xe will fall on her cool and gentle, like the rain as it slows.

"It's not like anyone ever asks us to do anything important," Eddie insists. "And even if they ever did it's not like we could do it. We should just give up." Before Eddie finishes speaking, her sibling is already shaking xyr head.

"Eddie," xe sighs. Xyr voice is half scolding and half preternaturally patient. It's impossible to say how xe does this. "What we do is important to our clients. We help people."

Eddie only laughs, meanly, and drinks.

The siblings sit in silence for long minutes, until all the food has been eaten and the candles have all gone out. Then Fred rises and wrestles the booze away from xyr sister. The painful routine about to unfold is familiar to them both.

Fred tugs at Eddie's shoulder, Eddie grumbling in drunken recalcitrance and refusing to stand until Fred gives up and drags her bodily off of the desk by force. Papers rustle as they're crushed and ripped under Eddie's ass. There's the dull clink of hard plastic falling to the wood floor. The siblings put all their glass away a long time ago.

Fred all but carries Eddie from the right side of the house, the headquarters of Watchtower Investigations. Past the organized chaos of crystals and candles and dubiously legal photographs, through the door with the frosted window, and across the hall to the left side apartment where they live. Fred drags Eddie through there too, and then dumps her into her bed. Xe doesn't let her see xem flinch when she turns away from xyr attempt to kiss her forehead.

It may take hours for Eddie to sink into sleep, or it may take minutes. Inebriation can make telling the difference a little difficult. The drink makes her limbs heavy and keeps her tears at bay, never mind if she might like to cry them or not. She can hardly remember what that feels like by now, after so many years of falling to bed from Fred's arms just like this. Although as drunk as she is, she can hardly remember much else either.

When at last Eddie does sleep, the sky is still dark but now clear.

The moon and the light pollution in the city together are easy to see by, even in the dirty back alleys. She can navigate them without much trouble, each one familiar to her from all her time spent here during the days. She creeps past the cracked open back door of a bar. The lights from inside fall half across her face, the smell of booze and the smoke of cigarettes gusting over her like the bar is breathing.

She expects a rancor of cheerful voices with an undercurrent of tinny rock music. Instead there is silence, heavy to near painfulness in her ears. She wants to pause in the doorway and stare, to take a moment to reconcile the sight with the lack of sound, but her gaze and her body continue on as if she is not their pilot.

Her dirty blonde hair falls into her face and she blows it away with a puff out the side of her mouth. Her hands are full with her camera in one hand and the pocket knife her girlfriend gave her in the other. Her glasses slip down her sweaty nose, and she can't push those up either. Luckily her frames are large enough that she can still see through them, for now.

Finally, a lone noise comes to her ears from up ahead. It's the muffled splat of something wet landing onto the gravel of the alley below it. It's not loud; it must have fallen - or been dropped - from a short distance.

Her heart picks up speed. She hadn't noticed it was already racing, but now it pounds painfully against her sternum, impossible to ignore. Her grip tightens on her camera, her shaking finger hovering preemptively over the shutter button as if it's the trigger of a gun.

If she's right she'll finally be able to prove it, get someone to take her seriously and do something. But if she's right - and she knows she is - that means she's in more danger than she's ever been in before, and that's not saying a little. She should turn and run. She should go back home, or even better she should go to someone else's place. Maybe she could move into Bacchanalia for a while.

But she's never been known for that kind of caution. She's wise in other ways. She takes quiet steps closer.

She's woefully, sickeningly unprepared, she realizes all of a sudden. She has all the knowledge she could possibly have (and knowledge is power; she truly believes that). Her confidence in her evidence is unflinching. When she set out tonight, she knew the pocket knife she wields now wasn't much as far as weapons but it was more than she'd usually carry and it made her feel safer. It made her feel like she could be more of a threat, if she needed to be. But now she can only feel the sucking lack of power in herself. There's a sense of absence there, an unfamiliar helplessness crawling up and down her spine chillingly. It nauseates her, like the slow slimy touch of a giant slug.

At this moment, she is only exactly as she seems. Something about that just doesn't feel right.

Still, she continues forward. She's desperate at this point to turn back. The urge wells up behind her eyes like unshed tears. No part of her pays her feelings any mind. (That, at least, is not so unusual.)

Shaking, she flattens herself against the brick to her side as the building comes to an end at a corner. She takes a deep breath that serves only to make her panic worse, sucking in the scent of damp earth and bar trash and blood, thick and tangy metallic in the air. It's more blood, she's certain - despite the ease with which she recognizes the smell - than she has ever encountered before.

The rough brick of the wall scratches against her cheek. She tightens her grip again on her pocket knife, regardless of her lack of faith in it. She raises her camera with her other hand, pointed toward the other side of the alley, the open corner, the wet redness in the dirt oozing closer to her…

It's still dark, but the darkness is impenetrable. It doesn't matter that Eddie can't see; there are no true surroundings here, no details to parse, nothing more to know than the existence of herself. There is only the weakness of her body, the numbing pain in her wrists, her cold sweat, the chill of the tile flooring against her back through the sheer fabric of her dress. The smell of blood remains.

Eddie raises her arms with great effort. They feel so heavy, and they shake. Her biceps feel the burn of the exertion within seconds, but she doesn't drop her hands. Working past the fatigue, she closes her hands around her own throat. It's hard to get a grip, her hands slippery and slick with warm wetness.

"Please," she begs aloud. Her voice comes out wrong, but familiar. A little higher, a little sweeter, softer, happier. The voice of a distant memory, a voice from her childhood. She wants so badly to take comfort from it. She wants so badly for things to go differently this time.

She tightens her grip.

"My baby, my sweet girl, please, let me live."

Eddie starts to cry, and it's such a fucking relief. Her tears are warm and salty when they fall over her lips. Her stomach roils with nauseous fear and guilt, but part of her has already accepted her fate. Part of her wants it. She continues to beg herself for her life, but she smiles her forgiveness all the while.

Her neck begins to bruise. Eddie feels the almost satisfying give under her hands and the crushing pain in her throat together. Still she squeezes down, her nails digging in to keep her grip, scraping away furrows of skin. Her voice is unaffected somehow, still light, still cheerful and gentle and kind. She gives herself no mercy, until finally she stops breathing and she is at last silenced.

Her body dies and goes stiff and cold, but Eddie remains aware. The stillness of her heart and her lungs fills her with a terror that grows inside her like the opening of a terrible maw. She wishes she could just give into it, let it swallow her up whole and crush her down into nothing. She's already dead, really, so why should she want so desperately to breathe? But she does, clinging to the facsimile of life she still has.

There is movement in the deep darkness. She sees it from the corner of her eye, but she can't turn to look closer. Dead bodies don't move. A whimper builds behind her teeth, but she doesn't have the breath to give it voice. Even if she did, she couldn't open her mouth enough to let it out. The only thing she can do is wait, and hope - that she'll be able to breathe soon, and that whatever the thing is won't make her stop again.

The thing gets close enough to see, resolving itself out of the darkness into her father. He stands over Eddie in the outfit she last saw him in. A brown tweed duster, the same style of overwear that Fred now favors, a denim shirt buttoned all the way up, thin dark brown scarf, pants and a belt and boots that match it. Apá always liked to look just so. Fuck, she misses him so much. She's glad to see him, even though she's dead and he's looking down at her like he might look at any other corpse he stumbled upon in the dark.

"Why did you do that?" he asks eventually. His tone is mild, curious, as familiar and nostalgic as the other voice that came out of her own wretched mouth as she killed herself. He sighs deeply. Eddie's crushed throat and her chest are tight and hot with the need to copy him. To breathe. "Tell me that, querida. Why would you kill your own mother?"

Eddie knows she's dreaming now. She's had this one before. She needs to wake up so that she can breathe. She needs to breathe if she wants to wake up.

If.

She could always just stay here. Maybe it would be just for a minute, but dreams always feel longer than they really are. It might even feel like forever. She could stay here with Apá. He's staring down at her with disappointment and disgust, but at least he's here.

He's wearing his dumb overthought outfit and his stubble is salted and Eddie would bet he probably smells like palo santo and fresh tobacco like he always did before. Eddie can't smell him, and she won't even if she stays, because she can't breathe. But even though her chest is painfully tight and Apá obviously hates her, she can think of worse ways to die.

More importantly, she can think of plenty worse ways to keep on living.

It doesn't matter what she wants, either way. Not in this and not in anything else either. She dies at the whim of her dreams, and she lives on the say of whatever wakes her.

Eddie wakes up.

Her eyes are closed and the darkness and her father are the only reality, and then her eyes are open and she's staring up at the plaster ceiling of her bedroom. She still can't move and she still can't breathe, but she can feel the breeze coming in from her open window tickle over her exposed face and arms. She can hear the patter of the rain. Her sheer curtains billow.

Something moves in the shadows.

Eddie stares hard into the dark, her heart racing and making her need for air even more urgent.

She sees dark hair and two dark eyes, a frown, the suggestion of broad shoulders covered in tweed.

Apá. Still glaring down at her. He mutters but Eddie can't understand what he's saying no matter how hard she strains her hearing. She tries to reach out for him, but her arms refuse to so much as twitch.

Before Eddie's tired eyes, Apá starts to melt. The lighter tones of his skin drip down onto the deep darkness of his clothing. The shadow of his hair ruins the lines of his features. The shine of his eyes in the moonlight snuffs out and his height decreases in a lopsided rush that disappears into the negative space of Eddie's unlit bedroom floor.

Eddie gasps into full wakefulness when the specter of her father is completely gone. She breathes in deep - both the air and the rush of becoming aware of her power again. The late summer air is wet and cool in her lungs; her magic feels heavy and warm like an internal weighted blanket. It would be pleasant, but Eddie can only think about Apá and how he's gone again. That hurts more than getting her throat crushed with no contest.

The nightmare is awful and familiar. It's been a recurring punishment for Eddie ever since Apá disappeared for the last time of many, nearly twelve years ago now. Eddie loses him all over again almost every night and it never hurts any less. It happens so often she might even have been able to get used to it, pain and all, if she could ever be positive he isn't really there. She can't be sure he doesn't blame her too, that he doesn't choose to leave her again and again and again.

The other parts, the sneaking around in the alley to take pictures of something dangerous and bloody… Well, that could just as easily be some random nightmare her brain decided to make up to torment her with as it could be a real premonition. They're tough to tell apart. Most of the time these days, Eddie doesn't even bother to try.

What does it matter, anyway? The nightmare she woke up to is just as real and true and any premonition, if maybe not quite as literal. And there's not a damn thing Eddie can do about either of them. There never has been, and there never will be.

When her chest has stopped heaving, and the tears she cried in her sleep have dried, Eddie rolls over towards her bedside table. Her hair falls into her face, dark brown like it's supposed to be. She pulls open the little drawer roughly and tugs out her dream journal and a pen. She ignores the crumpled pages that fall out, uncaring. There's a lamp on the table but Eddie doesn't turn in on to write, scribbling haphazardly across a page that looks like it's probably blank. She opens her hands and lets the book and pen drop to the floor when she's done, and flops onto her back.

It's supposed to help. Writing it down. Fuck knows how. But it's a habit now.

Eddie lies in bed and stares up at her ceiling. The off-white plaster looks the same now as it had minutes ago when Eddie woke up paralyzed and could only see the rest of her room by straining her peripheral vision. It's gray in the silvery moonlight. The ghostly shadows of her curtains dance across her blanket covered legs when the wind gusts them around.

Eddie holds her breath for as long as she can. Nothing steps forward out of the dim.

The fatigue and painful tightness in the chest when suffocating feels a little bit like a heart attack, Eddie muses idly. Once a client's husband had one while they were working his case. The case had only been to find the guy's long lost auntie or something, completely unrelated to his husband. But Eddie had the privilege to die with him anyway.

The bruising of her throat, her windpipe getting crushed, that could be likened to being hanged. Someone that used to go to the bar across the street had done themselves in that way once. They hadn't been working a case for them, hadn't been introduced as far as Eddie remembers, might not have even ever seen each other in passing. But still, Eddie got to die with them.

The light in the room changes slowly as the night and its storm both come to end and the sun begins the arduous process of rising. The early morning sounds of the city come in through the window with the summer breeze now. The chirping of the early birds is loud and sharp, each tweet stabbing into Eddie's ears like an ice pick. She grits her teeth and rolls away from the window, thinking hard about how badly she wants them to shut up. Maybe if she can just be annoyed enough everything will stop.

There's a prickle on the back of her neck, the feeling of being watched. She ignores it. It could be a holdover from the dream. Or maybe she has a stalker. Who gives a shit.

Soon enough, Fred gets up. Eddie listens to xem going through xyr morning routine from underneath her slightly musty pillow, held tight over her ear. She needs to do laundry soon. She needed to do laundry a week ago.

Fred sings in the shower. Eddie's throat goes tight again, her eyes hot, but no more tears come out. She can't cry when she's awake. Her grief is reserved for strangers.

She's so fucking proud and grateful that Fred can be happy. She's also wretchedly jealous. Resentful. She can't help but want that for herself, and she hates Fred every now and then for having it when she can't. She makes herself sick.

The drawers open and close in Fred's room down the hall as xe gets dressed. The creaky floorboard in the hall whines as Fred passes Eddie's room to go make breakfast for both of them. In short order, the smells of coffee and breakfast sausage join the smoke of Fred's first cigarette of the day.

Get out of bed now , Eddie tells herself. She doesn't move. Her body is so heavy and distant. It feels just as beyond her control now as it does during any premonition or nightmare, except that right now there's no reason for it. She should be able to just get the fuck out of bed . She scolds herself that Fred will want her to get out of bed on her own like a goddamn grown up for once.

Then again, Fred would probably have a better morning if xe didn't have to deal with Eddie at all, in bed or out of it.

Get out of bed , Eddie thinks, fiercer and more frustrated with every repetition. Get up. Get the fuck up. Get up. But she never manages to move.

"Eddie?" Fred asks softly from the doorway. Eddie hadn't noticed her door open, too busy trying to get herself to function. "Are you awake yet, cariño?"

Eddie wants to answer because Fred deserves to be treated nicely, but she also wants Fred to just leave her alone. She ends up splitting the difference and just grunting at xem. Fred sighs deeply, and Eddie seethes. She's not sure if she's angry at Fred or at herself. Probably both.

"C'mon, hermanita," Fred says, xyr voice growing closer as xe comes inside the room. The closer xe comes the tighter Eddie's shoulders coil, until the tension starts to hurt her neck. She dreads Fred reaching her bed without her moving and then having to tell Fred she won't get up today. Either Fred will accept that with a disappointed sight and leave her here, or xe'll insist Eddie get up. Both are equally as terrible as each other.

Eddie continues to demand of herself to get up , to fucking move , frantically now, inside her head. Still nothing happens. Fred's weight settles on the bed at Eddie's side and xyr hand cups her shoulder. Xyr touch is gentle and warm and could easily be comforting, if Eddie wasn't so fucked up that she can only feel one thing - or nothing at all or, sometimes, on bad days, some inexplicable twisted combination of the two.

"Come on, Eddie, get up," Fred says, shaking her gently. Eddie grits her teeth. If a simple urging could do it, Eddie would have been up hours ago. It's not that easy. There's no reason it should be any harder, but still it's just not that easy. She wants to shrug her sibling's grip off, but she can't even do that. She just lies still in her unwashed sheets and bears it.

"Okay," Fred sighs, and Eddie's dread builds. Now is the moment. Either Fred will leave her here all day and continue on living life without her, or xe will make her get up and she'll be forced to listlessly go through the motions of the minimum eight to ten hours before she can come back here to her stale and lonely room.

Apparently, today it's going to be the latter option. Fred tugs the pillow out of Eddie's clinging hands. Xe ignores Eddie's childish whine. Xe tosses the thing down to the foot of the bed so that Eddie would have to sit up to get it back, if she wants it badly enough. Then xe goes back to Eddie's shoulder, xyr touch much less gentle now, not intended for comfort at all. Fred pulls Eddie over onto her back, and then when she doesn't move from there except to turn her face away from xem, xe stands and looks down at her with xyr hands on xyr hips.

Eddie knows Fred probably isn't judging her, or at least not in the way she fears, but since she's not looking at xyr face she can't know for sure. She's too much of a coward to take the risk and double check.

Eddie listens as Fred moves around her bed. Xyr tread is as light as always on the hardwood floors, but the buckles on xyr boots jingle flatly with each step. Fred is like some kind of punk rock souvenir bell. Ting-ting -socialism is cool- ting .

Fred's hand circles around one of Eddie's ankles.

"You know I'll do it, Ed," xe says, and xe's not lying. Fred definitely will drag Eddie bodily out of this bed, and Eddie knows it from extensive past experience. Some days a little tussle between siblings in the morning gets the blood pumping and the rest of the requisite eight to ten hours end up with buttery yellow stripes of happiness coming in like sunlight through the broken drawn blinds of Eddie's faulty brain. Some days it's just another layer of shit on top of the festering pile that Eddie is already buried under.

Eddie tries to convince herself one more time to save them both the humiliation and frustration and just get up on her own. She can even feel the potential energy build up in her extremities; she's right on the cusp of moving, maybe, any second now. But the energy only continues to build up until Eddie feels like she's vibrating with it and her half-desperate half-hateful thoughts go buzzing around her head like angry flies.

"Okay," Fred repeats, xyr voice soft and sad. Then xe pulls.

It takes long unhappy moments to get Eddie upright. Fred does most of the work. In the case of standing on your own two feet, it's not the thought that counts at all. Fred is breathing a little heavily and xyr hair is messed up by the time Eddie is upright and standing on her own power.

Eddie mostly just wants to go right back to bed, or to melt into the floor like Apá did - or her dream of him, but who can tell the difference. The thought triggers a surge of guilt, and it compounds with the shame, making Eddie feel heavier and weaker and heavier and weaker.

Turns out she was right. Fred would have absolutely had a much better morning if not for Eddie.

"C'mon, I made breakfast," Fred tells her as xe turns to leave the room. They both know Eddie already knows that, from hearing and smelling it and from the routine. Fred always breakfast or else nobody will and the two of them will have to subsist on cigarettes and booze, respectively. Fred likes to take care of xyr body, aside from xyr one vice, and so xe makes breakfast. Xe makes enough for Eddie every time out of the goodness of xyr heart.

Eddie vacillates sluggishly between the call of food and coffee and the warmth of her bed before finally following her sibling into the kitchen. She'd love to collapse onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, but they're too high and she's too short, so instead she has to boost herself up with a foot on the rung between the legs. It's more effort than it should be, but she does like that she can swing her feet like a kid once she's up there.

Fred has already eaten, xyr lone dish already rinsed and sitting in the sink. Xe stands between the back counter and the bar, facing Eddie as she serves herself some eggs on autopilot. They're probably cold by now, and eggs aren't her favorite thing to begin with, but she puts some into her mouth with her fingers anyway. She chews perfunctorily and swallows it down. For a moment she has the uncharitable urge to open her mouth and make a show of proving to Fred that she ate it.

Unaware of Eddie's boorish attitude, Fred makes a face at her table manners. Xe fishes a fork out of the drawer and slides it across the bar to rest at Eddie's elbow. Eddie leaves it where it is and pointedly licks grease off of her fingers. She'll live, fine, but she's not going to be polite about it. Fred sighs through xyr nose, on part exasperated and one part amused. Eddie will take one part over none.

"Jay's case won't be too difficult," Fred says. Xe slips a cigarette out of xyr shiny case and lights it up with xyr zippo lighter. Eddie picks at her food in silence, waiting for the dark and spicy scent of clove smoke to reach her across the breakfast bar. It's the same scent that used to cling to Apá's coat. Same brand and all.

Fred flips the zippo open and closed as xe takes a long, long drag. That particular lighter was a gift from Apá the last time they saw him. Fred likes to say it was for xyr nineteenth birthday, because that was the closest occasion. Eddie closes her eyes and breathes in the smell, remembering.

"Yet another stolen heirloom," Eddie mutters over her cold eggs, referring to the case in question. Jay was here last night. Eddie knows she probably made a shit first impression, though she doesn't remember it clearly. It was past dinnertime and she was well on her way to hosed in preparation for bed. "Riveting stuff. Real important."

Fred takes another long, long drag before speaking, visibly gathering xyr patience. Eddie wonders when that resource will finally run out.

"The diamond isn't just an heirloom, Eddie," xe says once xe has taken the cigarette out from between xyr lips, leaning over the breakfast bar to emphasize xemself. "It's part of an active spell. If some blockhead secular swiped it looking for a payday it could be dangerous."

Eddie doesn't answer. She knows the diamond they've been hired to track down came out of a blessing box passed down to Jay by a great great great grandmother, and that it'll have the family's magic all over it. It could react badly to being separated from the other components of the spell.

She also knows that they're Jay's last resort. Jay didn't say so, but Eddie doesn't need to hear it said to know it. Jay isn't a Clairvoyant, like the two of them are, so there's no way they were a first or second, third, or fourth choice. Eddie doesn't begrudge people their hesitance though. She'd avoid her too, if she could.

"Look, hermanita," Fred says, mostly sympathetic this time, though Eddie doesn't doubt it's at least half put-on. "We've got that little diamond Scrying ball now. I can probably just use like to find like, and you won't need to use your gift at all for this one."

Eddie laughs, bitter and sharp. It stings in her throat, like whisky coming back up.

"You and I both know Seeing isn't a gift," she counters, her mouth twisted up into a painfully wry approximation of a smile. Her dreams from the night well up behind her eyes like her mind is a backed up garbage disposal. Whoever that blonde was is probably dead by now, and all Eddie feels about it is one part gladness that she wasn't there long enough to know and one part resentment over how she has nothing to do with anything in Eddie's life and Eddie still had to feel her terror anyway. "And I don't use it. It uses me. Whether anyone needs it to or not."

Fred just sucks down the rest of xyr cigarette, looking like xe might cry when Eddie pushes aside the rest of the cold eggs and pours herself a glass of red wine instead.

It could be worse, Eddie reasons to herself as she takes a generous gulp. At least this is made of fruit.

Eddie finishes her 'breakfast' at a leisurely pace while Fred lights up another clove. Xe is always getting onto Eddie for her drinking, as if xyr vice isn't just as bad for xem. But Eddie supposes that's what older siblings are for, if you don't have parents to do the job. After the wine is gone and the last wisps of smoke are lingering near the ceiling, it's time to get to work.

The office is just next door. There are two doors out front, one to the office and one to their home, as well as one between the two inside. The door windows are frosted and tinted slightly purple, the color of Clairvoyance. At least they get to be pretty. Both office doors have the business stuck on with vinyl in the window in a compressed serif font. Watchtower Private Investigations, named so after the height of the building, unusual for the street. The hinges and the wood floor both whine in complaint at Eddie's rough treatment of them as she makes her way inside before Fred.

The office is a hodgepodge of the usual administrative office stuff and the more esoteric detritus of witchcraft. The desk is covered with meticulously labeled manila folders, though some of them have been crumpled or strewn across the floor due to Eddie's flawed dismount last night. The bookshelves are filled half with shiny paperbacks on business, finance, and law, and half with yellowed old tomes on dream-working and potion-making. There's an altar set up on cloth on top of the filing cabinet.

Eddie crosses the space, avoiding looking at the files she ruined so diligently that she steps on a few. The windows at the back of the room are still cracked open. The air in here is perpetually hazy from the smoke of Fred's cigarettes and all the incense they burn. Fragrant dust swirls around in the sunbeams from the tobacco stained glass. It's probably beautiful, in its way.

Eddie yanks the curtains closed, blocking out the light. Her head hurts enough already, and she forgot her sunglasses downstairs and across the hall.

Fred sighs through xyr nose at Eddie's heelish behavior, clicking xyr tongue in disapproval at the files on the floor. Xe visibly debates stooping to pick them up, before sighing one more time and turning away from the whole sorry scene. Xyr shoulders are strong, nearly as broad as Apá's, but they droop under xyr neatly pressed seafoam green jacket. Xe sighs so much, Eddie thinks, because she makes it harder for xem to breathe than even all that tar can manage.

While Fred's back is turned, Eddie picks up the files. She does her best to smooth out the ones her ass tore up last night, and the ones she stepped on just now. She doesn't have much luck, but then again she never really does. Except maybe with the ladies.

The wingback chair at Apá's desk is ratty and faded, but still imposing. It's one of Eddie's few joys in life to sit in it and feel it at her back, making her a little bit bigger in her britches. If she wore britches. Whatever the hell britches are. It used to be a deep, velvety blood red, but that was before Eddie was even born. Now, it's a patchy burnt orange with blooms of light mauve where the friction is highest and the pile has worn down to pale threads. The thing is sturdy, though. Sturdier than the fucking floor, apparently, since unlike the floor it doesn't creak a bit when Eddie drops herself into like ice into a glass.

The top drawer on the left has a bottle of Jack in it. Eddie's fingers alight on the drawer's handle, dancing along to the tune the whisky sings from inside. The tinkle of piano keys, of ice in a lowball, promising to bounce anything and everything else at the door. Or at least to charge it a few details to get in.

"Don't," Fred murmurs, across the room and with xyr back still turned. "At least help me with this spell first before you start."

Eddie leaves her hand on the drawer, ornery. I've already started , she thinks of saying. Or maybe, You're not my parent . But she's been childish enough for the first few hours of the day. She curls her hand into a fist, and then she tucks it under her knee.

Fred eventually joins Eddie at Apá's desk, xyr arms full with the paraphernalia of xyr intentions. A small crystal ball, a stand for it, the Scrying board, a cup full of colored chalk, a box of incense cones, and a ceramic tray to burn them on. Eddie clears the center of the desk for xem, files on either side. One of those is probably Jay's. No doubt she'll have to dig it out in a minute.

Fred sets up the Scrying altar in the center of the desk to xyr specifications. Fred's power and process is as much a mystery to Eddie as Eddie's is to Fred. Not that Eddie really has much of a process to understand.

"Like to like," Fred explains idly as xe marks symbols onto the wood of the Scrying board with the chalk. Xe came up with the symbols xemself, sigils to make the ordeal of connecting to the crystals easier, and to help xem actually do what they intend. Even with the help, often Fred still ends up connecting to something that doesn't help them. Xe has near-equal chances here to find Jay's diamond as to end up spiritually trapped in a Shane Company warehouse.

Fred's own diamond is modest, as far as crystal balls go. Just barely big enough to fill the palm of Fred's hand, smoothed into a perfect sphere but otherwise uncut. It glitters with yellow-golden flecks and black impurities, but besides those it's clearer and more reflective inside than quartz is.

Eddie lights the frankincense while Fred sets the ball into its stand. The earthy, spicy-sweet scent surrounds them quickly. Elecampane would be better for this, but it's rare and expensive and often faked. Its only use is for Clairvoyance, after all. Anyone seeking it out is probably better off with the dud. Frankincense is a good enough substitute, magically speaking. And it even smells similar, too.

Fred shoos Eddie out of the wingback chair when the set up is done, and Eddie reluctantly cedes it to xem. Xe contorts xemself into a cross-legged position in it, and then stares into xyr diamond ball intently.

To Eddie, nothing seems to happen. Not outside of Fred, anyway.

It's always a little bit scary to see Fred scry. Xe seems to disappear entirely from xemself, leaving xyr empty body behind. Xyr pupils dilate like xe've done a line. Xyr irises take on an oily purplish sheen, the something else that is controlling the operation showing through. The incense smoke curls around xem like a pet snake, overeager for affection - or for a meal.

Out loud, Fred intones, "West. Dark. Familiar."

Fred's voice is low and quiet, with an inflection that makes xem sound inhuman, but other than that it's as familiar as always. It reminds Eddie of both of their parents; the steadiness of their father, the sweetness of their mother, and the underlying croak they all have from smoking like chimneys.

Eddie writes down the insight, and then the only thing she can do is wait for the crystals to release Fred back into the living world. She leaves Fred at Apá's desk to go collect an Ensure from the minifridge, as well as the communal emergency office back and zippo. It's less because Fred will need these things in a hurry so Eddie had better have them ready, and more so that she can spend less time looking at Fred's blank, reflective eyes and the lack of a person behind them.

That's Eddie's big sibling, her protector, the person who practically raised her, and her only friend, crowded out of xyr own body and replaced with an unfeeling object. Fred is one of the lucky ones, the luckiest in the Alfaro family. Scrying is the least horrible form of Clairvoyance, and one of the safest. It's almost certain that Fred will be able to settle back into xemself with only a few tiny diamond stones to pass at worst. But the risk is never zero.

Crystals grow, after all. Some of them faster than others.

This time, as all the times before, Fred resurfaces. Xyr eyes melt into their natural dark brown and xe blinks back to awareness. Eddie lets out the breath she was holding and collapses into the wooden chair on the other side of the desk that they have for clients. She leans over the desk to offer Fred the Ensure, and then sets it down within xyr reach when Fred seems to be still too out of it to take it from her. Eddie lights a cigarette for xem next. She takes the first drag for herself.

Her hands are shaking. This shit is almost more frightening than it already would be because Fred never seems scared at all. Like it's nothing to xem if xe comes back to her or doesn't.

The scent of burning tobacco revives Fred the rest of the way. Xe gestures greedily for the cigarette first, and Eddie readily hands it over. Only after several fortifying puffs does Fred crack the seal on the Ensure. Xe takes carefully paced, delicate little sips, though Eddie knows xe'd rather gulp it down. The two of them learned that lesson the hard way when they first started this business out - with Fred on xyr knees in the bathroom and Eddie holding xyr long hair back.

Finally, Fred takes a deep breath and asks hoarsely, "Did I find it? Felt like I found it."

"Seems like you did, yeah," Eddie confirms. She slips a second cigarette out of the emergency pack and lights it for herself. She doesn't usually prefer cloves, but she needs to settle her nerves. "You said something about West? Here, I wrote it down."

Fred waves away the notepad Eddie holds out, instead beginning to ruffle sluggishly through the files on the desk. There are dozens. They don't exactly have an organizational system in here, and it's been a full decade now of accumulating them. They get pretty decent work, considering. Eddie hadn't really thought it would work, when they'd started. It had all been Fred's idea, hairbrained, and Eddie had just gone along with it because she couldn't think of anything better.

"Aha!" Fred exclaims when xe finds Jay's file, becoming more and more like xyr lively self the longer xe goes about with xyr head clear of stones. The file isn't one of the ones Eddie ruined last night, though it does have what looks like a coffee ring on one corner. That could have been either of them.

"I assume you don't remember any of what Jay said when they were here," Fred mutters as xe flips over their standard intake sheet to get to the handwritten details underneath. Eddie's stomach clenches. She wishes she could argue.

"I didn't know they were coming," she defends herself weakly.

"No," Fred agrees softly. "I know. I'm sorry." Silently, and without looking at her, xe hands Eddie the intake sheet for her to look over.

Eddie does remember most of this information; Jay's name, the date they took the case, a description of the missing diamond, bare-bones estimated timeline of the theft, how much they're charging. She stares down at the page unseeingly anyway and lets Fred hog the more interesting details. It's not really Eddie's job to come up with suspects anyway - at least not when she hasn't Seen them. She just follows whoever Fred tells her to.

"I'm thinking the niece's boyfriend," Fred says eventually, breaking a silence between them that isn't exactly uncomfortable. Eddie makes a vague noise of agreement. She doesn't remember anything about the niece's boyfriend. Fred highlights something in xyr notes, and then passes them across the desk to Eddie.

Turns out he's a college student who has been dating Jay's niece - who lives with Jay over the summers - for the last three months since the spring semester ended. A secular too, just like Fred had posited at breakfast, who likely would have no idea that the diamond in question is more than just a very expensive rock. He lives to the west from here, and from the diamond's home, in Little Italy.

"Yeah, I like him for it," Eddie agrees around the filter. "Surveillance beat?"

"Ugh," Fred groans, but xe nods. "No job right?" Eddie nods. According to the background they have, the only thing Boyfriend does all week is visit Jay's niece and effusively compliment Jay's cooking.

"A daytime stakeout," Eddie says, in unison with Fred. The siblings smile at each other briefly. They've always had something of a penchant for being on the same wavelength like that. Apá's absence, Eddie's drinking and pessimism, and Fred's apparent ability to just move on from anything may all be doing their damndest to push Fred and Eddie apart, and maybe some days it seems like they'll get their way. But sometimes, they're still the same as they were as kids. Jinxing each other, practically reading each other's minds.

"That's tomorrow," Fred says. Xe turns xyr attention back to Jay's file, shuffling the pages to xyr liking before reaching for a drawer. Eddie tenses. Fred already knows the booze is there, as evidenced from xyr admonishment earlier, but knowing that doesn't stop Eddie from feeling like she'll get in trouble if Fred sees it there.

Luckily, Fred doesn't go for that drawer. The legal pad xe needs is in the drawer above that, and xyr favorite clicky pen is in the top drawer on the other side. When xe has what xe needs, xe starts writing up the mid-investigation report for Jay. Xe delicately picks out straight, even capitals that nearly look typed, remarkably quickly for how neat they are.

Eddie leaves xem to it. She's not great with the customer-facing end of things. A little too negative, a little too blunt, acerbic. A little too to-the-point as well. Their clients want to think every case is complicated. They want to be reassured and validated in addition to having their mysteries solved. Eddie would just as soon write one sentence and be done with it, and then they'd probably lose the case because it wouldn't look like enough work to pay them for.

Eddie much prefers doing the books. She likes numbers because you don't have to interpret them. There's no nicer way to put them. They mean what they mean.

When the report is written, and the budget is calculated, the siblings make up a surveillance itinerary for tomorrow. They'll start early in the morning to make sure they don't miss him if he does go out, and take set shifts to piss or pick up food. They're already familiar with the area, so they don't have to get to know the streets and landmarks in person this time. The nearest convenience store is marked out on Fred's roughly sketched map, the best exit routes highlighted.

Jay's case is the only one Watchtower Investigations has open at the moment, so here is where the siblings separate. For Fred, the workday is done. Xe leaves the building out the front. Xe has enough friends and acquaintances that xe can meet up with someone any time.

Eddie could call it quits too, if she wanted, and she's doing so in all but name. Her mood has improved enough since the morning that she doesn't immediately want to go back to bed and pretend to never have been born, so instead she pilfers one of Fred's post-Scrying Ensures from the minifridge to serve as her lunch. Then she contorts herself into a catlike curled up position in the wingback chair. She opens the middle drawer but instead of the bottle of Jack, she pulls a battered romance novel out from underneath it.

The air from outside the still open window behind her smells green and fresh after last night's rain. There is no breeze, there never is in the summers, but the storm cooled it down enough for the humidity trapped amid the crowded city buildings to not feel so oppressive.

Afternoon sunshine drips sluggishly over Eddie's shoulder like honey, spilling gold over the book as Eddie finds her place by the page number she memorized last time she put it down. It's from Mrs. Zilbersetein, a secular from two houses down, given as part of her payment to them for the pictures of her ex-husband and his mistress that she used in her divorce. The pages are soft and thin from wear, showing how much she'd loved the book before Eddie. The cover is illustrated with a voluptuous blonde ingenue in a red dress and an imposing man with a fedora and a handgun.

Eddie makes it through two chapters and one sex scene before there's a knock at the outer door.

Eddie considers not answering; Jay is paying them well so they don't need to cram in as much work as they can at the moment. But curiosity gets the best of her, despite her general distaste for the kind of work Watchtower usually ends up doing. So, she leaves her steamy book open and upside down in the seat of the wingback and goes to see who's there.

When she swings the door open, Eddie comes face to face with an impressive set of cleavage clad in what could easily be the very same red dress from the illustrated cover she'd just put down. She stares for a moment, briefly mesmerized by the shiny liquid-like fabric draped artfully over smooth dark skin, before blinking herself back to reality and relegating her gaze up to the woman's face.

Her features are just as elegant and striking as her attire. She has a heart shaped face, near-black dark brown eyes, and loosely curled cherry red hair. Her lip color matches her dress and her hair, and her skin glows in the slowly reddening sunlight. Beyond the sight of two eyes, she looks to be secular. The concurrence of exceptionalism and mundanity is dissonant to the third. If Eddie keeps looking so closely, her headache will come back with a vengeance.

"Uh," says Eddie eloquently. "I, uh. I think you have the wrong place. Ma'am."

The woman - the lady, really; the way she's dressed surely she can't be called anything else - doesn't smile, but Eddie thinks she catches a dimple crease her cheek on one side before it's gone again.

"Watchtower Investigations? Miss Alfaro, I presume," she asks. Her voice sounds like one that could be heard at a vintage speakeasy, crooning sad slow jazz tunes to an audience of pipe smoking men in pinstripe suits.

"Yes- Sorry," Eddie says. She steps aside and holds the door for the lady like a gentleman, feeling very nearly as out of touch with herself as she ever has during a premonition. Her body takes her through the steps of this interaction as it should be, without pausing for her to think about it first.

"Don't worry yourself, doll," says the Lady in Red. "I'm overdressed, I know. I usually am." She adjusts the sheer, glittering shawl fathered at her elbows and steps past Eddie into the house. She smells, somewhat unexpectedly, like leather.

Eddie leads the Lady in Red up to the office, holding open the door with the frosted window for her too. She has the half-hysterical urge to pull out her chair as well, but there's no table to pull it from. She sits in the wooden chair in front of the desk and crosses her long legs, a high slit in her dress parting around her thigh. Eddie takes the wingback, stuffing the romance book uncomfortably between her ass and the back rather than reveal it.

"What can I- What can we do for you, Miss…?" Eddie asks leadingly. The Lady's dimple comes back, and this time it stays. Eddie tries to to feel too proud of herself, just for a little politeness. True it's not a skill of hers, and she usually doesn't even bother to try, but still.

"Miz," the Lady corrects smoothly. "Jessica. And I want you to solve a murder."

Eddie's breath catches in her throat and she swallows it down with difficulty, conflicted. The cases they usually take are… not thrilling, to say the least. But murder is maybe a bit too thrilling. Especially when taking into account that Watchtower has only ever dealt with background checks, theft, spell sourcing, and infidelity. They've never even handled a missing person.

"That's not really in our wheelhouse," Eddie admits, as gently as she can. "The police really would b-"

"Oh, I've already tried the pigs," Ms. Jessica interrupts. The disdain in her voice is palpable. Eddie can't blame her. After all, Jessica is visibly not a person cops traditionally 'protect and serve'. Eddie herself isn't one of those either. They usually take murder pretty seriously in most cases though - provided that it's not one of their own murders, and that there's someone left behind who cares enough to report it in the first place.

"I know it can seem like it's taking a long time," Eddie tries again. Jessica's foot twitches irritably, the champagne colored pump on it catching the now purplish light of the approaching dusk in the window behind Eddie.

"No," says Jessica, simple and firm, and Eddie shuts up. "They told me they're not investigating. They don't believe me."

If Eddie's interest wasn't piqued before, it certainly is now. She turns aside her reservations regarding Watchtower's qualifications - or lack thereof - and leans forward over Apá's desk to listen more intently.

"There's no body?" Jessica shakes her head. Her foot stops kicking; she must be relieved to truly have Eddie's attention. It seems likely now that, like everyone else who comes, she's here as a last resort.

"I don't think there could have been much of one left, to be honest with you," she says. Her voice is lower now, a little scratched up, but she doesn't waver. "There was a lot of-" She chokes, and for the first time looks away from Eddie. Her gaze seems to catch on the altar on top of the filing cabinet and Eddie wonders if she'll latch on to the easy subject change it might offer.

Watchtower gets very few secular clients. They're in the phone book, sure, but their business comes almost entirely from word of mouth, and witches and seculars don't tend to cross paths more than incidentally. Eddie has to wonder if that altar is something Jessica was expecting to see. Does she know what they are, or is she even now assuming they're some kind of new age hippies?

In the end, Jessica doesn't take the out, though she doesn't finish what she was going to say either. She concludes definitively, "She's dead. I know she's dead."

Jessica's eyes meet Eddie's across Apá's desk, and instantly Eddie knows Jessica has to be right. In the depths of her brown eyes, Eddie recognizes the same feeling she had when she knew Apá wouldn't be coming back this time. It's the same feeling clients have in their eyes when they already know their spouse is cheating on them, or that their trusted friend has robbed them. Intuition, maybe. Or the brief, terrible omniscience that comes from grief.

Sometimes Fred and Eddie's job is not so much to find out what happened, but why .

"I know this isn't what you usually do," Jessica adds eventually. "But my- Maddie. Maddie Ward. She deserves at least some kind of justice. I had to try. Will you consider it?"

Eddie shouldn't. She shouldn't full stop, but she especially shouldn't decide to take a client without Fred's input.

"Of course," she says.

Eddie forgot to grab a fresh intake sheet from the filing cabinet on her way to the desk when she first let Jessica in (along with the travel pack of tissues Fred always offers to a new client), but she's not willing to backtrack across the room and look foolish or bumbling in front of this elegant lady. Not to mention if she gets up there's a chance the book she's all but sitting on will be exposed. In lieu of that, Eddie drags over the nearest casefile, flips it open, and poises herself to write on the back of the topmost paper, whatever it is.

"You got a last name, Ms. Jessica?" she prompts, looking intently at her own hand wrapped around Fred's favorite fountain pen. Her name, her number. These are professional necessities. Eddie has no ulterior motives, no need for Jessica's information beyond the purposes of solving her case. More to the point, Jessica is out of Eddie's league - and probably playing a different game altogether anyway.

Jessica gathers herself, mentally and physically, and rises gracefully from the very ungraceful chair she's been occupying these last long moments of the day. Her shadow casts itself around the room in fractals not unlike any of Fred's crystals, or like the ambiguous movement of something unknown beneath rippling water. She sees herself to the door while Eddie is still mesmerized.

"Let's see if you can find that out yourself," she challenges over her bare shoulder. "Consider it an interview." Her enigmatic smile seems to imply that the interview could be for the job, or maybe for something a little more personal if Eddie performs well enough.

"Call me when you find me," Jessica says as she slips out the door. Her silhouette pauses behind the frosted window, flutters its long fingers in a coy little wave, and then fades away with the hollow clip of high heels on hardwood.

I will accept constructive criticism on this chapter from mutuals. More in this Universe: Cat's Eye View | Feline Retribution | Beer, Brandy, Belladonna

Taglist: @girlfriendsofthegalaxy @haectemporasunt @jezifster @blackhannetandco @fearofahumanplanet @littlehastyhoneydew @rainbowabomination @antihell @isherwoodj @marrowwife @ashen-crest @wildswrites @ceph-the-ghost-writer @garthcelyn @muddshadow @cohldhands @unrealistic-android @glam-pir @outpost51 @mrbexwrites @vacantgodling @blind-the-winds

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[dark-side-blog3]

How would you rank each yandere Team Bucciarati member from least to most terrifying to be considered a rival marked for death by?

This is based on my opinion, but the top two are definitely tied in terms of how scary it is because it really depends on what you find worse. I personally find it way scarier to think about a sudden violent death than one that's still going to be violent, but has you waiting for the shoe to drop. One of those you at least get to steel yourself for, and prepare mentally to die. The other one just happens. Way scarier, at least to me.

Also some of the guys on this list (MISTA) are the absolute worst to be marked as a rival for, but death itself isn't that bad. So when you asked for death specifically, I just focused on the aspect of dying.

That said, I hope you enjoy~!

++++++++++++++++

Leone is the least dangerous by far. He is still a force to be reckoned with, but he's the least dangerous because he hardly ever feels insecure enough to kill someone else for you. It's like that statistic on how cows kill more people than sharks a year: that number would change drastically if people waded waist-deep in the water with a bunch of sharks and poked them with a stick for hours every day.

Leone will bribe, blackmail, intimidate, and steal from anyone that catches him stalking you and intends to inform you--- If he's doing it right, you'd never know you've been tailed until you die. But if someone catches him watching you, or worse: A stand user discovered him stalking you because he was using Moody Blues, and insisted to do the right thing by telling you, then Leone would have to kill them. Before they can tell you.

The best option for a surprise attack like this would be a gun, but there's no guarantee that will work. And Moody Blues isn't a combat stand. Leone will taunt and beat them up just enough to entice them to chase after him as he runs away instead of telling you about the stalker.

It's cowardly, but so is killing someone after getting caught peeping. Leone takes zero pride in luring them into alleyways; with lower-rank thugs in passione that will gang up on the rival with enough "persuasive" blackmail and bribes Leones gives them in advance. If a group won't overwhelm them, it at least gives Leone enough time to call for backup from a more combat-oriented stand user like Narancia or Mista, and study how his rival's stand works.

They won't be walking out of that alley alive that night. Leone's taken too many precautions to get caught like this.

++++

Mista is scary to be a rival of, but being marked for death is a blessing.

Mista isn't above torturing or kicking the shit out of people who really overstep their boundaries; like if they try to pick on you the same way he does. And he'll make his displeasure known. Dickheads usually back off if a guy who's clearly carrying drapes himself over their target, staking his claim with a little PDA. If they want to press the issue further, Mista will gladly take the time for some entertainment.

Mista likes taking a little time in torturing someone; get a little creative with glass shards shoved under fingernails and into the roof of their mouth-- at an angle so there's no chance of the little shards being plucked out easily. And there's something to be said in using someone's teeth to open beer bottles and stubborn pop can tabs for him, even if it means their teeth chip or they cut their gums. And usually, one night of this means you won't have to worry about them anymore. People rarely come back for seconds of Guido's sadism.

But, under rare circumstances, there comes a time when Mista can't just let someone keep meddling anymore. And kicking their ass three times didn't work... So he's gonna light 'em up.

It's not like he didn't give them a fair warning. Mista won't make it as impersonal as a drive-by, as much as the idea of being the cool guy is, he could be cooler if he delivered a kickass one-liner while breaking their back over his knee. Or said something badass as he shoves his gun's muzzle into their mouth, something Brad Pitt or Nic Cage would say to a low-time villain in an action movie, right before blowing their brains out. If the one-liner ain't cool... Then he'll just say a better one after they've died. No one will know but him, anyways.

+++

Bruno can and will make their death public. He's already been shown to torture people on the bus and no one will say a fucking thing, and he knows that making an example by killing someone will serve as a good warning to others. Granted, Bruno will fudge a bit of the story...

He's not killing them because he likes you and they're someone you're interested in! Bruno is killing them because they stole millions of dollars from the city, acted as a money mule for a more violent organization that doesn't have this town's best interest at heart, and also just so happened to almost kill a civilian who made their payments on time because they wanted to sleep with them! This guy is the scum of the earth, even for a thug!

During their fight, Bruno will spit out these phrases that allow the audience to piece together the (fake) story on their own. Bruno is once again being a good guy doing bad things, and he's selflessly fighting against a more dangerous thug to keep everyone safe-- including that poor victim of molestation and near rape! Which, for his story to work, has to be you.

Bruno knows that he can only get away with so much, however. Torturing someone to death is fine, and he's done so before. But this story needs to have him being the righteous hero for you. Ripping them apart with his stand isn't the way to do this-- at least not in a way anyone can see. He'll use sticky fingers to unzip the internal organs inside of their body, letting them die in a way that mimics being beaten to death. Less blood spray means people won't panic as much, which makes him look better in the eyes of the people while scaring the shit out of future would-be rivals.

The public humiliation aspect of their death is horrifying; imagine being brutally beaten to death in public, and all the people who should be helping you are just watching, some with a sadistic glint in their eyes because you "deserve" this.

++++

Fugo is the scariest member, depending on what you'd find scarier: Certain death that you know is coming, and you just can't tell when it's going to happen... Or just a sudden violent death, like an aneurysm, with no idea what you did wrong. If you're more afraid of the anticipation of dying, knowing it's coming, yet unable to do anything about it but wait... Then Fugo is by far the scariest yandere of the gang to be marked for death.

Pannacotta is possessive, and on a hair trigger for violent outbursts, so he's scary to be around even if you aren't a rival marked for death. It's only worse because even before getting into range, Fugos stares them down with a look that only means whatever he wants to do is premeditated.

He won't bring out purple haze unless he's picked a fight with someone way stronger than him-- his stand could kill him too. Beating the fuck out of them the old-fashioned way is going to have to do. And it's not like he can't fight on his own. Fugo uses anything in reach to bludgeon or stab at them.

It's animalistic. Every hit or scratch Fugo gets back as he's caving their ribs in enrages him, triggering an animalistic need to kill. He tries to sit on top of their broken ribs, hoping his weight is enough to keep them pinned to the ground as he

There's no planning. If he's lucky enough to tail or lure them into somewhere secluded, it's obviously better, but if it's public, then it's public. People know better than to try to pry someone in the middle of a fight off each other-- at least if they're known members of Bruno Bucellatis's gang, and by implication: the mafia. Everyone smart will mind their own fucking business and get the fuck out. The only people stupid enough to intervene are tourists, that quickly get roped into the carnage when they grab Fugo's shoulder to pull him off the other corpse, only to wind up bludgeoned too.

+++++

If we're talking about how scary it is for a guy to just charge at you like a rabid dog with zero regard for his own safety or pain so long as he kills you, then Narancia is definitely up top in terms of fear factor.

The level of certainty in being hunted by Narancia is terrifying. You will not survive. You won't even last an hour-- once he gets it in his head that you're a nuisance to him or his darling, he is going to hunt you down. Using his stand to spray the streets with bullets, going up to random people and slamming them into walls or kicking them to the ground to see if they're who he's looking for, starting fires to smoke them out of buildings or die in the burning rubble.

Narancia at the very least has to be provoked into killing someone, so that does put a damper on how scary he is... And unlike provoking Fugo, its easier to tell if you're going to get yourself killed. Narancia isn't going to kill someone for talking to his darling, or trying to hang out with them when he's not around (because that's easy: He'll just tag along).

But that doesn't make it any less scary because if Narancia decides you're going to die, it's something he does right away. There is no warning, no way to mentally prepare yourself. It just starts. Narancia is hunting them down, screaming and swearing as he pounds himself against any doors or walls in the way, slashing wildly with his switchblade, spraying the streets with bullets, setting fires, and trying to bite them-- and they're probably not going to know why he wants to kill them suddenly, because the inciting incident maybe warrants a punch in the face, not a knife in their kneecaps while Narancia fucking bites their nose off, and slashes across their chest with his other switchblade in front of everyone, promising to slice them small enough to cram down a toilet and piss on.

Narancia is the scariest because there is no restraint. If he's killing you, it's violent and erratic.

[pinkberrypocky]

pmmm rewatch live notes: ep 8

the conversation between homura and sayaka in this ep makes me feral. also the way we see homura expressing emotion and breaking down after madoka in a way kind of rejects her... literally stabbing me would hurt less.

Sayaka keeps hitting the witch even after it’s dead until the labyrinth disappears

As they leave the labyrinth she has a hollow empty look on her face

She gives the grief seed to kyoko bc she thinks that if she refuses the rewards she is making up for the fact that she isn’t being totally selfless / she wants to punish herself

Clinging onto the last fragments of her ideology

Sayaka sees herself now as only a weapon for killing witches

Nothing can be good for her or bad for her it doesn’t matter what she wants or how she feels bc she’s not human

Sayaka telling madoka to fight the witches herself if she doesn’t want sayaka to shows sayaka breaking on a fundamental level

Her whole thing is protection and yet she tells her friend to risk herself for her

Right after that sayaka says she’s beyond saving and doesn’t understand why she acted that way

Beyond saving from becoming a witch, which means being a different person

Homura’s room is so interesting why does it look like that there must be a symbol

Only thing is images of her goal on the wall of a blank white space

She is nothing but her goal

The weapon thing swinging in the background shows both the violent nature that has become her only choice and also similar to a pendulum of a clock 

After homura reveals that sayaka will become a witch soon if they don’t do something the room/lighting turns to yellow and kyoko and homura become black silhouettes

The lighting is yellow around sayaka as she watches hitomi confess to kyosuke

When she fights the witches she is screaming and crying trying to fulfill her purpose and be a hero of justice when she knows that she does regret her wish, she did want something more from kyosuke

She is forced to face that she made the wrong choice and has been selfish all along

Moon as sayaka’s symbol 

Shape of her soul hem

Shot of the crescent moon as sayaka rejects the grief seed from homura

She  says it's bc she doesn’t want help from those who are not in her definition of good

“Do you realize this is just making madoka suffer more?” - homura

“Madoka? This has nothing to do with her.” - sayaka

“No. Everything has to do with her.” - homura

Black and white during the train scene where the guys shit talk their girlfriends

We don’t see their faces just their legs and when we do see faces there are no eyes and it's only for a split second

Sayaka’s head lolls unnaturally like a doll and her eyes are glazed over

This is the scene where she really is forced to accept that the world is not good

Kyubey having the audacity to ask madoka if she was upset w him too is so manipulative

She is in a way more mature than sayaka bc she understands that benign angry won’t fix anything and instead tries to understand and forge a new path

The background track of the haunting chorus is SOOOOO

Resembles church choir

Madoka always thought she would never do anything important and stumble through life never being able to help anyone so the idea of being able to be such a powerful magical girl is SO enticing

Homura kills kyubey just as madoka was about to make the contract even though 

Don’t treat yourself like you don’t matter! There are so many people who would be sad if you died! 

Homura breaks down crying asking madoka “what about the people who have fought hard trying to protect you” 

Rain drops in the air representing all the timelines

She sobs and asks madoka to stay but madoka rejects her and that is why she collapses and is unable to keep going

Bc she can take anything but madoka rejecting ehr

She killed kyubey in that moment bc stopping the contract was more important than madoka’s opinion of her but she still cares SO MUCH

Kyubey as incubator bc he creates the magical girls as eggs and raises them to be witches when they “hatch” to be a food source

“Hope and despair balance out to zero”

Sayaka’s eyes are hidden when she talks to kyoko before becoming a witch

UNTIL she turns crying and says “I was so stupid” and BAM becomes a witch

And it has to be kyoko in that moment bc kyoko understands she has also been stupid in this way and faced the consequences and even tried to warn sayaka but she was too blind and stubborn to see it

[jopetkasi]

Of weekends and things in betweeen...

The thing with having your own place is that when it's hot and humid, you simply run the airconditioner and walk around your unit, naked. of course, I had the drapes spread across less a snooty neighbor from the other building report me for exposing myself.

Saturday came and like any struggling adult out there, it meant errands. But first, lunch. Again, we should normalize and respect people who eat their meals alone. Period.

I went to Watami to satisfy my sashimi cravings and boy, it was a bit expensive. although hindi naman sya Wolfgangs or Antonios young pricing, still it was mahal (sorry na) I ordered a plate of their salmon which was really good mind you (because of the taba) and paired it with ebi tempura which failed my expectations given the price lol.

After lunch, i went to my favorite barber shop for a haircut and had a pedicure. the barber did wonders and the post-cut massage was a welcome relief. manang rose who does my toenails knows I hate the feeling of nail files swiping and applying gamot na pula to make one's feet look rosy red. they know my peculiarities well and i both gave them hefty tips after. done with pampering i did groceries to replenish my pantry. as you can see, if you reach my age, CheezWhiz is essential and so are sulfur soaps to thoroughly wash off bacteria, and yes, a little bit of alcohol wont hurt. the rest of my cart are the usual staples.

the rest of the afternoon was spent solitary with me playing some video games only to realize that my Switch controller is probably busted as the left trigger does not seem to function as it should.

by 5pm i decided to leave the city and be at my parent's house for the weekend. i missed them especially my adopted siblings who now call me "ahiya" which is "elder" brother in Chinese.

early dinner, done. the rest of the family decided to watch The House of Dragons and Piolo Pascual's Mallari since my kuya lent us his projector to give that cinema effect (since we are still scared shit to go to the movies lol) I sat down for a couple of minutes but left since I was already sleepy.

by 10pm, i was roused from sleep thanks to the incessant calls made by Carla. She is asking demanding that I be her plus one (+1) at Francos and I was like "gaga ka ba, galing na ako ng Makati kanina tapos babalik ulet ako?" Too late, she was already parked at our gate and gave me ten minutes to change into a fresh shirt.

of course, being the supportive friend i obliged with the condition that I would sleep during the drive. Thankfully, JanJan was in the passenger seat to keep Carla company because I was way too tired to talk.

Yun pala, the plus 1 was made up for me to meet the guy they introduced me the other night. Carla's real plus one was JanJan pala.

guy: oh you're here!

me: yeah, small world no?

guy: Carla invited me. she said you wanted to see me...

me: uh yeah (liar) i wanted you to join us (liar)

we joined the rest and listened to the ongoing conversation which was mostly payabangan stuff between balding guys in their thirties with the belief that their new vehicles are extensions of their dicks to entice girls.

i am not having that shit down on my throat that night so I excused myself to smoke outside. and surprise, the new guy followed...

guy: bored ka no?

me: sorry I am really sleepy....and the convo

guy. i know. full of shit lol. do you want to go somewhere else?

me: are we having sex? sorry di ko kaya pagod ako sobra.

guy: you are really weird in funny way, jopet.

and so that was how my Saturday night came to an end. Me having a nice chat with this new friend over balut, chicharon, and coke zero at the parking lot.

hours passed and with Carla not showing any signs of wanting to go home, I decided to go ahead and book a grab car (deadma na sa 1 thousand pesos na rate) but the new guy was kind enough to offer me a ride tutal we live in the same village din.

so that was my Saturday...that crossed over to Sunday.

[blooming-violets]

[Under the Silver Lake, Sam x Fem!Character]

Summary: Sam relocates after the events of UtSL and stumbles into the life of a new, captivating woman with an enticing profession. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off her. 

Warnings: 18+ smut, panty stealing, voyeurism and masturbation, porn making, use of the word “cunt” (I know some people don’t like that word so adding it to the warnings), mentions of a graphic suicide

A/N: Merry Christmas, @squiddtheekidd​ here’s some Sam smut for you. Kind of. He doesn’t actually fuck anyone in it. Except for himself. Sorry for the spoilers. ily I didn’t intend for this to be posted on Christmas but it happened that way and I can’t stop it. Santa has me on the naught list.

His new apartment was about half the size of his last one and lacked the artistic charm. 

Four, stark white walls with light gray laminate, fake hardwood flooring and zero furniture. A vacant, rectangular void created to purge a person of all their quirks. Whoever thought gray floors and white minimalism should be the new trend deserved to be tarred and feathered. Most of the furniture at his old place came with the apartment. He had to sell the rest of his belongings when he left. Apparently when you don’t work or make any money, landlords don’t take it well when you can’t afford rent. In a last ditch effort to avoid homelessness, he sold nearly everything he owned and grabbed the first cheap place he could find. 

That’s what Sam did best.

Like a parasite searching for a new host, he sought out someplace fresh to sink his teeth into and drain of life. 

At least the skunk smell had finally worn off. That was a shining positive he couldn’t ignore. 

One week spent at this apartment and he had only acquired an old, leather couch he found on the side of the road which he paid two homeless men five dollars to carry upstairs for him. One couch and a trash bag full of his dirty clothes was all that he possessed. As he stared at the crumpled bag sitting across from him, Sam took a deep breath and pushed himself off his ass. He might as well take advantage of the laundry room this building had. 

The bag slung over his shoulder like a disheveled, depressed Santa Claus as he shuffled into the basement. The overhead light flickered a few times before finally illuminating the large room with a persistence, static humming sound. The smell of musty mildew hit his nose. There were four old washers against the far back wall and a row of dryers opposite them to match. A, once white, now yellowed ironing board was set up next to washers and a wooden bench, missing a few slats across the seat, was perched next to it all. It wasn’t much but neither was he. 

Sam flipped his bag upside down to dump the pile of clothes into the wash. After putting in his cheap detergent, he attempted to turn on the machine, only to find none of the buttons working. 

“Come on, you piece of shit,” he grumbled, slamming his fist against the side. 

“That one doesn’t work.” 

A scratchy, feminine voice filled the empty space behind him. Sam turned around, already putting a dazed smile onto his scruffy face, as he sought his sights on the woman. She was standing in the doorway with a purple laundry basket tucked under her arm. She looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite place her. 

“It’s supposed to have an out of order sign on it but the asshole kid from 3B thinks it’s hilarious to take it off.” She sighed, walking in further to claim a spot by the washer at the end of the line. “He also thinks it’s funny to stick gum under door knobs so watch out for that.” 

Sam nodded, looking down at his feet, finding it hard to make eye contact with her, “Oh…okay. Thank you.” He started pulling handfuls of his clothes out of the broken washer to relocate them to the one next to hers. “I just moved in right next to 3B so I have a feeling I’ll be at the mercy of his attacks. I hate it when kids are assholes.” 

“You moved into 3A? You must have gotten it for dirt cheap then.” 

He blinked. The apartment was a lot cheaper than anything else on the market but he never thought to ask why. 

Like she was reading his mind, she continued, “Yeah, the guy who lived there last, blew his head off with a sawed off shotgun. The thing is, though, was that he did it during the Fourth of July fireworks so no one heard the gunshot. Guess he was an old veteran or something. PTDS, probably. Anyway, his body laid there for the entire month. No one noticed he was dead until rent was due. By then his body was all gross because of the heat. Congealed and shit. He was starting to liquify. There were millions of flies everywhere. The smell was awful but, of course, no one does shit in this building to fix things. We thought it was a dead raccoon for a while until the smell got worse. They had to scrape him off the floor and his brains off the wall. No matter how hard they cleaned, they couldn’t get rid of the stains. I heard they threw some laminate tiles over the hardwood and painted over the walls to hide the red.”

Sam grimaced at the imagery she was providing him with. Now that he thought about it, the apartment did smell weird. Smells weren’t something he typically took much notice of though. 

“But you get it for cheap so that’s a plus! Death for one person means financial help for another.” She flashed him a cheery smile, not at all bothered by the death talk. 

“Why do you think I need financial help?” He asked. 

She snorted and raised her brows like it was obvious, “You’re doing laundry out of a trash bag, moved into a blood covered apartment, and look like you haven’t slept in about two weeks.” 

He chuckled to himself, “Okay, you’re right. I’m poor.” 

“Who isn’t struggling out here? Welcome to LA. It’s a land of struggle and failure.” She bent over to put the last of her things into her washer and glanced up at him. A wave of perfectly sculpted hair fell over her right eye to block off half of her face from his view. 

“Veronica Lake,” he whispered. 

Her brows pulled together in confusion, “Excuse me?”

Sam cleared his throat and felt the back of his neck heat up in embarrassment, “Sorry, sorry. You just…you looked like Veronica Lake for a minute. You’re hair. My, uhm, my mother used to watch a lot of old movies. Veronica Lake was famous for her hair. It was straight at the top and wavy at the bottom and would cover one of her eyes. When you leaned over just then, your hair looked like that. Elegant and old fashioned and perfect…” 

Her piercing eyes bore into him. He struggled to read her thoughts but that wasn’t unusual. He always struggled to read women. He couldn’t tell if she was insulted or charmed by his strange observation. Either way, he made a mental note to go home and jerk off to The Blue Dahlia later while thinking about her. She was beautiful. And so familiar. Not because her hair resembled the old Hollywood actress but for something else. 

“Hey, are you planning on hanging around for a while?” She asked, ignoring his vacant stare as he struggled to remember her face. 

He shrugged, “I guess so. I don’t really have anywhere else to go.” 

“Want to do me a huge favor? I have a work appointment in twenty minutes. If you could pull my clothes out and throw them in the dryer when you switch over yours, that would be amazing.” 

He nodded again, unable to say no to a pretty face, and gave her a smile, “Yeah, no problem.” 

“Cool, thanks!” She flipped her perfect hair over her shoulder and picked up her empty basket. “I’ll see you around, 3A.” 

“Sam,” he managed to call after her. “My name is Sam.

The sound of the washer’s alert buzzing jerked him from his sleep. Sam wiped the drool from his chin and blinked around, trying to remember where he was. He must have dozed off on the wooden bench. He didn’t remember falling asleep but he pushed himself off the hard seat with a deep groan. The back of his neck was killing him from his head flopping to the side while he napped. 

Her machine had finished before his. 

Sam looked around the empty basement and wondered what kind of work appointment she had to attend. What did she do for a living? How old was she? Did she have a boyfriend? He wondered what apartment she lived in. She was pretty, whoever she was. He wanted to run his hands through her wavy, Veronica Lake hair. The image of her head snapping back as he wrapped a fistful of those soft waves into his fist and drove his cock into her wet pussy flashed through his brain like a strike of lightning. He gave a sleepy smile. He wanted to fuck her. At least he had a goal now. He didn’t like feeling aimless and floaty. He needed to have something to do to keep his mind busy. Hopefully she would be that thing. 

He pulled open the washer and scooped out an armful of her wet clothes then walked over to the nearest dryer to toss them in. This would give him Good Boy Points in her eyes. She would be pleased he was helping her out and doing as she asked. Maybe he could get a blowjob as a reward. If he knew what apartment she lived in he would even be willing to hand deliver all her dried clothes when they were finished. Fuck, he’d even fold them for her if she asked. It wasn’t like he had any money to spend on her. In order to win her over to his side, he’d have to charm her instead. 

Another washer buzzed to signal that his clothes were finished as well. He scooped them up and dropped them into the dryer directly next to hers. Then he stood back and watched the hypnotic swirling motion as her clothes tumbled in circles through the heat. Round and round and round. So much purple and black. His drier resembled more of a mismatched rainbow of colors. Her’s felt darker and more mysterious. 

A devious thought popped into his head then. 

Sam sought his sights to the door. He couldn’t hear anyone coming and he was clearly alone. He quickly pulled open her dryer. The clothes came to a stop, sticking to the walls. Sitting directly on the top of a damp, black blouse was a simple, lavender thong. It was practically calling out to him. His eyes darted to the door once more before snatching it from the pile and shoving it deep into his sweatshirt pocket. 

This was fine. This was okay. She wouldn’t notice one piece of underwear missing. She’d probably just assume the washer ate it. He lost his clothes all the time. 

Sam stepped back, despite weighing next to nothing, the thong felt heavy as a rock in his pocket. His fingers slipped over the fabric. It was damp and cold, the heat from the dryer already evaporating. He wished he had stolen it before it got washed. He could have smelled her scent clinging to it. That was alright, he could make do with what he was given. The familiar, uncomfortable ache in his crotch returned. He tried to adjust the front of his jeans to better accommodate his stiffening manhood. Just merely possessing a part of her was enough to get him hard. He had to walk it off. 

Despite nearing the beginning of Autumn, California weather remained the same. It was comfortably warm and sunny outside. The afternoon sky was a deep blue as he aimlessly strolled around his new apartment building. He hadn’t done much exploring yet. Not that there was much to explore. His mystery woman’s thong stayed laced through his fingers, hidden in the safety of his pocket, as he walked. His thumb ran over the small piece of fabric that covered her most intimate parts. It would have rubbed over her cunt anytime she moved. He pretended that he was fingering her tight folds instead of an article of damp clothing. He wondered what she would look like with her legs spread just for him. 

A guttural moan stopped him dead in his tracks. Sam had wandered around to the back side of the apartments. Nothing but desert hills stood behind them. His ears perked up in the hopes of hearing that familiar noise once more. 

A low, feminine whine, followed by a whimper, and then the sound of a man’s shuddered sigh. 

He would know those noises anywhere. Someone was fucking. 

Sam took a few steps back away from the building wall and casually inched closer to the source of the noise. Someone’s window was open. When he finally located the culprit, his heart leapt into his throat. The blinds were left wide open, probably due to there being nothing in the back of the building, and the window was open halfway so the intoxicating noise floated out to fill his ears. It was his laundry room girl. His Veronica Lake haired beauty. She was sitting on the floor of her bedroom, facing the window, between the legs of a toned, muscular man. They were both stark naked. He had her legs hooked on either side of his so he could keep them pried open. His fingers were buried deep inside of her soaking pussy. Even from the quick glance he got through the window he would tell how wet she was. The couple were sitting directly in front of a camera that was aimed and filming their every move. 

Sam gulped, his erection springing to life with a force even he wasn’t used to. He stumbled back away from the window and ducked behind the nearest, half dead palm tree. If he wasn’t so skinny it would have been obvious where he was hiding but, luckily, he managed to fit nicely behind the trunk. 

“Holy shit,” he whispered to himself. 

They were filming a sex tape. Or a porn. Or livestream. Or something. This was her “work appointment”. 

And then it hit him. 

He knew exactly where he had seen her face before. She appeared in a porn he watched ages ago, the summer after he graduated highschool, when he still lived with his mom. Someone had been handing out vhs tapes at an underground party he once attended. He remembered thinking it was weird that someone was still using vhs. He took the mystery tape, of course. He never turned down free shit. He had to dig up an old player from a pile of junk in his mother’s garage to watch it. 

The video started with a black and white title screen labeled “The Vampire’s Kiss”. It was done in the style of an old Hollywood movie. That would explain her hair style. She was embracing her niche role. She had worn a long, sheer nightgown and pretended to be asleep when a man with fangs crawled through her window. It was a silent film cued with title cards of vague, written dialogue to push the loose plot along. She was tied up by her nighttime stalker, her dress torn from her, and her body crudely displayed to the audience as the vampire sucked her blood. It looked real, too. Well, as real as an old style film could. She looked like she was really bleeding and that man was really drinking from her neck. Sam remembered jerking off to her black and white pussy almost every night that year. It wasn’t until his mother caught him one evening that she hit him over the head with a broom handle and forced him to throw out such filth. He moved out the next month but, sadly, lost the tape forever. 

It was strange to see her in color now. This new film seemed to be much different than whatever pornographic art she made in the past. This looked less artistic and more straightforward. He wished he could remember her name. He peeked out from behind his tree to watch her work. The man was still fingering her. To be honest, he didn’t seem very good at it, but she was acting like it was the best thing she ever felt in her life by the way she was moaning. Sam could do better. He could make her really moan. None of this fake porn shit. He could make her scream if he wanted to. 

Before he knew it, his jeans were unzipped and his cock was wrapped around her thong as he used it to pleasure himself. That should be him in there. He should be the one with her. 

She shoved her partner’s hand away from between her legs and made him stand up. Sam watched as she better positioned him in front of her camera as she fell to her knees. The moment she opened her mouth to receive his massive dick, Sam slumped against the spiky tree bark as his knees went weak. He wanted to remember every single detail. This would go straight into his spank bank for the next few months. He had never been treated to such a live show before. 

She looked remarkably like an expert at sucking a cock. Happy, even, like the feeling of her mouth being stuffed was everything she could have wanted. The man’s moans helped cover the tiny squeaks of pleasure coming out of his own mouth. He furiously beat his meat into her panties as he watched. She was such a little whore. Her long hair was tossed back and cascading down her smooth back. Her ass was sticking out from between her legs. It looked in desperate need of a face buried between her cheeks. Her entire body was responding with such vigor to the simple act of having a cock her mouth. It was like nothing he had witnessed. No woman had ever been that excited to give him a blow job before. Not even the ones he had paid to act enthusiastic. Her hands toyed with the base of the man’s cock and fondled his balls as she swallowed him whole. Sam nearly tumbled to the ground when he watched her hold the man’s cock against his stomach as she slowly licked up the veiny underside of his long shaft. Then she shoved him back onto the bed and climbed on top of him. She was completely in charge of this show. She called all the shots. 

Her leg swung over his head and she arched her back as she lowered her dripping cunt onto his face. Her ass was perfect. Porn worthy perfection. She clearly chose the right profession. The noises she made the second his tongue dove deep inside of her were the most erotic thing Sam had ever heard. She bent down to resume her hungry need for his cock. This woman took to sixty-nining like a duck to water. A natural. 

Her hips ground against his face. His mouth was full of her glistening, juicy pussy. She only sucked on his cock for a moment before she let out a whimpered moan. Her back arched as she rolled her hips faster against his mouth. 

“Oh, I’m close,” she gasped. “I’m…oh…I’m…cumming!” 

It was like he was watching a Goddess of sexuality emerge and blossom before his very eyes. Her orgasm was true magic. Naked and spread open on top of the toned man’s face, her body spasmed. Her wet, syrupy pussy crushing his head into the pillows. She tried to hold in her squeal of pleasure at first but nothing she could do could ever stop it from bursting from her lungs. Her entire body moved with rhythmic energy. Her eyes squeezed close almost as if she was in pain but the euphoric expression that softened her features proved the opposite. 

Sam thought that would be the thing to push him over the edge. His balls felt tight and ached for a release. He could have finished then and quickly scurried off like the rat that he was but he held strong. The moment her orgasm subsided, she dived straight back to the man’s cock like she was positively ravenous for it. He never stopped licking at her pussy despite her orgasm, clearly helping to fuel her sudden greedy obsession with stuffing her mouth. She took him so deep down her throat. He was a large man and she swallowed him straight to the base, even giving off perfect gagging sounds as she did. She was a master of her craft and Sam was in love. 

She gasped for breath as she pulled up from the depths back to the surface. A thick string of saliva connected her lips to his meaty head. His entire shaft was coated in her glistening spit. Her hands took up the stroking motion the second her mouth left so he was never unattended. She knew how to take her man. If that was Sam, he wouldn’t have been able to hold back. He would have shot his load down the back of her throat without a second thought but this man was more controlled than he could ever be. She took him back into her mouth after catching her breath, deep throating his entire cock. A flash of her eyes towards the window caught him off guard. 

Sam froze. 

She was looking straight at him. Not at the camera. At him. 

He was caught. A deer in the headlights. He hadn’t even realized he was no longer hidden behind the safety of the tree. At some point, he had stepped out to get a better view. Now he was in full view of her window, his cock in hand and wrapped around a pair of her stolen underwear, as he was clearly furiously jerking off to her spectacle. 

She paused for just a moment. Not enough to be noticed by her partner but to be noticed by Sam. With her mouth still stuffed, her lips curled into a smile. She held perfect eye contact with him as she bobbed her head back down on the man’s cock. Her hips grind harder against his face and another, smaller orgasm bursts through her body. She shivered, convulsing slightly, but not breaking eye contact. She knew he was watching and it only turned on her. It was Sam’s presence that caused her second orgasm. 

He wasn’t just in love. He wanted to worship her like the Goddess she was. He would follow to the ends of the earth. He would lay down his life at her feet. He would be her slave for the rest of time if she’d allow it. 

Her head plunged down again, the connection between them breaking. She was a wild cock sucker. The man under her could hardly keep up. His cheeks glowed from her gushing cunt coating his skin. She rode his face like she was nearing death and it was the only thing keeping her alive. She was aiming for orgasm number three. Sam could sense it. He only had her in his life for less than an hour and he was already learning her signs. Her animalistic sounds of pleasure filled his ears. He didn’t even care to hide it anymore. He was openly watching her now. In all his years of being a porn connoisseur, he had never witnessed anyone quite like her. 

Her sneaky eyes were on him again. She was watching his hand, watching her underwear be used as a synthetic pussy, watching how he pleasured himself for her. It was as if she was urging him to cum with her. The three of them together. Her lips popped off her partner’s member as her body began the third spasm of the night. Her eyes stayed on Sam as she came. Her mouth hung open. 

“Cum for me,” she whispered. 

The man thought she was talking to him but Sam knew the truth as he read her lips. She was ordering him to cum. As her partner’s cock burst to life, spurting thick, gushing rockets up onto her chest, she broke her eye contact to quickly lean down to capture it in her willing mouth. His swollen cockhead snuggled between her lips as she drank his essence. At that moment, Sam pictured her mouth around him instead. He could practically feel her warm, wet tongue swirling around him. 

And he came for her. 

Breathy gasps and strained moans, he emptied himself into her stolen underwear, milking himself for every drop he had to give her. His semen was all for her. Her prize for being so good to him. He closed his eyes and imagined shooting it onto her face. He watched it drip slowly down her cheeks, her tongue darting out to lick up whatever morels she could reach, and he would lean down to crash his lips onto hers. He would hold her tightly in his arms and kiss her with the kind of passion he hadn’t shown to any woman since his ex left him for another man. He didn’t even know her name but he knew he would have her. She would be his. 

Sam’s eyes blinked open. The bright, sunny afternoon felt a little more colorful than it had earlier. He held up her soiled underwear for her to see before slipping it back into his pocket. That belonged to him now. It was no longer hers. 

He zipped his softening cock back into his jeans and turned to leave without giving her a second look. He could feel her eyes following him until he left the sight of her window. A smile danced on his face. 

She would be the one to find him. He showed her his hand of cards and now it was her turn to play. She could choose to take him if she wanted. He was hers for the taking.

She knew exactly where he lived. 

✨IF YOU ENJOYED AND WOULD LIKE TO SEE MORE, PLEASE GIVE THIS A LIKE AND A REBLOG! ✨ YOUR COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED. ✨

I have zero idea what kind of audience Sam will bring, if he’d bring in any at all, but this was fun regardless. I love that stinky freak. 

[spyvstailor]

Burn, Baby, Burn - Chapter One

@acapelladitty I wrote a Firefly and Baby Doll buddy comedy, with a dark edge to it. I dunno...it just sort of came out.

If this was salvation, why did it buzz so loud?

Green eyes fluttered closed as the cacophony of the angels sang around him, they blended with the buzzing until they became a low, droning tone. The music set the soundtrack for the orange glow that bathed a pale, weary face.

Pyromaniacs burn out, someone had once joked. Was it the Joker who said that? Even doped up on powerful anti-psychotics as he had been, the green haired man was hard to keep docile.

You're just a match.

Burning.

Burning...

Burning......

Burning.........

Out.

Ashes.

Only ashes and smoke.

“Hey, man, we gotta close up. You buying or what?”

They call me "hell"

They call me Stacey

They call me "her"

They call me Jane

The music of the angels choir morphed into something else entirely and the Fireball Whiskey neon sign blinked out as the man speaking with him pulled the metal bead cord. It clinked against the wall behind the sign, as the man turned to face him.

Garfield turned away, forgetting why he had even entered the liquor store. He wasn't supposed to drink on his meds.

He shuffled towards the door in his scuffed brown Oxfords.

At the door his reflection stopped him and he gazed back numbly at himself, dressed in what he assumed was a dead man's clothes, looking like an old man before his time.

It was probably the chino's that were too short, the argyle socks that showed in the span between the oxfords and the pant hems, and the knit cardigan over a button up that created the effect. The clothes were given to him by the Sister's of the Veil of Tears, and he was very certain they had robbed a corpse for them.

It didn't matter, the cardigan was warm and it was the heat he craved. The world was too cold.

“Dude go!” The man behind him shouted.

Garfield pushed open the door, shoving himself aside, and stepped out into the night.

He found his way to the only place he felt like he was accepted, which fucking sucked, because it was full of lowlife scum and high class whores, and every rogue that ever coloured Batman's bulletin.

The Iceberg Lounge was dim enough, and quiet enough, and classy enough that it wasn't a shit hole, it was just full of shit people.

But Ozzie was warm enough to him, and every now and then the other criminals of Gotham's underbelly would give him a respectful nod.

He was technically supposed to be there, it broke his parole, but it was either sit and rot in a dark booth there, or sit on the edge of his sagging, spring trap bed in his miserable hole in the wall halfway house apartment.

And Ozzie never forced him to pay a cover charge, though he did watch Garfield very carefully some nights through his office window, overlooking the dancefloor.

It was unspoken Garfield would take a stool at the bar if the place was packed.

The criminals in Gotham were an interesting breed. You had your popular clique, your Joker's and your Catwomen and your Two-Face's, but then at the far end of the spectrum were your pathetic losers, your Calendar Men, your Mr. Camera's, your fucking Captain Blimp's. The criminals that were so embarrassing, you felt second hand shame if you stood too close. They were real stinkers, fucking mouldy cheese on the charcuterie board that was Gotham City.

Every now and then you got a glimpse of the top dogs, the cream of the crop and it felt like a goddamned celebrity sighting.

Garfield fucking hated it, but then again his meds made him irritable and exhausted, which naturally lead to him being so tired of everyone's bullshit.

The Riddler built a fucking puzzle box inside an abandoned warehouse and trapped the Mayor's daughter in it?

Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

Poison Ivy infected half of the greater downtown area with a sex pollen that only infected adult men, and only enticed them to fuck trees?

Get fucking splintered assholes.

Oh, Freeze coated everything on the upper east side with ice?

Sarcastic applause, that's never been done before.

Maybe it was time to up his meds? He thought as he drank his soda pop like a fucking child and sat in his old man pants, thinking bitterly of the world like a teenager.

“Who the fuck let this kid in here?!” Someone shouted from the bar, grabbing Garfield's attention and he looked over and up to find a little girl sitting boldly at the bar, swinging her feet in her lovingly polished Mary Jane's.

“Get fucked asshole!” The child snapped at the bartender.

“You can't be in here, kid,” the bartender said. “Where's your parents?”

“Tag teaming your mom, pal,” the girl replied. “I had a rough goddamned day and I just want a gin, okay?”

“Get the fuck out of here! Where's Carson?! Carson! We got a kid in here!” The bartender called for the one armed bouncer. Carson had said he had lost the arm to a fight with Killer Croc, but damned if he wasn't made of harder stuff than to quit his job.

Garfield smiled to himself.

Carson knew and he knew, but the bartender was new since Garfield had been in Arkham.

The poor woman. She was 30 years old, but she small, maybe 4'8” with heels, if she could find ones small enough, and 75 pounds soaking wet. Her face was delicate, youthful for sure. It would be easy to take her for a 10 year old if you didn't look hard enough.

Carson wandered onto the scene with a grin. “It's fine. That's Baby Doll, she's good.”

“She's a fucking kid,” the bartender argued.

“Want me to show you the hair on my snatch, jackass?” Baby Doll demanded.

For the first time since he had gone maniac before Arkham, Garfield laughed, it wasn't just a chuckle, it was drop your head into your hands and muffle your belly laugh, kind of laughter.

He wasn't alone, half of the Iceberg were cutting up, laughing as the bartender turned bright red and sputtered, not knowing how to respond to a petite, 30 year old offering to whip out her puss just to prove she was at least a grown assed woman, despite the clothes that looked like she bought in the children's section.

Oh, the criminals in Gotham were fucked up. He mused as he dried a tear. He had only personally met Baby Doll once in passing, and that had been long, long before the mania, when he was just Garfield Lynns, pyrotechnics expert, working the silver screen dream of burning shit safely and dramatically, and she had just been Mary Louise Dahl, 'child' actor. She was a bit of a brat, but he didn't mind, she wasn't as bad as most actors.

After a considerate moment, he raked a hand through his hair and got to his feet, approaching the bar and the small woman sitting there. He eased down a couple of stools away from her and took a surreptitious look in her direction as she sipped her gin and tonic with the cherry in it.

“Get lost creep,” she murmured, not even breaking eye contact with her phone where it looked like she was playing some kind of game.

“I'm not...we met once before,” he began simply helping himself to a bar peanut and shelling it.

“And?” She demanded, still playing her game.

He moved a few stools closer to her and snacked on his peanut. “You know, if you want people to stop mistaking you for a kid, maybe you should stop dressing like a kid.”

“Great,” she muttered, “I'm getting fashion advice from my 90 year old grandpa.”

Garfield nodded and looked down at his cardigan and button up shirt. “Okay, fair point.”

With a sigh, she set her phone down and looked over at him. “You look like shit, Firefly.”

Startled that she knew who he was, he floundered for a moment, before recovering. “I'm, uh...heavily medicated.”

She glowered a little at him.

“I just...we met on set once, a long time ago. I was rigging the pyrotechnics for a firework scene on your show, Love That Baby? Remember?”

“No, I don't remember you yelling at me for standing too close to the rig,” she returned dryly.

He smiled only a little, pleased she remembered him. Not many people did when he wasn't burning their shit down.

Mary Louise smiled a little in return, but it was still coated with a heavy air of annoyance and she all but rolled her dark, almond eyes. “What do you want, techie?”

“I really don't know, maybe I just wanted to sit beside someone having a worse day than me,” he said.

They were quiet, both of them nursing their drinks, his soda pop having gone flat years ago.

“I have to wear kids clothes,” she finally admitted, brushing her raven black hair behind her ear, “because clothes in the adult section don't fit and I'm not rich enough to get my shit tailor made.”

He knew since her show was cancelled, since she had gone through the whole 'criminal of the week' like he did, that she had fallen from the starlit grace she had been accustomed to when she was actually younger. Back when she was a young twentysomething, playing a ten year old girl on an after school special type show, back when people adored her and her looking young enough to play the part without the union having to adhere to the rules of an actual child actor. She was in the same hole he had dug for himself, only Baby Doll was clawing at the sides of her hole, trying to find her way out and Garfield was thinking of getting a houseplant for his and settling into the earth to wait to die.

He took a long swig of his flat soda and tried hard not to gaze into the flickering flame of the tabletop candle burning on the bar near them and said, “I got my clothes from the homeless bin at the local church, I think someone died in them, so...that's what's going on here.”

“Gross,” Mary Louise said. “You're going to get like cholera or something. You know people shit themselves when they die.”

“Yeah,” he murmured into his soda. “What is cholera, anyways?”

“I don't know, like an old man disease,” she replied. “Why are you still bothering me?!”

At first Garfield thought she was yelling at him, but she was waving her hand irritably at the bartender.

“The talent needs space,” Garfield said to the man. As he glanced over at Mary Louise, he found her smiling a little proudly, that shine of being a star once more lighting up her face and he nodded firmly once at her as though he was agreeing silently that she was still the talent.

Mary Louise sighed. “Sorry I implied you're a pedo. Experience says only one kind of man approaches me at a bar.”

“I didn't...I just...” he faltered.

“I get it,” she said sincerely, gazing at her gin as though mesmerized by the drink. “Familiarity can be a comfort...”

Garfield gazed past her, eyes drawn to the candle flame flickering at the end of the bar, he watched the flame as it danced and pulsed, before closing his eyes tight and dropping his gaze to his own drink, his hands shaking.

“Can I get a whiskey, a double?” He asked the bartender without looking up from his flat soda.

The man nodded from his place a couple feet away.

Baby Doll downed her gin and set it on the bar hard, slamming the glass down. “And give me another one of those?”

Set light to this fucking night, Garfield thought as his whiskey arrived, watch the powder keg go off.

The rest of the night happened in flashes, between whiskey and a couple of shots of something Mary Louise had ordered for them, was colours and lights.

“You do it like this,” Mary Louise was explaining to him a new dance all the kids were doing as he drank deep from his glass of whatever it was he was drinking.

Laughter.

“You're paying for that,” Ozzie said as Garfield stood over a broken stool.

Falling down in the alley.

“Can you introduce me?” The Mad Hatter was asking, eyes looking past him to Mary Louise ordering more drinks at the bar.

A blink.

Putting the Mad Hatter into a headlock.

Laughter.

“No, the Charleston is more like this,” he shouted at Mary Louise over the noise of the dancefloor of some other club.

Falling down on the sidewalk, or was he being shoved down.

Holding Mary Louise back from beating the shit out of some lippy young woman who was shouting back at her, the words lost to the liquor.

Garfield tilting his head back to stop the blood from dribbling out of his broken nose.

“That's...that's not dabbing!” Mary Louise was laughing at him.

Music, so loud it vibrated in his ears.

“No! No that's...no you're thinking of the Deer Hunter!” He shouted.

Laughter.

A taxidermy fish?

“We should steal that orb!” Mary Louise was talking.

Someone falling down beside him on the pavement.

“...I'm sane, but I'm overwhelmed!” They belted into a microphone. “I'm lost but I'm hopeful, baby!”

Knocking over a stand of potato chips.

Wal-Mart?

“That's still not...no it's not...that isn't dabbing!”

Laughter.

“No, he's not! That's...you're just...it's a conspiracy theory! Bruce Wayne can't be Batman! Because he's rich and Batman is...a man who dresses like a bat!”

Falling down on the railway tracks.

“'Cuz I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one is giving a high five!”

Throwing a frozen crab into the bay.

“Okay, but then...which is the one with Robert DeNiro?”

Falling onto a couch.

Death.

His first thought when his eyes cracked open was that he wished for death. Afraid to move, knowing that what awaited him was pain and vomiting. So he lay as still as he could and suffered in silence as his head throbbed.

He needed water and a gun.

Outside the sun was mercilessly shining, the birds were chirping and the sounds of the city were so fucking annoying.

Garfield chanced a very, very slow turn of his head so he wasn't just staring up at the ceiling above him.

Thank God, he was home in his shitty fucking apartment.

His mouth tasted like a leprechaun shit in it with a hint of ash and he really, really needed water.

“Are you dead?” He asked the other presence he sensed in the room with him.

“Unfortunately no,” she muttered from behind his couch.

“Are you on the floor?”

“I think so.”

He grunted as he shifted into a position to get ready to move into a sitting position.

“You're younger,” he sighed giving up. “Get me some water.”

“Get fucked,” she replied weakly.

“Get grandpa some water,” he tried to sweeten her up with a joke.

She snorted. “Go back to sleep, if you sleep long enough it goes away.”

Sounded plausible, he closed his eyes again.