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detachedminxsfics · 1 year ago

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Memories

Masterlist

Characters: Comedian (Edward Blake) x Ex Vigilante F!Reader

Summary: After retiring from being a vigilante in '77 you lost touch with most of your old teammates, until you happen to bump into one of them eight years later, the Comedian.

Word count: 3.9K

Warnings: NSFW - Age gap (reader in their early 30s, eddie mid 60s), period-typical sexism, brief dry humping, vaginal sex, praise, eddie's filthy mouth

A/N: I never write any sort of 'soft' version of the Comedian as it's out of character, but for old Eddie specifically he got a lot more lonely and regretful as he aged, which we saw especially in scenes like his talk with Moloch. So this is some sweet smut with some angst & fluff at the end.

It was pouring with rain, the streets of Manhattan slick and reflecting the light from the street lights that lined the sidewalk, the puddles that occasionally littered the ground rippling with every drop of rain that crashed against its surface. You crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to warm yourself up, your clothes damp and clinging to your skin besides the leather trenchcoat you'd thrown on in a hurry, and stepped out from the momentary shelter you'd found from the rain in the form of a small ledge overhanging above the entrance to a store. You looked down the busy road hoping to wave down a cab when you caught sight of a man holding an umbrella heading down the sidewalk towards you, not quite registering him at first until you saw the scar extending from his brow to the side of his mouth.

"Eddie?" You called out with uncertainty.

His head lifted, his eyes searching for the source of the sound until he locked eyes with you, picking up the pace in his steps until he reached you.

"Doll?" He responded with a smile, looking you over as though he equally couldn't quite believe it was really you after all this time.

Eddie noticed the way the rain was pouring on your already drenched hair and coat and chuckled, stepping closer to you so that he could hold the umbrella to cover both of your heads.

"God, it has to have been at least-"

"8 years." Eddie interjected when you seemed to be doing the mental math of how long it had been since you last saw him, a melancholy tone to his voice with the way he was able to recall it so perfectly.

You nodded and let out a sigh that turned into a small, misty cloud in the cool air.

"Well, I was just on my way home. You could come back with me and I can get you some coffee, maybe even get you dried up while we wait for the rain to stop?" He suggested, though there was a light in his eyes as he said it like he'd be disappointed if you didn't.

"Sure, I'd love to catch up, and I never say no to coffee." You smiled, to which he held out his arm for you to take and you linked your arm with his.

The walk to Eddie's high-rise apartment building, the Promethea Building according to the signage at the entrance, was short but sweet, and he was leading you through the lobby and into the elevator before you knew it. When you got to the floor of his apartment he stepped out prompting you to follow him, the folded umbrella clutched in his hand dripping and leaving wet splotches on the floor on the way to his door. He retrieved his key from his pocket and unlocked it, pushing it open and allowing you to follow him in as he stepped inside, then closed the door behind you as you quietly observed the inside of his apartment. It was very spacious and probably cost a fortune, but you weren't surprised that Eddie could afford such a thing after doing vigilante work for over 40 years now. Although you couldn't say the same for you and any of the other crime fighters of your generation whose careers were cut so short. You were torn from your train of thought when you felt Eddie reach around from behind you to undo the belt at the waist of your leather coat, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he leaned over your shoulder to be able to see what he was doing, seemingly lingering there a little too long. He slid it down your arms once the material came apart which bunched at your wrists, and you helped him get it off from there.

"Thanks." You muttered as he took your coat and hung it up before he moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"I'm gonna go change." Eddie mumbled as he turned to go down the hall, presumably towards his bedroom.

You took the time alone to begin wandering around the apartment, the view from the large glass wall overlooking the city being the first thing to catch your eye. There was a usual smog covering the dark, cloudy sky, the rain still pouring and spilling over the window whilst the streets below were somewhat busy with the occasional passerby and the many cars on the road. When you turned you were surprised to find a framed photo of you that you'd done for a magazine cover towards the start of your crime-fighting career hung on the wall. It generated just the right amount of publicity to put you on the map for good and got the papers to take an interest in reporting the criminals you'd turn in, not that any of your male counterparts had to do that, they were front page no matter what. The whistle of the kettle got louder and louder whilst you stared at the picture, a small smile on your face as you reminisced. You were part of the second generation of costumed vigilantism after those such as the Comedian and his time, the time when being a masked freak was actually a good thing. That admiration became tarnished when public outrage started to grow towards those sworn to protect them and people took to the streets in the form of riots, but you could hardly dispute the sentiment when there were those such as Eddie at the helm, the poster boy for egotistical displays of power and anarchy. You met Eddie at a meeting to join a new crime-fighting team proposed by Ozymandias, in which he not so gracefully crapped over the idea of the whole thing before taking his leave, leaving the plans that had been drawn up in flames. That should've been the first sign of trouble, but you naively followed him out and did some work as a duo afterwards, sometimes a trio with Nite Owl when he had enough patience to deal with Eddie's antics; you liked to think you balanced the whole thing out to make it tolerable enough for Daniel.

"Ya like staring at yourself, huh?" Eddie commented once the screeching of the kettle simmered down, and you turned to find him pouring the boiling water into two coffee mugs.

"Or you like staring at me." You retorted with raised brows which made him chuckle a little.

"It's a nice picture, you look good." He responded simply as he set the kettle down and picked up a small spoon to stir the coffee.

"About as nice as that hustler magazine on your coffee table, right?" You gestured to it with a tilt of your head and crossed your arms over your chest playfully.

He only let out a small laugh in the form of a snort and searched the pockets of the robe he was now wearing, a lighter and a cigar in his hand once he removed it. He propped the cigar between his lips and brought the lighter to it, igniting the end before flipping it shut and placing it back into his pocket.

"I'm an old man now, sweetheart. I can eyeball as many hustler magazines as I damn well please." He spoke around the cigar, balancing it in his mouth as he did.

Eddie picked up the coffee mugs and started bringing them towards the couch making you round the glass table to settle down on it. He placed the mugs down on the table and closed his fingers around the cigar as he lowered himself down onto the couch, blowing a stream of smoke from his lips as he did. He then reached up to grab the t-shirt he'd slung over his shoulder and held it out for you to take.

"Here, bathroom's down the hall." He muttered.

You quickly made your way to the bathroom and removed your soaked sweater, your body already much warmer when you removed it and threw on Eddie's t-shirt. He was twice your size and built like a linebacker meaning it was more of an oversized dress than a top, but you used that to your advantage and removed your now drenched pants too. When you returned he briefly dragged his eyes over your bare legs, whilst you couldn't help but notice the small smiley face pin badge he was still sporting after all these years as you sat back down beside him.

"Still wearing this, huh?" You reached out to run your thumb over the badge clipped to his robe. "Did you give it up?"

He thought for a moment before shaking his head, watching as your thumb ran over the badge before looking back into your eyes.

"I registered, I do work for 'em here and there. You?"

You lowered your hand and sighed.

"Not since '77."

In 1977 Congress passed the Keene Act outlawing vigilantism and requiring you to register with the government if you wanted to continue, but you felt as though that regulation came at a price as did many others, so you retired.

"Do you miss it?" Eddie asked as he removed the cigar from his mouth to take a sip of his coffee before setting the mug down again.

You mirrored him and reached to take a sip from your own coffee as you thought about your answer. It was a loaded question, but you ultimately settled for the latter.

"Yeah, I think so. But I'm guessing you don't get to patrol the streets anymore and screw around like we used to." You pointed out, earning a smile from him in response.

"Yeah, not so much of that anymore."

Reflecting on it had a wistful glint fill his eyes for a fleeting moment, but he moved on with the hopes of not getting too wrapped up in the nostalgia of the past.

"So, you married? Kids?" He asked as he blew another cloud of smoke which slowly started to dissipate.

Your brows bounced up and you let out a small laugh of disbelief. That kind of question seemed so out of place directed towards you of all people.

"Married? God no. That was out of the question the moment they clamped down on crime fighting. You think most men are thrilled at the idea of marrying a woman who could toss him over her shoulder like it was nothing?"

"Well, you'd have a hard time doing that to me." Eddie remarked.

"My point exactly." You retorted.

"Touché." He added with a smile.

He pushed the cigar back between his lips and casually rested his large hand just above your knee. His hand felt nice and warm on your cold skin, so you were hardly opposed to the touch.

"You still living at your old place?" Eddie continued, blowing smoke with each word.

"Yeah, never moved. Too many memories." You admitted with a small shrug having always been quite the sentimentalist.

Eddie nodded in understanding and then started to chuckle, shaking his head as your words sparked some long forgone memory in his mind.

"What?" You pried playfully, curious as to what you'd reminded him of.

"Ya remember when Dan got injured? Me and you had to haul his ass back to your apartment since your place was closest, that night was a mess." He recalled with a grin, subconsciously caressing your thigh with his rough, calloused palm as he spoke.

You laughed as it flooded back to you. The three of you had decided to traipse around the city on foot that night rather than taking the Owlship, much to Daniel's dismay. Unsurprisingly, things took a turn when the three of you came face to face with a small horde of rioters. You were able to disband them with minimal civilian harm no thanks to Eddie but not before Daniel got swarmed by a cluster of them, and you had been too busy making sure Eddie wasn't manhandling or brutalising anybody to notice.

"Yeah, I patched him up and then sent you two idiots on your way." You reminisced with an eye roll.

He didn't know it, but you hadn't wanted Eddie to leave that night.

There was some shared laughter and then a comfortable silence once it died down, the two of you just enjoying one another's company until Eddie set his cigar down in the ashtray resting on top of the magazine. He raised his hand to hold one side of your face, his thumb stroking over your cheek.

"Me and you really did have some fun, didn't we?"

You let a warm smile take over your lips and placed your hand over the back of his.

"We sure did, Eddie."

He was so much closer to you now, and you could've sworn his gaze briefly settled on your lips before looking back into your eyes, and then he leaned forward. Eddie's lips pressed against yours, his hand still caressing the side of your face and using it to deepen the kiss. Then he slipped his tongue into your mouth, the taste of cigars and the aroma of him permeating your senses, including any urge to not go against your better judgment. You wasted no time sliding onto his lap, a grunt escaping his lips as you settled down on his groin and let your hands get lost in the thick grey strands at the sides of his hair. He let go of your cheek to stroke his hands over your thighs and beneath the hem of your t-shirt, his rough fingertips brushing over your hips and moving down to cup your ass, the force in his grip earning a low moan from you. Rolling your hips slightly had his fingers dig into your skin, the groan that rumbled from his throat getting lost in the kiss and the friction you were creating only making the bulge forming beneath his robe grow that much harder. Eddie stood from the couch taking you with him, his hands still gripping your ass firmly to support you prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist, your arms wrapped around his neck and your hands running through his hair as he makes his way to the bedroom. You unwrap your legs from him when he leans down to set you on the bed, straightening his back to start undoing his robe whilst you sit up to cross your arms and gather the material at the hem of the top he had given you, pulling it over your head and tossing it on the floor by the bed. When his robe came apart you were quick to lean up on your knees and press your lips against his lower abdomen, peppering kisses all the way from his stomach to his chest. Eddie let out a pleased sound and tangled his fingers in your hair, letting you admire his body some more before taking hold of your chin and tilting you to look up at him.

"I missed you, doll." He rasped, moving his thumb up to sweep over your bottom lip.

You smiled up at him and ran your hand down his chest, enjoying the way the hair on his chest felt beneath your palm.

"I missed you too."

He urged you to lay back down and climbed on top of you, his hands moving down to grasp your thighs and spread them apart, settling into the space he made between your legs and smashing his lips against yours. Lining up with your entrance he pushed himself inside you, the short gasp you let out as you stretched around him muffled against his lips as he gave you a moment to adjust to the feel of him before he started moving. He broke the kiss to bury his head in the crook of your neck and litter kisses there, slightly sucking and teasing the skin between his teeth in a way that was guaranteed to leave you with marks, the thick scruff of the moustache on his upper lip scratching along your neck all the while. Shamelessly you let one of your hands get lost in his hair again, combing your fingers through it and gathering a fistful of it to gently tug once you got to the back, your other hand sliding down his back allowing you to enjoy the way the muscles in his back flexed against your palm. He stopped his affections on your neck to turn his attention to your ear, whispering into it.

"You don't know how long I've wondered what this pussy would feel like." Eddie drawled, emphasising his words with a particularly deep thrust.

For a moment he slowed his movements only to lean back and take hold of your leg, propping it on his broad shoulder before sinking back into you and filling you to the hilt all over again.

"Oh fuck, Eddie." You whined.

He chuckled, eyes half-lidded with lust and turned to place a tender kiss on the side of your knee while his hand grasped the top of your thigh. Then he started moving his hips again, long, excruciatingly hard thrusts that were only heightened by the angle he'd positioned you in. Eddie was taking his time with you. Savouring you and the way you felt, the way you sounded, the way your mouth fell open and your eyes screwed shut when he hit a particular spot. The rain was still pouring over Eddie's bedroom window, the soft thuds and pitter-patter against the glass the only noise in the room besides your needy cries and the occasional creak of the bed. He planted a few kisses along your neck again, dragging his mouth up and across your jaw until he reached your lips, and then claimed your lips with his.

"Feels so fuckin' good, babydoll." He cooed between kisses, the praise going straight to your cunt.

This was probably the first time in Eddie's whole life that he felt as though he was making love to a woman and not just fucking someone to get himself off. To him, you had never been just a pretty face or a rookie vigilante for him to mess with because he cared about you, and that was saying a lot considering Eddie didn't much care for anything, especially these days. You were the only person who had ever been able to look past his sadistic and amoral front, even when he never gave you a glimpse at the tormented man underneath. There was no doubt that the Comedian was one sick sonofabitch, a cold, heartless bastard as many would say, but he loved you for whatever that was worth.

He started bucking his hips into you rougher, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixing with your moans and the way he was buried so deep inside you making you dig your nails into his skin with the hand you'd placed on his back, the other still in his hair. He groaned against your lips as he felt you claw down his back, the sensation only spurring him on to make his thrusts that much more intense.

"Come for me, hon." Eddie coaxed as he felt you start to squirm beneath him, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your hand gathering a fistful of hair at the back of his head as you clung to him, and then it crashed over you. Your breath caught in your throat, your body arching into him as he only continued to fuck you throughout your orgasm, and you finally choked out an unbridled sob from your parted lips at the overstimulation. The sound seemed to tip him over the edge too, quickly withdrawing himself from you and removing your leg from his shoulder letting it drop to his hip. He spilt onto your lower abdomen, warm droplets splashing on your skin as guttural groans reverberated through his chest, which rose and fell rapidly with his short, jagged gulps of air. Eddie took a moment to collect himself, the two of you panting as you tried to ride out your highs.

Eventually, he leaned down to place a sloppy kiss between your breasts and then got up in search of something, returning with a small towel when he was back in your field of view. Eddie never usually cared about this sort of thing, but he thought you'd appreciate the gesture. He climbed back onto the bed and started wiping you down, then tossed the towel aside when he was done cleaning you up and laid down beside you. You immediately draped your arm across him, your leg moving over him as you rested your head against his chest and sighed softly when he wrapped his arm around you and pressed a kiss on the top of your head, pulling you flush against his chest.

"We should've done this years ago." You remarked, drawing a conceited chuckle from Eddie in response.

Things got quiet when his laughter tapered off, and then his voice pierced the silence.

"I shoulda married you."

You didn't quite believe what you had heard at first and didn't even glance at him to make sure that you had heard him correctly.

"What?"

"Don't make me say it again." He warned, knowing that you had most likely heard him the first time.

You lifted your head from his chest to look at him and were totally staggered by what you found. His eyes were glassy and full of regret, and it was clear that he was trying to keep it together so that he didn't have to be vulnerable with you. But laying here with you and feeling you wrapped up in his arms, even the sound of your slow, steady breaths drove him to a conclusion he'd been avoiding for years. He was lonely. He refused to ever come to terms with it because he'd never needed anybody, but that attitude hadn't survived the test of time. Eddie didn't have anybody to come home to after spending months away on some classified overseas bullshit, he didn't have anyone to call his own, it was just him. You sat up and cupped one side of his face, his eyes boring into yours.

"Does it help if I say I would've said yes?" You added truthfully, though it was disguised as a way of cheering him up.

He snorted his laughter and grinned, placing his much larger hand over the back of yours.

"Of course you would've, you've always been sweet on me doll." He taunted in response, which made you playfully scoff.

You leaned in and pressed a deliberately long kiss on his cheek directly over where his scar is, and then gave his lips a quick peck too.

"Well, why don't we make up for lost time, hm? We can grab dinner next week."

Then there was that sadness filling his eyes again, though you weren't sure it had ever truly left.

"I can't. I'm being shipped off to god knows where on another mission again. I don't know when I'll be back, I'm hardly ever here." Eddie sighed frustratedly.

You nodded in understanding, your thumb idly stroking his cheek.

"Okay, well when you're back just give me a call. We'll figure something out." You suggested with a small smile.

You settled back down onto his chest, his fingers combing through your strands as he started to stroke your hair, the touch making your eyelids feel heavier until eventually, you succumbed to sleep.

#jeffrey dean morgan #jeffrey dean morgan smut #comedian x reader #edward blake #edwardblake x reader #watchmen #watchmencomedian #watchmen 2009

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hufflepuffsthunderdome · 4 months ago

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{ Requests are open }

Who I write for:

Jschlatt

Will Poulter - and all characters

Ted Nivison

Charlie slimecicle

Tom Delonge

Mark Hoppus

Most pop punk artists (request if you have any in mind)

James Acaster

Paul Dano characters

The Marauders

The Golden Trio

The Silver Trio

The Weasleys

Spiderman (any iteration)

Please feel free to request ones that are crossed out, I will get to them eventually they're just not my current fandoms atm :)

Please include pronouns and any other relevant details :)

I will write fluff, smut and angst, I will not write the following:

Rape, Age play, piss/scat play

Graphic depictions of self-violence and mental illnesses outside those listed below.

Cheating, domestic violence, death.

Things I will write that others may not:

BDSM, pregnancy, cnc (within limits), daddy/mommy kinks, threesomes, somnophilia (within limits)

OCD, Depression, Self-harm (not graphic), anxiety, panic attacks

And anything else your heart desires outside of this list! If you wanna know if I'll write it send it my way 💖

#jschlatt x reader #ted nivison x reader #slimecicle x reader #tom delonge x reader #mark hoppus x reader #pop punk #harry potter #british comedians #james acaster x reader #george weasley x reader #fred weasley x reader #neville longbottom x reader #remus lupin x reader #james potter x reader #sirius black x reader #will poulter x reader #paul dano x reader #will poulter

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bring-forth-his-sac · 5 months ago

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2025’s To Do List

Happy New Year everyone!!!!!

To hold myself accountable, I’m making a to do list of fic’s I want to write this year! I’m hoping that if I make it public, I’ll hold myself to actually complete them! And when I finish each one it’ll be satisfying to cross it off the list lmao. Anyways, here’s the list:

Max (The Resident) x Reader

Saviors Negan x Virgin Reader who’s a newly acquired wife (I feel like doing a new wife x Negan fic is a custom the majority of Negan writers need to do, so this is me taking part in tradition💗)

End of Season 8/ Injured Negan x Medic Reader

Henry Delarue (The Salvation) x Reader

Edward Blake/ The Comedian (Watchmen) x Reader

Pre-Apocalypse Negan x Trainee Doctor (this might get scrapped because as you can see from my lingo like “trainee doctor”, my medical knowledge is incredible)

Modern AU inspired by The Accidental Husband (let me cook, I think it could work😭)

Negan x Reader Season 11 rewrite?!

#negan fanfiction #negan smith fanfiction #negan x reader #negan x you #twd negan #negan #negan smith #negan twd #jdm fanfiction #fanfic to do list #twd fic #twd x reader #max the resident #edward blake #the comedian #the salvation Henry Delarue

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skeletonh0e · 1 month ago

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Sans is so the type of boyfriend tha just flops onto his partner like a sleepy cat and doesn't let you move

You probably need the rest anyway, be his pillow

#🤍💀🎙 your comedian (classic sans)#❤️💀💢 your guard dog (underfell sans)#🩶💀🪦 your protector (dust sans)#sans x reader #underfell sans x reader #dust sans x reader

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detachedminxsfics · 2 years ago

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Bloody Mess

Masterlist

Characters: Comedian (Edward Blake) x Vigilante F!Reader

Summary: When a fight between the two of you goes wrong you find yourself and your arch-enemy The Comedian indulging in a different type of violence.

Word count: 3.7K

Warnings: NSFW - physical violence, rough vaginal sex, blood play, semi-public sex, hair pulling, spanking, dom/sub dynamic, Eddie's filthy mouth, shotgunning

A/N: Nasty, bloody rooftop sex with the Comedian, need I say more?

The sky was darkened, though the busy roads; the many scarlet-tinted tail lights that blared from every vehicle and looked like little red dots from your view relentlessly lit the city. You stood on the ledge of one of many rooftops you'd crossed tonight in search of anything, something. Someone to kill, someone to save, trouble to start and to end. Your idea of heroism was never exactly clean cut, and it showed in your violent streak of vigilantism. The government was never particularly fond of the masked freaks running rampant in New York City let alone the occasional rowdy civilian or protester you might've beat half to death, or all the way to, here and there. You were a wanted woman. The target on your back got you used to the feeling of being watched, an unlikely familiarity with that chill that swept down your spine when it felt like someone was waiting for you to turn your back and take a swing at you, or when he was here. You turned around, and sure as shit there he was, him. Your arch nemesis Edward Blake, the fucking Comedian. You despised the bastard, and he hated you no less. Oftentimes you'd leave each other so bloodied and beaten that when you did manage to get away you'd be in recovery for weeks, and he'd broken more bones than you had fingers.

"Fancy seeing you tonight, doll." Eddie spoke past the cigar balancing in the corner of his mouth, his hand reaching up to close his fingers over the cigar as smoke streamed out from the ignited end.

His back was pressed up against the door that led to the rooftop of the building, a smile playing on his lips as he inhaled deeply before removing the cigar from his lips. Asshole took the easy way up. The dynamic between you and the Comedian was one of brutality, the two of you indulging in an endlessly intense cycle of violence over and over again, and you were sure you'd do it until one of you killed the other. And as he took one last drag and tossed the cigar off to somewhere on the rooftop you knew it was time for this usual rough little dance of yours, a flurry of swinging fists and nasty kicks until one of you got too tired or injured to fight the other and managed to pull off some kind of escape.

"Oh Eddie, you know this didn't happen by chance. You chase me through this city like a lost puppy."

His smile faded, the shift in his eyes highlighted that much more by the black eye mask that surrounded them, and his jaw tensed with the irritation of what you'd accused him of. You practically called him clingy. He stormed towards you, his boots thudding against the roof as he moved in strides with a focused look in his eyes, the look he usually had before he punched you square in the mouth and threatened to take a few teeth while he was at it. The approaching attack had you hopping down from the ledge and charging towards him knowing you couldn't let him reach you first, you always met him halfway. As soon as you were within reach Eddie swung, a heavy punch that you narrowly dodged and attempted one of your own, except yours landed. Your fist slammed against his jaw, your knuckles splitting when you drew your fist back and dealt a second in succession, but the third was greedy. Eddie recovered, not that he needed much, and caught your wrist. He swiftly twisted your arm behind your back and kneed you down to the concrete, your face slamming into the ground and the feel of strain and tension searing through your shoulder making you let out a wheezy pain-filled laugh. You turned your head to look at him ignoring the friction burn you were surely scraping along your cheek in the process, a smile playing on your lips as you finally felt the blood lining your top lip, your nose pouring with it. You'd have to crack that back into place later.

"You know I like it rough."

His eyes filled with amusement, the smile he too allowed to spread across his lips reflecting that sickeningly pure joy. He loved having you pinned bloody and beaten beneath him, but more than anything he loved that you cracked a smile through the pain no matter the agony. It was one of few similarities between the two of you, but most definitely his favourite.

"Good, 'cause there's more where that came from."

He had your arms pinned behind your back, the other clasping the nape of your neck to snatch you harshly upright from the concrete, and you could feel how he was readying to slam you back down again. Fuck that. You swung your head back and slammed the back of your head into his face, the sudden force making Eddie loosen his grip enough for you to wiggle free and spin around to face him. He was clutching his nose while muttering curses under his breath, blood escaping from his nose and through the gaps between his fingers, dripping from his chin onto the floor below. Then, as the initial adrenaline began to subside, you felt a pounding sensation throughout the back of your head. You reached up to pass your hand over it for a moment and hissed as your palm lightly pressed down whilst you tried to blink away the fact that you were seeing doubles, then drew your hand back and raised it in front of your face to inspect it. No blood, but you'd have one hell of a concussion. It seemed Eddie came to just as quickly as you did, your eyes locking as you glared daggers at one another. He was the first to stand and practically lunge in your direction, an infernal rage in his eyes burning so bright that you were sure this would be it, he'd surely crush your throat if he got a hold of you, but you'd go out swinging. You quickly rose to your feet and leapt at him when he was within reach, tackling him to the ground and landing on top of him when his back collided with the ground, the solid wall of a man that he was cushioning your fall. He took a deep breath a little winded and you used the opportunity to bring your fist down onto him, once, twice, but the third was wishful thinking. It seemed bad things came in threes this evening. He raised his leg up under you and kicked you, a boot to the stomach so hard there was nothing beneath you before you knew it, until there was; and by hell did you know it. You landed awkwardly on the ledge of the rooftop, the immense pain coursing through your abdomen and the blood you seemed to be painting the ledge in with every cough sending what of your body was on over, and you slipped. You managed to grip the edge with both hands just as you felt the nothingness below you, wind rushing through your hair and the view of passing cars on the streets hundreds of feet below taunting you. It was a long way down, and the gnawing pain in the shoulder Eddie had busted was making it hard to keep a grip, a small scream escaping your lips as it only worsened the longer you held on for. Just then, there he was. He leaned over and hovered just above you to let out a small chuckle at the state you were in, his eyes following the way your fingers were slowly slipping further and further towards your demise.

"Well shit, looks like I'll get the last laugh after all, doll."

It was as you looked into his eyes that you felt it, pure unadulterated fear. You'd never felt anything like it in your life, had never been this close to death, and the place you were most likely going was nowhere good. You never thought you'd beg him for anything, but you began sputtering the pleas from your lips before your mind could stop you.

"Eddie, Eddie please! My arm, fuck I can't!"

Under any other circumstances seeing you beg for your life would've pleased him, made him laugh even, but his smile faded. The Comedian stopped laughing. You couldn't hold on any longer, frantic eyes fixed on his as you scrambled slightly before being forced to release your grip and prepare to feel yourself falling through the air, eyes screwing shut for a moment out of sheer panic. But you felt nothing. When you opened your eyes Eddie was leaning over the ledge, his hand tightly gripping yours. You thought he ought to have stamped your hands off at first, or simply let you fall to your death, but there was something strange circling in that man's eyes, something you couldn't quite recognise. He just couldn't let you die. He pulled you up and wrapped his arm around you as he lifted you and pressed you to him, allowing himself to fall back onto the rooftop and take you with him. As his back pressed up against the concrete you attempted to calm your hysterical breathing, his chest rising and falling beneath you as he inhaled his own heavy, fatigued breaths. What could be distinguished as stars through the evening smog twinkled brightly overhead, the moon casting a light over one side of Eddie's face illuminating the scrapes and cuts you loved to mark one another with, and you dare say the two of you found your first moment of peace; of silence. Intoxicated with the adrenaline rush of a second chance at life at the hands of your own would-be killer you lifted your head from his chest to look at him, him too lowering his eyes to meet yours though they appeared to wander elsewhere from time to time, and you crashed your lips against his. It was reckless, and Eddie could've sent your ass tumbling over the roof again, but he didn't. His lips moved back against yours hard enough to bruise, his tongue forcefully pushing into your mouth as your slightly blood-filled mouths began to mix, both coating each other's tongues with that salty metallic mixture. It was a goddamn mess.

"You're so fucking pretty, sweetheart." Eddie whispered between your bloody kisses, the surprisingly gentle flattery making you laugh against his lips.

"I always knew you had a thing for me." You teased, the comment prompting him to bring his hand down onto your ass hard and send a loud smack sound ringing through the air; that'd leave a mark.

You jolted a little as you bit down on your lip and felt the sting prickling across your skin, the warning stare he shot you and the dangerously dark smile forming on his lips reminding you of how vulnerable of a position you were in.

"This doesn't change anything, doll. Just a little fun."

He flipped you so that it was your back now pressed against the cold ground and he was hovering above you, one of his hands trailing from your breasts down to your stomach, and then further until he was skimming his fingers over your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you shamefully needed him more than ever. Eddie gripped your thigh, squeezing the flesh and revelling in the small moan that slipped past your lips from the smallest of touch.

"You keep up with making noises like that and you're gonna be the death a' me in more ways than one."

He brought your legs further up onto his lap, angling you so that he could work a hand behind your back in search of your costume's zipper. He started tugging it down the moment he felt it against his fingers, the form-fitting material of your bodysuit spreading out slowly over your back and exposing your skin to the freezing skyline chill. When the zipper stopped just above your behind Eddie was eager to reach around the front to start peeling it off you, your body arching to assist him with the removal. He tsked as he reached your hips, your legs hung over his lap stopping him from dragging the material down your legs.

"You ladies and your damn costumes, legs up."

You weren't the type to take orders, especially from that of Edward Blake, but you were for tonight. You drew your legs back and raised them allowing him to drag the gathered fabric down your legs, carelessly tossing it aside leaving you in nothing but the g-string that hardly constituted as underwear and the garter belt laid over the top, your stockings fastened to the clips. His eyes lit up at your taste in panties, and a throaty chuckle escaped his throat.

"You always been such a nasty slut?" He rasped as he dug a finger beneath some of the material situated on your hips and pinged it against your skin, the elasticated sting making you wince.

It was clear Eddie took no prisoners even when it came to that of intimacy, his fingers impatiently fiddling with the comically large buckled belt resting across his hips and tossing it aside once he got it undone, his fingers pulling his zipper down and wedging into the waistband of his pants to push them down afterwards, letting the material sit just below his hips. Almost irritated he dug his fingers into the front of your panties and tore them clean off, the rip of the lace and the sudden exposure to the cold almost causing your legs to attempt to snap shut and a surprised gasp leave your lips, but your legs draped either side of his hips meant you could do no such thing.

"Eddie!" You scolded as he discarded your ruined panties, the look he shot you once he turned his attention back towards you sending a chill down your spine.

He was grinning, the blood drying beneath his nose and decorating other parts of his face making for one hell of a mess, and making his amusement all the more sinister. It was now that it occurred to you that giving yourself to the comedian was like selling your soul to the devil. Eddie was a cruel, callous bastard who would do with your body as he pleased, and you were opening yourself up to whatever sadistic torment he had in store for you, but what really frightened you? You weren't sure you cared. He roughly grasped your hip with one hand, the other digging into one side of his pants as he pushed them down until he'd entirely freed himself, his cock springing free and leaving you barely able to spare a glance as he immediately leaned into the space between your spread legs and took hold of your other hip, his calloused fingers digging into your sides as he lined himself up and practically slammed inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, giving his first thrust with no mercy for the way you were still getting used to the stretch around him, the sharp pain making you wince and grip his forearm, your fingernails digging into his skin as you squirmed beneath him.

"What, can't take it now, sweetheart? Thought you liked it rough." He punctuated his taunting words with another hard, merciless thrust, your eyes screwing shut as you let out a pain-filled moan.

"That was when we were beating the shit out of each other, Eddie." You forced through your desperate and strained breaths, the reminder of the violence you shared only minutes ago making him smile a little and run his tongue over his bloody bottom lip.

"Fighting, fucking, same damn thing." He leaned down to capture your lips before you could argue with him, the groan that he breathed into your mouth as he gave another deep, bottomless thrust mixing with your own muffled, high-pitched moan.

He tasted like cigars, the facial hair dusting his top lip skimming over your lips as he stole the air right out of your lungs and exchanged it for his own. Eddie's lips moved against yours until he pulled back and used his bruising grip on your hips to flip you onto your stomach, his hands immediately readjusting onto your hips and bringing your ass upright making your back arch, and then he was inside you again. You flattened your palms against the concrete as you tried to come to terms with the new unforgiving angle, the sounds of skin meeting skin echoing throughout the evening air as did the moans you could no longer suppress, the noise only seeming to further spur him on to bury himself inside you over and over. Then his hand was in your hair, wrapping it around his leather fingerless gloves and using the grip on your hair to jerk your head backwards only arching you further, his hips bucking up as he utilised the newfound angle.

"Oh fuck, Eddie!" You cried through pleasure filled sobs, tears trickling down your cheeks from the mixture of the searing burn in your scalp and the way he fucked into you so ruthlessly.

Even then you somehow found yourself needing more, and so did he. He leaned into you and pressed his lips against your neck, sucking marks into your skin that would be a deep violet in only a matter of hours and lightly biting with his teeth, still tugging your hair all the while. Eddie was branding you. You'd have to sport these marks on your neck for weeks along with the other bruises and cuts that you'd earned from the way he'd manhandled you moments prior, not that now was any different. It just felt better. But only the two of you would know the man those marks pertained to, and you'd have to hear him taunting you about it anytime you run into him from here on out. Your thoughts were interrupted as he brought his free hand against your ass with a hard smack, the biting sting spreading through your skin making your eyes water once more, though the cry filled whimper that escaped your lips told a different story. He chuckled darkly at the sound you made, his chest plate pressed up against your back and lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he whispered.

"You gotta let me hurt you like this more often." He teased, still pushing your buttons even when he was so deep in you you could hardly think straight.

"Fuck you." You spat back, though Eddie didn't seem to care much for your protest as he gripped your jaw and moved your head so your mouth could sloppily meet his, your lips parting more submissively than you'd like to admit as his tongue slipped past your lips.

He could still taste your blood on your tongue, his mouth claiming yours and groaning against your lips as he did, and then he pulled back. He unwrapped your hair from his hand and let you fall back towards the concrete, feebly propping yourself on your arms as he gripped your hips again and picked up the pace of his hard thrusts, the spot he was driving into over and over making your legs quiver. It was no surprise when your orgasm crashed over you, your palms instinctively flattening against the ground as the occasional minute stone dug into your palm, the way your breath caught in your throat before you let out a long, pleased moan making him all the more eager. His hips started to stutter whilst a low grunt rumbled from his throat, and he managed to pull out just in time to shoot hot wet spurts on your inner thigh, his hand resting at the top of your ass as he watched the droplets dribble down your thigh and slightly pool on the concrete at the inner side of your knee. Too weak to hold yourself up any longer and having already pushed your injured shoulder to the limit you let yourself drop to the ground, the side of your face smushed against the roof as you tried to steady your breathing, Eddie too slumping against your back but propping himself up enough that he wouldn't crush you with his weight.

"That was almost as fun as kicking your ass." You teased once you'd gathered yourself, the comment making him scoff and lift himself to move off of you, readjusting his costume and tucking himself back into his pants.

"Someone's ass still got mighty kicked." He retorted and gave your abused ass a firm slap just to remind you, the sound it drew from you making him chuckle.

You winced from the sharp pain and dreaded the thought of catching a glimpse of whatever he'd done to you back there in the mirror later, to your whole body really. Gathering what was left of your dignity you picked yourself up and slipped your bodysuit back on, the way the material clung to your afflicted skin doing you no favours, and the embarrassing reminder that you were now pantyless thanks to The Comedian as the material uncomfortably lined your crotch. You took a deep breath and stepped closer to him when you were done, a lit cigar now balancing between his lips just as it had when you first laid eyes on him earlier in the night, though he looked much more dishevelled now. There was a thin sheen of sweat on some parts of his face, stray strands of hair falling from the way his hair was somewhat swept back and curling at either side of his forehead. Blood had dried above his top lip from when you'd given him quite the nose bleed, some on his teeth which you could only make out when he closed his fingers around the cigar and removed it from his lips, grabbing your chin to guide your lips towards his, smashing his mouth against yours. He used the opportunity to fill your mouth with cigar smoke until it was almost like breathing him in, humming a small moan against his lips from the sensation before Eddie let go of your chin and pulled back. He cracked a cocky smile as he watched you exhale the smoke once your lips had parted, the hubris in his expression only heightened that much more by the eye mask that encircled his eyes.

"See you around, doll."

He murmured before setting his cigar back between his lips and heading back through the way he came, the metal door slamming shut behind him.

#jeffrey dean morgan #jeffrey dean morgan smut #comedian #edward blake #edwardblake x reader #watchmen #watchmen 2009 #comedian x reader #watchmencomedian

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thepradaenchilada · 9 months ago

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#iykyk

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notelcol · 1 year ago

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Judgement⚡️

A story based off Cyno’s thunderstorm voice line.

Mentor!Cyno x you

——-

The wind howled as it dragged a cold chill over the city of Sumeru. The days were long working in the matra, so you decided not to let the threat of a storm disrupt your peaceful journey home. Every day you revelled in the sights. On the face of things, the city never changed. But, when you really looked, it was never stagnant. A different story in every corner, in every second, in every person that passed by. You watched as you walked, soaking in the city. You saw a man skulking near some stalls. He was staring at a sack of fruit, like a lion hunting its prey. You watched him lick his chapped lips before forcing himself to look away. His movement revealed his sunken cheeks. You began rooting through your pockets for some mora to buy him a hot meal.

“HEY!” You dropped a few coins as you whipped your head up in the direction of the shout.

You ran to the stall to find that you were too late. The hungry man had tried to take the sack of fruit for himself but the stall owner caught him. Unfortunately merchant seemed to have little patience as the weakened man was already on the ground and the fruit rolling loosely all around him rendering it unsellable, yet the merchant seemed to be blind to that.

“What is going on here?” You brought out your matra voice.

The stall merchant grabbed the man by the shirt and yanked him up to stand in front of you.

“I caught this no-good scoundrel stealing a bag of fruit from my stall.” He stated gruffly.

“Really? Because I just saw you hurting an unarmed man who is clearly starving.” You gave him a pointed look whilst putting an hand on your hip.

“I don’t care if he’s starving. He stole from me and if you don’t take him into custody, I will report you to your General.” His spit landed on your cheek as he threatened you.

You stood for a moment, thinking over the merchant’s words. You had recently had multiple complaints over your attitude, and you were on your final warning. You looked over, at the starving man hanging weakly from his grip. His sullen eyes looked broken. You knew you would be dooming him if you took him. He was too weak for lock up. But was this stranger worth your future in the matra?

“Fine. I’ll take him.” You grimaced at the starving man’s silent cries as pulled him away, back in the direction of the headquarters. He was deadweight as you dragged him along. As you walked, sky became darker until a bolt of lightning ripped a new contrast.

“In some legends, thunderbolts are a form of judgment from the gods above.” A voice interrupted your walk, just as you were about to round a corner. You turned slowly, recognising the gentle authority of Cyno’s voice.

“Relax.” You paused until you rounded the corner. “I couldn’t get another complaint.” You admitted before letting go of the starving mans arms and turning your back to him. Cyno smirked, understanding you, then turned his own head aside. Silence fell for a moment, then you finally heard the sound of scuffled footsteps running away from you.

“That was interestingly handled.” Your General looked down upon you, with a scrutinising look. “But I’m proud of you. You might not have done it by the book, but managed to find a way to resolve a near impossible situation without making a fuss or getting a complaint. Well done.” Your heart swelled with pride as he slapped his hand on your shoulder. “I’ll make a another me out of you yet. You’re just missing the comedy genius aspect.” He always knew how to ruin a nice moment.

“Well I better get looking for a new mentor then, because I certainly won’t learn comedy from you…”

——-

Thank you for reading 🫶

#genshin impact #x reader #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin fluff #genshin x you #teyvat #writing #cyno #cyno x reader #genshin cyno #cyno x you #cyno fluff #mentor cyno #comedian cyno #light angst #matra #sumeru #general cyno

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redqueenphoenix · 2 years ago

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Negan Fan Fiction List

Characters I write for - Recently I have been writing a lot of Negan Smith because, well he's freaking hot and why not. But I have been known to write for Eddie Munson, Loki, Saints Row, and Dragon Age. But enough about them, this one is for Negan!

But if you do want to learn more about Victoria Hawkins my TWD OC, click her name and get to know her. Warnings: Well I'm an adult and I write adult things, so lets just say some of them will be 18+. Those will be labeled.

Negan Smith

State Championship (TWD Fan Fic)

Playlist for the Fanfiction! Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 (NSFW, +18, NOT FOR MINORS) Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 (the End??)

Jeffery Dean Morgan

The Comedian

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pearlcigs · 1 year ago

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things that are keeping me alive rn

the crippling fear of leaving my mother all alone despite everything, the thought of her sitting alone all day with no one to talk to, an empty home, my room that's no longer occupied, makes my soul ache with a pain that is indescribable

ellie williams

#🪩 ⋆ late night talk #txt #ellie williams #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x reader #i think im a comedian

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laurafaritos · 4 months ago

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The Patron’s Curse: A Short Gothic Tale of Art, Ambition, and a Terrifying Deal

So, I wrote this story, and honestly??? It's wild. Picture this: a struggling artist, broke as hell, makes a deal with this mysterious, too-good-to-be-true patron. He promises her fame, fortune, and everything she’s ever dreamed of. Sounds amazing, right? Except there’s a tiny catch—he’s a freaking soul-sucking vampire who feeds off her art. Like, literally. Every masterpiece drains a piece of her.

It’s got ambition, art, spooky gothic vibes, and, of course, a life-or-death showdown. I swear, it’s like The Picture of Dorian Gray meets Black Swan but with a splash of '¿¿¿wtf is happening???' - I had so much fun writing this, but also… it made me think about ambition and how success can come at a price we don’t realize we’re paying.

Anyway, if you’ve ever felt like chasing your dreams is slowly eating away at your soul (or you just love creepy vibes), this one’s for you. Let me know what you think—click below to read 'The Patron’s Curse.' written by yours truly. And don't forget to follow me!!!

"The Patron's Curse" Short Fiction by Laura Faritos

I’m holding a tube of burnt sienna oil paint, and it feels like it weighs fifty pounds. Or maybe it’s not the paint. Maybe it’s the fact that the credit card I’m about to swipe has already been declined twice this week. The clerk is staring at me like I’m about to steal the paint and make a run for it, and honestly, I might if they keep looking at me like that.

“Just the brushes,” I mutter, sliding the paint back onto the shelf.

Burnt sienna can wait.

Apparently, so can my artistic integrity.

The clerk doesn’t even try to hide their pity as they ring me up. Great. Nothing like being judged by someone whose name tag says “Chad.”

Outside, the wind hits like a slap to the face, and I pull my scarf tighter. The cold always feels worse when you’re broke. My apartment is a ten-minute walk away, but I’m dragging my feet like it’s ten miles. It’s not the distance—it’s what’s waiting for me when I get there. Or, more accurately, what isn’t: inspiration.

Halfway home, I stop at the corner, staring at the cracked sidewalk beneath my boots. The city’s gray and lifeless today, like someone forgot to render the world in HD.

A bus rumbles past, belching exhaust into the cold air, and for a second, I wonder what would happen if I just got on it. Left this place, left everything.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I mutter to myself. By “this,” I don’t just mean painting. I mean the whole mess—scraping by, pretending I’m fine, lying to myself about things getting better.

When I finally get home, the apartment feels colder than the street outside—like even the walls have given up on me. I drop my bag on the counter, brushes rattling like they’re laughing at my life choices. The place smells like old paint and failure.

And then I see it: an envelope.

“What the…”

It’s thick, cream-colored, and sitting dead center on my portfolio, like it owns the place.

I freeze.

No one else has a key.

No one I know, anyway.

“What in the Edward Cullen stalker behavior is this?” I mutter, glancing around. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Silence. The creepy, “you’re-about-to-get-murdered-in-your-own-home” kind of silence. If someone is here, I’m screwed, because it’s definitely not anyone I know. My landlord wouldn’t bother with theatrics like this; he prefers to barge in unannounced, yelling about rent.

So who…?

I stare at the envelope, unsure if I want to touch it. It practically screams “trap.” What if it’s laced with poison or some kind of James Bond villain nonsense?

No, that’s ridiculous… right?

I mean, who would go to that much trouble for me? I’m nobody. Just Jade: struggling artist, owner of exactly one chair, and wearer of socks with holes.

Unless…

Unless this is something. A sign, maybe. A turning point.

I grab the envelope like it might explode and slide my thumb under the seal. The paper inside is smooth, expensive—completely out of place in my life.

"Jade, I’ve been watching your work. Your talent is undeniable. I’d like to discuss an opportunity that could change your life. Please meet me at the address below at 8 p.m. tonight. Come prepared to share your vision."

No name. No explanation for how they found me. And absolutely no clue how they got inside.

I reread the letter, the unease twisting tighter in my gut. “He.” This has to be a man. No woman in her right mind would break into someone’s apartment just to drop off a mysterious letter, casually reminding me she knows where I live and can let herself in anytime she pleases.

Yeah. No way. This is a man’s kind of unhinged.

The letter’s meant to be a “gift,” I guess. Not a threat. Definitely not a threat.

…Right?

I scrutinize the envelope like I’m auditioning for a detective show, holding it up to the light, flipping it over, even acting like I know how to look for invisible ink. As if I’d have the faintest idea what to do if I actually found some.

Conclusion? Nothing.

No fine print, no secret codes, just an address scrawled in an infuriatingly elegant hand. It’s in the part of town where people sip cocktails that cost more than my monthly rent.

My gut says “don’t go”. My bank account says, “shut up, broke bitch”.

I glance at the clock. 6:45 p.m.

The address is a 30-minute bus ride away. Just enough time to make the absolute worst decision of my life.

“Welp,” I announce to the empty room, grabbing my bag and heading for the mirror.

As I pull on my coat, I catch my own reflection and smirk. “Welcome back to another thrilling episode of ‘Will I Die, Or Will I Pay My Bills? Either Way, I Can’t Afford Food’ so stay tuned for the grand prize reveal!”

The smirk fades as quickly as it came. With a deep breath, I clutch the questionable invitation, step out the door, and silently pray this isn’t my RSVP to murder.

🖤

The mansion is everything I expected and worse.

Tall iron gates.

A winding driveway.

Windows that glint like they’re judging me for showing up in thrift store boots.

It’s the kind of place that screams “money can buy anything except taste.”

I stand at the gate for a moment, my breath fogging in the cold air. This is a bad idea. Scratch that—it’s a terrible idea. The kind of idea that starts with, “This is where they find my body,” and ends with, “She really should’ve stayed home.”

But then I think about my fridge, which currently contains a singular piece of string cheese and a bottle of off-brand ketchup. If this guy wants to murder me, fine—but he’d better make it quick. I’ve got bills to pay.

The gate creaks open like it’s been waiting for me. No one’s there. Because of course. The vibes are already haunted, and I’m not even inside yet.

I hesitate, then step onto the driveway. Gravel crunches under my boots, loud enough to wake the dead—or at least disturb whatever “eccentric billionaire” lives here. The mansion looms closer with every step, its massive front door lit by a single dim light, like some kind of dramatic spotlight.

Before I can knock, the door swings open. Standing in the entryway is a man who looks like he was genetically engineered to make people feel insecure about their life choices. Tall, lean, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His suit is tailored to within an inch of its life, which is just insulting to anyone who’s ever worn sweatpants to the grocery store.

“Jade,” he says, his voice low and smooth, like we’re old friends. Or maybe old enemies. Hard to tell.

“Yeah,” I manage, gripping my bag like it might save me. “You left me a letter.”

He smiles. It’s not a reassuring smile. It’s the kind of smile that says, “I know where the bodies are buried because I buried them myself.”

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

This is the part where I should run. Instead, I step inside, because apparently, I have the survival instincts of a lemming. The warmth of the house wraps around me like a trap, all cozy and suffocating.

The entryway is cathedral-level massive, with ceilings so high they could probably host their own weather system. The walls are lined with paintings, each one more unsettling than the last. Dark forests. Stormy seas. A woman whose eyes seem to follow me no matter where I stand.

I make a mental note: rich people art is weird.

The man leads me into a sitting room with a fire crackling in a massive stone hearth. The furniture looks like it was stolen from a castle, and I’m half-expecting a butler to pop out of nowhere with a tray of caviar and disappointment.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to an armchair that looks like it costs more than my rent.

I sit, because clearly, I’ve decided to lean into my bad decisions tonight.

He takes the chair across from me, steepling his fingers like he’s auditioning for Evil Billionaires Anonymous. “I’ve been watching your work,” he says, his dark eyes locked on mine. “You have something rare, Jade. A gift.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound as freaked out as I feel. “But I’m not sure why I’m here.”

He leans forward, the firelight catching on his cheekbones like he’s starring in his own gothic drama. “I want to make you an offer,” he says, his voice as smooth as the silk in his suit. “One that will ensure your art is never overlooked again.”

I should’ve seen it coming. Rich people don’t just hand out opportunities for free—there’s always a catch. A cost. A twist.

And yet, here I am, staring at this man—this stranger—like he’s about to sprinkle some fairy dust on my life and make all my problems go away. Maybe it’s the firelight, or maybe it’s the desperation clawing at my chest, but for a moment, I let myself believe him.

“Let me be clear,” he says, his voice smooth, measured. “What I’m offering isn’t charity. It’s an arrangement.”

There it is.

The catch.

“What kind of arrangement?” I ask, my voice more steady than I feel.

He smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to check your bank account and your pulse. “You create. I facilitate. The world sees your art, as it should, and in return…” He pauses, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make my stomach twist. “You give me something in return.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “But what, exactly, am I giving you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stands, crossing to a side table where a decanter of amber liquid waits. He pours himself a glass—no offer to me, of course—and takes a deliberate sip before turning back.

“Let’s just say,” he begins, his tone as casual as if we’re discussing the weather, “every masterpiece comes with a price. A little piece of yourself. Nothing you’ll miss.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Wow, you’ve really leaned into the tortured artist stereotype, huh?”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink. “Do we have an agreement?”

I should say no. I should run out of this mansion and never look back. But the thing is, I’ve been losing pieces of myself for years. Every rejection letter, every sleepless night, every time I’ve watched someone else get what I’ve worked so hard for—it’s all chipped away at me until I’m not even sure there’s anything left to lose.

So I say, “Fine.”

His smile widens, and for a moment, I think I see something flicker behind his eyes. Something dark. Hungry.

“Good,” he says, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “You won’t regret it.”

But as the words leave his mouth, I know I already do.

🖤

The first painting after the deal is unlike anything I’ve ever created.

It practically pours out of me—colors I didn’t even know I could mix, brushstrokes that feel more like instinct than skill. I’m not just painting; I’m breathing life into the canvas.

When I step back, my chest heaving and my hands trembling, I barely recognize it as mine.

It’s beautiful.

Terrifyingly so.

The kind of work that makes people stop in their tracks, lean in closer, feel something deep in their guts. And yet, looking at it fills me with an unease I can’t shake, like it’s staring back at me.

But unease doesn’t pay rent.

I take a picture, upload it to my neglected Instagram account, and go to bed thinking maybe—just maybe—things will start turning around.

They do.

Fast.

I fall asleep after a while. By the time I wake up, my phone is a chaotic mess of notifications.

DMs from gallery owners.

Comments from people asking how much it costs.

Even a message from someone claiming they’re “moved to tears.”

I stare at the screen, half expecting the numbers to fade away like some cruel hallucination.

But they don’t.

“You’re going to regret this,” I whisper to myself.

Because of course I do.

I know better than to believe in miracles without strings attached.

The calls start coming in, one after the other.

Exhibits. Commissions. Opportunities that would’ve been impossible yesterday suddenly feel like they’re being handed to me on a silver platter.

At first, it feels like validation.

Like all the sleepless nights and ramen dinners were finally worth it.

But then the shadows start to creep in.

It’s subtle at first—just little flickers in the corner of my eye, like the light can’t quite reach certain parts of the room. I laugh it off, telling myself I’ve been painting too much, staring at colors until my vision plays tricks on me.

But the flickers don’t stop.

They grow bolder.

One night, I’m working late, the hum of my playlist filling the room, when I feel it.

A cold breath on the back of my neck.

The kind of cold that crawls into your skin, into your bones, and refuses to leave.

I spin around, my brush slipping from my fingers, but there’s nothing there.

Just the shadows pooling around the corners, deeper and darker than they should be.

“It’s nothing”, I tell myself.

Stress.

Sleep deprivation.

Too much caffeine.

But as I turn back to the canvas, I swear the shadows shift, like they’re watching me.

The unease doesn’t go away. It seeps into everything, clinging to me like the smell of turpentine.

Even when I’m not painting, I feel it—the weight of something pressing down on me, growing heavier with every masterpiece I finish.

And yet, I can’t stop. The ideas come faster than I can paint them, my hands moving like they’re not even mine anymore. The work is better than anything I’ve ever done—better than I thought I was capable of. It’s breathtaking. Hypnotic.

And completely, undeniably wrong.

Because every time I finish a painting, I feel it. The pull. Like a thread being tugged from the fabric of my being, unraveling me one masterpiece at a time.

I stare at the latest piece—a haunting portrait of a woman whose eyes seem to follow you no matter where you stand—and feel a pang of something I can’t name. Pride? Dread? Both?

“Who are you?” I whisper to the empty room.

The shadows don’t answer.

But the whispers come at night.

They start as a faint hum, just at the edge of hearing.

It’s like a conversation happening in the next room.

At first, I think it’s the neighbors.

Then I remember the apartment next door has been empty for months.

“Great,” I mutter, pressing my pillow over my head. “I’m hallucinating now. That’s… fine.”

But the whispers don’t stop. They follow me into the studio, curling around me as I work, low and insistent. It’s not words, not exactly, but something close—sounds that almost make sense, just out of reach.

I tell myself it’s stress. I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself a lot of things I don’t believe.

A week later, I wake up to find claw marks on the windowsill.

They’re faint, like something tried to dig its way in but gave up halfway. I stare at them for a long time, my coffee growing cold in my hands.

“Animals,” I say aloud, because saying it makes it feel more plausible.

“Or a really ambitious squirrel.”

But the marks aren’t just on the windowsill. They’re on the doorframe, the baseboards, even the legs of my easel. Everywhere, like some unseen thing is trying to make itself known.

The air in the apartment feels heavier now, thick and oppressive.

It’s like it’s pressing down on my chest. I start sleeping with the lights on—not that it helps.

The shadows are still there, darker than ever, creeping closer every time I close my eyes.

And the whispers… the whispers are getting louder.

One night, I wake to find the shadows gathered in the corner of my room, writhing like smoke caught in a draft. They don’t move like shadows should—they don’t follow the light, don’t stay bound to walls. They stretch and twist, growing taller, their edges sharp and jagged.

I don’t scream.

I don’t move.

I just watch, my breath caught in my throat, as the darkness takes shape.

A figure steps out of the shadows, its form shifting and indistinct, like it’s not fully there.

Its eyes—or where its eyes should be—glow faintly, two pinpricks of cold, blue light.

“Jade,” it says, its voice low and hollow, like the wind through a graveyard.

My blood turns to ice. “Who are you?” I whisper.

It tilts its head, its movements unnervingly smooth. “You know who I am.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

I want to run, to scream, to do anything but sit frozen in my bed.

But I can’t move. Oh God. I can’t move.

I can’t even breathe.

Fuck.

The figure steps closer, its presence filling the room, suffocating.

“Keep going,” it says, its voice curling around me like smoke. “You’re almost there.”

Almost where? I want to ask, but the words won’t come.

The figure leans down, its glowing eyes locking onto mine. “Finish what you started.”

And then it’s gone, slipping back into the shadows as if it was never there.

By morning, I convince myself it was a dream. A nightmare brought on by exhaustion and too much caffeine. But the claw marks on my bedroom door tell a different story.

For the first time, I consider walking away. Leaving the apartment, the paintings, the deal—everything. But the thought feels impossible, like trying to imagine the sky without stars.

Because as much as I hate to admit it, I need this. The recognition. The success. The proof that I matter, that my work matters.

And maybe… maybe I need the shadows, too.

The next painting is a commission. Some tech mogul’s wife saw my work at a gallery opening and decided she absolutely must have one. No concept, no vision—just “something bold” to match the curtains in her overpriced penthouse.

“Sure,” I’d said, smiling through clenched teeth. “Bold. Got it.”

Now I’m standing in front of the blank canvas, staring at it like it personally insulted me. My brushes sit in a neat line on the desk, untouched. The air in the studio is thick, heavy with expectation.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I mutter, picking up a brush.

The moment the bristles touch the canvas, the world tilts.

It’s subtle at first. A faint buzzing in the back of my skull, like the hum of an old fluorescent light. But as the colors bleed across the canvas, it grows louder, sharper, until it feels like my brain is vibrating.

My hand moves on its own, the strokes precise and deliberate, like someone else is guiding me. The colors are richer than anything I’ve ever mixed before—deep, vivid hues that seem to glow against the stark white background.

The shadows gather around me, their edges flickering like they’re alive. They press close, pooling under the easel, spilling onto the floor.

I can’t stop. I don’t want to.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes. Time bends and twists, slipping through my fingers like water. The painting takes shape in front of me, a storm of color and movement that feels more alive than I do.

It’s beautiful. And it’s not mine.

I step back, my legs trembling, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The room is spinning, the shadows closing in, but I can’t look away.

The painting pulses, faint and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” a voice says behind me.

I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat. The patron is standing in the doorway, his dark eyes gleaming with something I can’t place.

“How did you—” I start, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

“This is your best work yet,” he says, stepping into the room. His gaze lingers on the painting, his expression almost reverent. “You’ve captured something truly extraordinary.”

I don’t know what to say. My hands are shaking, my body drained, like I’ve run a marathon without leaving the studio.

“What’s happening to me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He turns to me, his smile cold and sharp. “You’re becoming what you were always meant to be.”

Later, when he’s gone, I sit on the floor of the studio, staring at the painting. The shadows have receded, but their presence lingers, like the ghost of a storm.

I reach out, my fingers brushing against the edge of the canvas. The surface feels warm, almost alive, like it’s breathing.

A sharp pain blooms in my chest, and I pull my hand back, clutching at my ribs. The feeling passes quickly, but it leaves me shaken.

I look at the painting again, and for the first time… I wonder if it’s looking back at me.

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of whispers. At first, I think it’s a dream—a low, rhythmic murmur, like voices bleeding through the walls of an old apartment. But as I sit up in bed, the whispers grow louder, sharper, until they’re all I can hear.

They’re coming from the studio.

I grab the nearest object—a paintbrush, because apparently, I have zero survival instincts—and creep toward the door. The whispers are clearer now, layered and overlapping, like a crowd of people murmuring secrets into the dark.

The studio door is slightly ajar. Light spills through the crack, flickering and uneven, like a fire struggling to stay alive.

My hand shakes as I push the door open.

The painting is glowing.

It’s faint, just a soft pulse of light emanating from the canvas, but it’s enough to make the room feel otherworldly. The shadows stretch long and thin across the floor, twisting into shapes that make my stomach turn.

The whispers are louder here, swirling around me, seeping into my skin.

I step closer to the painting, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor. The colors seem to shift as I move, swirling and blending, forming patterns that are almost recognizable.

And then I see it.

In the center of the painting, hidden among the chaos of color and light, is a face. It’s faint, barely there, but unmistakable. Hollow eyes. A sharp, angular jaw. A mouth twisted into something between a smile and a snarl.

The patron.

I stumble back, my breath catching in my throat. The whispers rise, frantic and urgent, their words slipping through my fingers like sand.

“Stop,” I whisper, pressing my hands over my ears. “Stop it.”

The whispers don’t listen.

The shadows move.

At first, I think it’s a trick of the light. But then they lunge, stretching across the room like black flames, reaching for me.

I scream, grabbing the first thing I can—an empty paint can—and hurl it at the painting. It hits the canvas with a dull thud, but the glow doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows stronger, the light seeping into the shadows, feeding them.

The whispers are deafening now, a cacophony of voices that makes my head throb. The shadows twist and writhe, pulling at the edges of my vision.

I run.

I don’t stop until I’m outside, barefoot on the freezing pavement. The city is quiet, the streets empty, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

I glance back at the apartment building. The studio window glows faintly, a beacon in the dark.

My hands are trembling, my breath fogging in the cold night air.

I can’t go back.

But I know I will.

It takes me an hour to gather the courage to go back inside. I sit on the curb, shivering in my threadbare hoodie, trying to convince myself this isn’t happening. Maybe I’m sleep-deprived. Maybe I’ve inhaled too many paint fumes. Maybe—

A shadow moves in the corner of my eye.

I whip my head around, but the street is empty. Just the faint hum of a distant car and the flicker of a streetlight struggling to stay alive.

“Nope,” I mutter to myself. “Nope, nope, nope.”

But staying outside isn’t an option. My phone is dead, my wallet’s inside, and—most importantly—I have nowhere else to go. So I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and march back toward the building.

The hallway smells like old paint and despair. My apartment door is still ajar, the faint glow spilling out into the corridor.

I step inside, my heart pounding like a drum.

The studio is alive.

The painting pulses with light, the shadows writhing like living things. The whispers are back, louder and more insistent, their words just on the edge of comprehension.

And in the center of it all, the patron.

He’s not just a face in the painting anymore. He’s there, standing in front of the canvas, his figure flickering like a bad TV signal.

“You’re late,” he says, his voice smooth and unbothered, like this is just a casual Tuesday.

I don’t know whether to scream or laugh, so I settle for neither. “What the hell is going on?” I demand, my voice shaking.

He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a particularly interesting puzzle. “You wanted fame,” he says. “Recognition. Success. And I gave it to you.”

“Yeah? Well, I’d like a refund.”

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are no refunds, Jade. You signed the contract.”

“What contract?” I snap. “You didn’t give me a contract. You gave me a creepy note and a lot of cryptic nonsense.”

His gaze sharpens, and for the first time, I see something dangerous in his expression. “Everything has a price,” he says, stepping closer. “You knew that when you accepted my offer.”

The whispers surge, wrapping around me like smoke. The shadows stretch toward me, their edges jagged and sharp.

I step back, my pulse roaring in my ears. “I didn’t know I was selling my soul.”

“Semantics,” he says with a shrug. “You’re an artist, Jade. You understand sacrifice.”

The light from the painting grows brighter, the colors swirling faster. The shadows twist and churn, their movements almost frantic.

“You can’t fight this,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You’re mine now. Your art is mine.”

Something inside me snaps.

“No,” I say, the word firm and steady, even as my hands tremble. “It’s not yours. None of it is.”

The patron raises an eyebrow, his smile fading. “You can’t win this.”

“Watch me.”

I grab the nearest object—a palette knife—and lunge for the painting. The whispers scream, the shadows surging toward me like a tidal wave, but I don’t stop.

The blade slashes across the canvas, the colors splitting like an open wound. The light flares, blinding and searing, and the patron lets out a roar that shakes the walls.

The shadows collapse, their forms unraveling into nothingness. The whispers fade, replaced by a deafening silence.

And then, it’s over.

The painting is gone. The patron is gone.

I drop to my knees, the palette knife clattering to the floor.

The studio is still.

The silence is unbearable.

I sit on the cold floor of my studio, staring at the blank wall where the painting used to hang.

My ears are still ringing from the chaos, my hands trembling as if they’re trying to shake off what just happened.

For a moment, I wonder if I imagined it all. If this was some elaborate hallucination brought on by exhaustion and too much instant coffee.

But then I look down at my hands.

They’re trembling, smeared with something I can’t quite place—a residue that clings to my skin like it’s part of me now. Paint? Blood? Shadows? It’s all blurred together.

The easel lies toppled over, the studio around me eerily still, as if the world itself is holding its breath. I try to stand, but my legs buckle beneath me. My chest heaves as I sink back to the floor, my head resting against the wall.

🖤

When they find me, I’m slumped against the easel, dried paint caked on my hands and arms. My body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. I can’t speak. I can’t move. All I can do is stare at the blank canvas leaning against the wall, its surface pristine, like nothing had ever been there.

The paramedics speak softly, their words muffled and distant, like I’m underwater. They ask questions I can’t answer. Am I hurt? Is there anyone else here? Do I know my name?

My name.

I open my mouth to respond, but the words don’t come. I’m not sure anymore.

The next few weeks blur together. Hospital rooms. Endless tests. Doctors speaking in hushed tones as they glance over my charts. They tell me I’m malnourished, dehydrated, suffering from exhaustion.

They don’t know the half of it.

No one asks about the paintings, about the whispers, about the shadows that no longer stalk me but leave an ache in their absence. No one notices the faint marks on my wrists, like bruises left by invisible chains. No one mentions the small vial of burnt sienna paint tucked into the corner of my hospital bag—a reminder I can’t bring myself to leave behind.

When I’m finally discharged, the apartment feels like a ghost of itself.

The studio is bare. The easel is gone.

The paintings that once crowded the walls have disappeared, claimed by galleries and collectors eager to own a piece of me.

I walk through the empty rooms, my fingers trailing along the chipped paint on the walls. It feels like someone else’s life, someone else’s failure.

In the corner of the studio, I find a single canvas. It’s blank, untouched, but it hums faintly beneath my fingertips, as though it’s waiting for me to pick up a brush.

I don’t.

Instead, I sit on the floor, the canvas leaning against my knees, and stare out the window. For the first time in months, the world outside feels real. The sun is warm on my face, the sky impossibly blue.

But I know the truth.

Somewhere out there, he’s waiting.

Maybe not him, exactly, but someone like him.

Someone who can see the hunger in me.

The desperate, clawing need to be seen, to be known, to matter.

And I wonder, not for the first time, if I’ll ever be strong enough to say no.

THE END.

If you made it to the end of The Patron’s Curse, first of all—THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! Your support means the world to me!!!!! 🖤 This story was such a journey to write, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Did Jade’s choices resonate with you? What would you have done in her shoes??? Do you think the patron was a metaphor for something deeper, or am I just overthinking it??? (Spoiler: it’s probably both.)

Let’s talk about it in the comments—your interpretations, your favorite moments, or even your own experiences with ambition and the cost of chasing dreams. Or hey, if you just loved the spooky vibes, let me know that too!!!

And for those of you who enjoy this spooky vibe, stay tuned for my non-fictional spooky content! There are Haunted Comedians podcast episodes currently in post-production, where I interviewed a few haunted comedians in-depth about their personal paranormal experiences. I’ll be posting it shortly. And if you’re in Toronto, don’t miss the Haunted Comedians live shows happening in January, May, August, and October. Tickets at hauntedcomedians.eventbrite.ca.

Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to follow for more stories, wild thoughts, gothic vibes, and spooky fun. ✨ Tchau tchau ✨

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