#just chilling on the shelves like it was a normal product what the fuck

[wroteclassicaly]

May I Taste Your Sin

(Michael Langdon x Female Reader)

Pairings : Michael Langdon x Female Reader

Warnings : Language, smut, blood, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blood play, & period sex.

A/N : This fic has been a loooong time coming! I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, but now that I have inspo I wanted get this out for y’all! The warnings are obviously self-explanatory, so skip this if you don’t like the contents it’s gonna contain! Michael Langdon eats human hearts, and he’s a demon, before anyone starts to fuss over this, lol. I’m sure menstrual cycles with his partner would be a dessert to him!

Enjoy! This one is pretty intense, so I’m nervous about it! I also have more installments with different characters coming in the next few days! :)

Check out where I first posted the teaser for this fic, and check out these period sex headcanons I wrote for Michael!

~*~

He keeps staring at you. You try to move about, do your tasks, even attempt conversation with people you’d tried so hard to avoid these past several years. Your abilities to function like the human being that you are, seemingly vanish whenever the tall honey blond is within your exhausted proximities. You aren’t sure if you’d like to let out the loudest echoing scream and see where it ends up in this place, or let your wildest carnal urges guide your hormones into a literal sticky situation. Or, at the very least, let yourself fantasize about seducing him in your own self-created version of reality.

You’ll have to settle on the latter, unfortunately. Pocketing the cream colored dish rag, you place the last row of finely printed novels on the book shelve. Your fingertips linger, attempting to find a portal through their leather cover tops. Your tongue slicks your parched lips, neck stretching to crack out the tension. You aren’t trying to do anything but stealing some relaxation, when a largely hot hand is pressing a knot-out in a knead on your shoulder - clasping, settling a risky purchase.

You don’t have to make an educated guess to know whose hand that belongs to. He practically spews out his control and ownership of this place every chance that he gets. Biting down a venomous sigh, you coerce yourself into a turn around - gathering an eyeful of Langdon’s fancy black vest. That’s not good enough for the King, apparently, as he fits his pointer finger underneath your chin in a tuck, thumb pressing against your jaw to tilt your gaze to his own.

“Did you forget your manners, Miss Y/L/N?”

The way his shining eyes are sizing your attention, captivating your unwillingness to comply to how Langdon makes you feel - it can’t be humanly possible, can it? There’s that possessive ache that begs you to launch ownership over him and his entire body. Why is everything so widely dramatic whenever he’s around? Is he just full of himself or is it something way more than you’re aware? A crackling parch winds its pathway around your throat, sealing your breath in.

Nothing comes from between your lips. You’re frozen solid, legs a weightless press. Each touch this... man brings upon your body is like a bass thump - pumping you towards his secretive rhythm. All you can do is sway with the beat. Langdon smirks coyly, his other hand resting behind his back in an idle grace.

Neither of you dare utter a word. However, Langdon is seemingly content in making you squirm and you try to focus on everything but his perfectly crafted jawline, and how eagerly you’d suck on it if asked. You swear you can hear your heartbeat galloping off, so strong that it can tear your heart right out of your chest along with it. His colorful eyes glance over you in a brief stamping sweep, lingering at your sore breasts and your waistline.

What is he even doing...?

“Excuse me, but Ms. Venable did not authorize any private conferences with the help.” A cold and steel - grasped voice chills your bones down, dusting your cheeks with a reddening humiliation.

You haven’t even so much as spoken to Langdon, yet it feels like you two have been clawing and scratching at each other all over this fucking outpost, riding one another until you can’t fathom walking upright. You still can’t speak, but Langdon takes care of that for you.

“Interesting, and did Ms. Venable give you permission to waltz in here when you weren’t requested or required, just to give a meaningless order?” Langdon is mildly amused in his question, his hand still paused on your chin, thumb now swiping in a tickling drop with his fingertip - along your jaw.

Ms. Mead looks comical in her brief attempt at forming a snappy comeback, only to go silent in defeat. You take this tension as your escape line - quickly edging from the sacred confines Langdon has built for you two, and you all but run out the door. You’re clutching your shirt collar, punching a two pounce path up the staircase and to the help’s quarters.

Chores now, panic later.

~*~

Five minutes. Five fucking minutes in this place that you’ve served without question, complaint, for nearly two years - is all you want. But as the heavy handed rasps of Mead’s knuckle bones beat on your bathroom door, you know that is a simple pipe dream. Her low voice is harsh with you, making your headache unfold into a full blown migraine. You shift uncomfortably, knees knocking together, thighs sore against the cool porcelain seat below you.

Langdon must’ve massively pissed her off... Good.

Your palms collect purchase to your cradle your face, your eyes glistening with tears, throat burning with frustration. It hurts too much to stand upright this time. Normally women would lose this in stressful situations. Add the apocalypse and barely eating, you’d peg it normal to receive nothing. However, your predicament is much worse, fucking you over once more.

Your body welcomes Mother Nature each month. Unpredictable, yet there. Heavy, excruciating. You could list on and on reasons that don’t amount to much. You’re stuck with a part of you that won’t ever come to fruition.

Not in your former life, especially not in this one. Another reminder that carries an award winning irony. Sighing, you peer down at the red dish rag you were given. Literally on the rag, what a joyous harmony. The elites of course, are given the tampons and pads.

You have to use scraps of fabric you’re forced to wash in the bathtub if you move too fast or sneeze. And on your heavy days when you haven’t the time to stop your duties to wash and air out the towels, things are much harder. At least before the apocalypse you had chocolate, feminine products, a warm shower to take your time in, movies to curl up with, and a place of your own to cry where no one could hear you. You sniffle, hormones locking down your heart.

Most recently the outpost had welcomed the cooperative leader Langdon. He had interviewed everyone but you, uninterested, only flustering you a few times. Him being here just makes your period a more unwelcome storm. This morning as you were passing him on the landing of the staircase, delivering the bath towels to elite rooms, he stared at you. Right into you, nostrils flaring, tongue rolling out to slick his plump lips, blue eyes darkening.

Then there was this afternoon. How could I forget...?

The encounters were over quicker than they took place. Still, his acknowledgment of you didn’t bring your interview, nor did it promise your application for the sanctuary he preaches about. Forcing your tears to bank, you stand with your dress skirt and apron held up, staring at the stained rag in your panties. You turn and flush the toilet, eating back around to the shock of your fucking life. There, just feet in the from the doorway, is Langdon in all his glory.

It makes you swallow harshly, stomach drawing off the butterflies that have grown claws. You feel winded. His ring covered fingers bring an object to your sights. A thinly wrapped stick. You don’t answer, you don’t move, you don’t protest him approaching until he’s directly in front of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You try, a mere whisper betraying your bravery.

“Helping you,” He answers simply, a heated slide crossing his mouth. You can practically taste him, damn near swaying forward.

You start to snap back into your senses, ready to cover your remembered modesty back up. He grasps your wrist, a hungry look soft in his features. “Will you let me?”

You’re shaking, body on fire at him touching you, you try to keep your legs from clenching, that want. You know what will occur if you let yourself. He is gentle with you, admiration clear. Why? You don’t understand this.

“You’re bleeding, I know.”

Jaw unhinged, you stand upright, his fingers still ghosting your skin. An unlucky movement on your part, the warmth spills from you and you look down between your thighs in horror at the red lines running down your legs, pattering against the floor. Langdon is breathing heavily, practically panting, stunning you once more. His other hand grips your cheek, thumb swiping your lip, eyes not breaking contact from yours.

“Do you know how good your cunt smells? Every pathetic person in this outpost is starving and you have the best meal between your fucking legs.”

When your silence stretches on, Michael nudges forward, careful with you. “May I feast?”

It’s all too much to handle. Having him talk to you, you speaking to him. And now this? How? You begin to grow dizzy, hands trembling as you try to pull your clothing back up. Langdon’s hands grip your wrists.

“Please don’t do that.”

You want to stun him incredulously, backhand him. None of that is happening, not even the urge. Instead, your want for him is magnifying beyond any feigned ignorance. Your tongue slides out across your lips, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a brisk chew. Langdon hooks his middle finger between your teeth, releasing your lip and combing the blood across in a coppery gloss.

Your chest is startled, rising and falling in quivering quakes, ears hearing a static rush. Everything inside of you is alive and crying out in need to be sated. Langdon grips you around the waist, lowering his forehead to rest atop your own, his middle finger - still doused in your blood - slithers past his own lips, which close in a sticky suckle. A vibrating moan pummels his throat, causing a constricting swallow that showcases his Adam’s apple.

If I could only just lick that...

Langdon is sly and devilishly cunning to a fault - fast in his next movements. He presses a designer boot down over your skirts, successfully preventing them from being made up. “Leave them here for someone else.”

“I... I can’t. This is too much, Langdon —“ He chuckles at the formality.

“Since I can see your womanhood running from between your legs, I suppose it’s only fair that we skip some formalities, don’t you agree, Y/N?” Your eyes are probably wider than necessary - a cartoon like sight. He’s used your full name in an authoritative command, leaving no room for question. “And you may call me Michael.”

It’s all a little more frantic from this point. He gives the slightest of information, and you see your skirts and panties gliding across the floor in a winded push. Michael brings that wrapped item back into your eye-line. “We won’t be needing this for a while.”

“I didn’t say yes.” You try, swallowing a weak, whimpering stifle.

“But you didn’t say no, did you?” That shit eating grin. He has you and he is all too aware - elated to the brimming brimstone of hellfire you’re about to bestow upon yourself.

Your insides melt into the trenches of red hot, raw ravishment. Michael drops his left arm down, hand palming his hardening cock through black slacks, eyes encouraging you in a chained bind. “Let’s go and make a mess in my room.”

Now or never. No more of this, back to reality, maybe some place better. You’re spinning in a foiling encasement, precipice wide and open - hungry to pull you under. And you dive in, you let it all go. Michael looks satisfied, sharing something with himself that you don’t know... yet.

Taking Michael Langdon’s hand, you’re led into the unknown.

~*~

Langdon leads you down his own separate corridor, your free hand scolded for trying to hold yourself over your uniform.

“I want you to make a mess.” Michael says.

You hope that you’re not the one who will be paying the cost for your own said mess, or cleaning it up. If it’s up to Venable - you’ll be licking it, all the way to her high heeled boots.

Once inside the confines of Michael Langdon’s bedroom, you take the time to look around, enjoying the perks this situation is bringing. The room isn’t any different than what the purple elites get here, it is bordering on a more... lived in feel, which is ironic when you consider that Langdon hasn’t been here like everyone else has for the past three years.

Guess he’s just more comfortable? He does look like an English vampire half the time..

On that note, a particularly harsh cramp antagonizes your uterus, causing you to clench your abdomen, choking out a acidic slice. “Fucking demonic cramps.”

Michael - now clad in his all black ensemble, minus the overcoat - chortles, knotting his fingers together behind his back and strolls forward, wetting his lips as the firelight crackles a sparking soundtrack. “It’s ironic how you refer to it as “demonic”, when Satan really has nothing to do with this. I mean, it’s not on him that humanity failed their pitiful guidelines for sobering temptation. Wasn’t it your lord and savior that bestowed this curse upon you?” He finishes, giving a head tilt to your unhinged stun.

“Are you religious?” Is all you can come up with.

Michael sneers, looking slightly offended. It fades seconds later. “Depends on your definition of religious, and then there is what one believes in. But I guess you can say that I’m devoted to... a certain cause.”

“Were you this mysterious before the apocalypse, or is that why the cooperative gave you the job?” You try, a discomfort crackling at your inner thighs.

They’re probably smeared... And not just with blood.

“I bet you’re uncomfortable.” Michael teases, snapping his fingers at the fireplace. Did your eyes betray you, or did the flames flicker?

You want to give a snappy comeback, but it feels unwise. You nod like the sap that you are, nails biting your palms. Your heartbeat has begun to accelerate, a visible sight beneath your apron. Langdon guides himself to step in front of you, leather shoes drumming across the floor beneath. Every sound in this forsaken room is flowing through your eardrums - Michael’s scent on the tip of your tongue.

You need him. More than your body has to have the air that filters underneath this mausoleum. You’re so unsteady, eyes brimming with the smoking arousal, blocking common sense. Michael catches you as you collide with his chest, wrapping your fists into his vest. His blue irises are disappearing to a canyon of night sky - lavish black so sinful that it steals the breath from your lungs.

Drizzling off your tongue is a hesitation. “Won’t we get into trouble...? Venable -“ Those rough fingertips hold a softness that hushes your lips, denting.

“Can watch me with my face buried into your cunt. The humiliation will arouse her.” Michael answers in his own finish.

You aren’t sure why, but that grates your mouth into a sneaky grin, shared with Michael’s, sensing that slapping throb at his phrases. He pinches your chin, nuzzling your head to the side, his lips sloping a map across your neck. His towering physique backs you by knocking his knees into your thighs, delivering you to the edge of his bed. You drop like wild weights, looking towards the ceiling, trying to take a deep inhalation. Langdon crouches, pants rustling as they tighten around his temptingly thick thighs.

He tuts in a scold, chiding you furthermore. “You will watch what I’m getting ready to do to you! Is that clear, Y/N?”

You don’t answer fast enough, Michael’s hand wrapping around your throat, eyes burning hellfire through you - dusting your bones to ash. Your throat is wet with the clingy, unshed tears. Fuck, you have to be filled up until you’re hollowed out. Michael is languid in grace, hand toppling into your lap, joining his other.

“Take down your hair, Y/N.”

Like a puppet, you obey your new owner. Unwrapping the pointed bun, you shake your locks free, sighing in an eased tickle.

“What a good and obedient girl that you are. Those who obey, shall reap the riches.”

“Why are you doing this?” An ignorant question on your part.

“Because,” As if it’s the most simple answer in this broken world, Michael let’s his hands start to unbutton his vest, carelessly sending it, his attention not wavering off you in the slightest. “I’m hungry.”

A literal moan comes from you, making Langdon hiss through his through his milky white teeth. He resumes his former position, hovering.

“Spread.” Michael says, a quaint wonder adorning him, his palms sliding up and down your legs to feel you part them. The blood is mixing some fucked out potion with your creamy arousal for him, and he knows it, has it right into your tremble from the exposure.

Your skin is steaming in scrapes, responding so vulgarly to Michael, that he is hooking his wrists under your knees, bouncing the flesh into his awaiting hands, and claiming. He hoists your legs over his shoulders to arch you to his idea of perfection. You should be protesting, in a shambled shyness. That is gone, no place here. Michael let’s his nose rest in the crease of your thigh, crudely sniffing like some beast.

His sopping tongue finds a striking stroke along your ruby red, damp thigh.

Closer... He’s getting closer...

When you can’t feel that warm and snide air he possesses, you lock to load a question. Michael is shedding himself of his remaining clothing in a cocky crawl. His hair curtains his face as he sees you seek out his cock - thick and heavy, weighted and wet with pre-cum.

“Finish taking off your clothing.” You’ve never done something so fast in your years alive.

You have to admit, being so vulnerable like this - naked and bleeding, it has you buzzing.

Michael outstretches a veined forearm, the back of his rings swirling in desiring dances across your breasts. “Do these hurt?”

Your lashes are slicked in perspiring tears, the tired soreness harassing your chest. He has his truth. His trim form bows to you once more, placing your legs back where they belong. He knuckles a pressing push into your abdomen. “Bear down.”

It isn’t an accident this time, it’s not a discreet secrecy. Michael wants you this way. All of you. Finding a confidence, you give yourself a high and sink your fingers into his hair, toes tickling his shoulder blades in a forwarding nudge, doubling down on your muscles. That warmth spills out of you and Langdon takes you, tongue parting your swollen folds. He regulates his tongue in wet paints, licking and sucking everything you give him.

“Please—“ You’re already begging. It’s so fucking intense and intimate that you can’t formulate your own damned name.

“Are you really going to ask, or would you just like to feel good?” Michael vibrates, his mouth visible and shining crimson as he seeks you out between your slippery thighs.

It’s outright feral. His irises are coal black, blue lost in some combing canyon that’s crumbled around sin. His digits prod at your sensitive opening, being accepted moments later. His lips close over your clit, tongue slithering back and forth to assist his beckoning fingers. He gathers more from you - his purpose.

That quenched fold starts to seize you early on, your pattering breaths signaling the orgasm that is about to tear the screams from your fucking diaphragm. Michael’s hand smacks and rolls your swollen breast - permission granted. That’s all it takes and you’re falling back onto the mattress, back arching in a lined drag, pussy flattening against his mouth. He jerks you impossibly closer, your vision whiting out into dark spots. You tangle your fingers further into his luscious strands, holding, pulling.

In the midst of close recovery, Michael is plowing you with a short lived let down, his mouth leaving your pussy. You can’t complain, no time available, as his hips slot in a frazzled fit between your legs. His pelvis is tense, sheathed in sweat. His chest smashes your breasts, his hand reaching down to guide his cock inside you. You can’t speak, but cling tightly to his back. He growls a sound that you’ll never forget, the fire bursting behind him, flames licking the rocked cove that houses them.

His mouth is covered in your essence, your cunt bathing his dick with each violent thrust. It’s pouring in drenches, salty perspiration, pooling blood - both of you losing yourselves in the mess. Michael props himself up, digging into a dipping slam, meeting your mouth in an ending kiss. His hair tickles your shoulders, nose nudges your now blood caked mouth, and he gives the warning.

“Spill your fucking curse all over me!” And you come undone, glued to him in puzzled entrapment.

Your thighs are wrecked, his bedsheets useless, and then there’s Michael, who forces you to look at him and really see him. There’s only black in his eyes. You sputter a disbelief, bracing. His mouth parts, tongue flicks across to gather more, leveling off into his jagged movements. He swells inside your cunt, dousing your walls in his warm cum.

He doesn’t leave you, not even when it’s over. He simply takes you with him. You aren’t sure where you get the courage to speak - body shaking and shivering.

“What... Michael, who are you?”

He cups a hand over your cunt, rolling onto his side, keeping you held to him. He lightly blows away a pesky lock of your hair, then maneuvers another behind your ear.

“I’m the man who’s going to save your wretched existence.”

Tag list : @littledemondani @dark-mei-rose @fckinsupreme @angelicmichael @icylangdon @ritualmichael @sojournmichael @celestialrequiem @instinctsxbaby @infernwetrust @ferndolan @9layerdevilfoodcake @bloodcoatedeclipse @wormycircumstance @antichristsxbox @xavierplympton @xavierplymptons @ramona-thorns @lovelylangdonx @langdxn @codyarchives @dailylangdon @codyfernuk @langdonsjoyy @7-wonders @blakescoven @holylangdon @bitchchatter @suspiriva @taskmastter @kitty4860 @ladynuwanda @langdonsexual @sammythankyou

[laylacooke]

Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked || Sam & Layla

timing:  Thursday Morning at Took’s General Store parties: @hackysackace & @laylacooke Summary: Layla loses her job and possibly a friend. Warnings: Some violence towards the end. 

“Ain’t No Rest for The Wicked” played faintly out of the speakers hanging high above in Took’s. Layla had already been late for her shift. She wasn’t wearing the required uniform, and she was snacking on something that looked like it had been sitting on the shelf for as long as the store had been in business. “How did I end up at such a BORING job again?” She sighed loudly. Raising one eyebrow, she hopped off the counter she was sitting on, towards the front of the store. It was nearly empty, but it still didn’t stop the few patrons wandering around from staring at her or in her general direction.

Sam looked up from where he’d been scrubbing the store floor, shoes covered in suds as he moved and swept the mob across the entryway in the aftermath of a syrup and beer incident. “Hey Layla,” he said, sizing her up with an expression of confusion. “Uh, Bill’s gonna want you to put the uniform on when you’re not in the stockroom…” 

Finishing off whatever crumbs remained from her snack, Layla tossed the bag on the floor. Hearing Sam’s voice, she wandered through the aisles with her fingers slapping into the products hanging from hooks and sitting on shelves, “Oh, is he? Well, what if I don’t have it?” She slowly inched her way closer to Sam as she stared at the few customers giving her a once over, “What are you looking at?” Sending a hiss their way, the redhead laughed at the jumpy reactions.

Sam’s puzzlement deepened into a frown whose edges were crinkled with uncertainty. Widened blue eyes glanced from Layla to the heckled customers. “Uh, then you’ll need to get back to the stockroom,” he said upon rising to his feet and gingerly lowering the mop back into the suds bucket. After propping up a doubled-sided yellow “Wet Floor Sign”, Sam crossed the distance to where Layla was doing her Wicked Witch of the Northeast impression. “Heh uh,” he ventured in a cautiously low voice. “You ok?” 

“The stockroom huh? You gonna handle this big store all by yourself?” She glanced around. Took’s wasn’t Walmart sized, but it was a lot for one person to take care of. Layla watched as Sam made his way towards her. Had she been any closer to where he was moping, she would have kicked the sign over, but instead, she stopped and pulled a bag of Veggie Straws off the shelf. Crumpling the bag in her hands in order to form a nice multicolored powder, she popped open the bag and dumped the contents onto the floor spreading the dust around with her foot, “Missed a spot, and I’m great. Haven’t felt this good in a long time.” Dropping the empty Veggie Straws bag into his bucket of water, she made her way towards the back as requested, now, having the opportunity to kick the “Wet Floor” sign down. 

Honestly Sam didn’t relish the thought of manning the floor all by himself with this many people here. He was about to apologize and suggest some other alternative but then Veggie Straws got scattered all over the floor and in the scud bucket. Striding over the fallen sign, Sam tried to catch up to Layla. “Woah what is...Layla what’s the matter with you?! Why…”

She was almost back to the stockroom, when she heard him come up behind her, “Uh, because I can? I don’t see you trying to stop me. Besides, I’m sick of this town walking all over me or telling me I’m too weak. Or to quit whining.” It was like she had a bone to pick with whoever crossed her path, whether it be friends or complete strangers. She had already wreaked havoc all over town, and Took’s General Store was just another place Layla was working on checking off her list. Any remorse she had felt was non-existent now, and while she resented Salva for giving her the curse of being a werewolf, she was starting to relish in the idea of no longer having a conscience. After all, what was the point? She was just a monster to most. Why not act like one and give the people what they wanted.

Sam’s soft features were blank and lost during Layla’s explanation. About the most violent thing Sam ever engaged in was Lacrosse and hauling thrashing Atlantic tuna into the fishing rig. He hadn’t really considered forcefully stopping her, but the taunt still burnt a little. “Look,” Sam pleaded, “you’re not weak. I’m sure you’d do awesome in soccer and can do a lotta reps,” the high school athlete said, perhaps misunderstanding Layla’s deeper meaning. “But, weren’t you just saying you wanted normalcy and all that? Boss is gonna be pissed if stuff is wrecked. C’mon, ill clean this up and we’ll get you a new uniform.” 

“Soccer? You’re thinking about Ariana. I’m a cheerleader.” She turned on her heels to face him, an evil smirk poised on her blood red lips, and blocked his path, “Come on, Sammy Boy. Be aggressive. Be-e aggressive.” She slowly inched forward clapping her hands along with the cheer, increasing the taunt. “Be aggressive. Be-e aggressive.” Before long, she was right up on him, and instead of clapping, she was pushing him backwards as she resumed her chant. Hoping he would fight back. Layla wanted action. The wolf inside of her wanted action, and he was giving her nothing in return

Sam Rainsbottom was an athletic young man with a filled-out frame, much like his father. Although Sam’s mellow mien and boyish features didn’t lend themselves to an intimidating bearing. But being pushed around by a hot girl in front of a bunch of staring customers was emasculating enough to kindle a spark of anger. “Cut it out,” he snapped. “The hell are you doing?!” Sam’s shoulders squared and he stopped stepping backward again Layla’s pushes, choosing to hold his ground. “I don’t know if you're fickin high of what,” Sam snapped, voiced heated but still low enough that it carried only to the two of them. He made no move against Layla however, just holding his place. “But maybe you need to sign out. I’ll cover your shift.” 

Layla stopped chanting, giving him one last firm shove that sent him nowhere, “Well look who finally grew a pair.” The smirk was a wide grin. “Never seen you so angry, Sam. What’s the matter? Afraid a girl might actually be stronger than you are?” She cocked her head to the side, before pulling her long, red hair over to the opposite shoulder. Seeing the people staring at them, she flashed her yellow eyes and bared her fangs, causing them to scatter, and the bell over the door to ring continuously until no one, but Sam and Layla remained. Glancing back to Sam, she gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, “There you go, Buddy. Store’s empty. Now the real fun can start.” Pushing past him, a hard shoulder going into his arm and chest, she started to move down the aisles tossing shit onto the floor, “Let’s see what Bossman thinks now?” 

Holy shit.

Sam had willingly taken a few steps back when Layla had unveiled luminous that seemed almost luminous, and bared fangs that looked like they punch though his forearm like tissue paper. The young woman scowled at himself for losing his grip like that. But those prosthetics looked almost...uh...well they were pretty high quality for sure. “It’s not about who's stronger Layla. You’re running off customers, messing up stock! You could get fired!” 

She stopped what she was doing, and sighed loudly, “Does  it  look  like  I  care? Half this shit’s probably been sitting on the shelves since before your born. Now, do you want to help me or are you going to be a problem?” There was no real motive behind what she was doing. Layla was purely enjoying it for the chaos she was causing; the consequences going straight out the door.

Sam Rainbottom was no saint and had committed all the usual chicanery one might expect of teenage fellows who are perhaps a bit too easily swayed by their peers. However, school roof-climbing, pranks, questionable choices of the sex drive were one thing. Trashing the store in broad daylight where store cameras were likely recording them was another matter, however. 

Sam squared his shoulders and walked up to Layla, blissfully unaware that he was approaching a creature who could rip him in half and grabbed at the latest item she was about to throw on the floor. “I’m going to be a problem. You need to stop.” Sam’s normally placid pond-blue eyes had hardened and chilled in anger. “Now.”

Seeing Sam come over got her heart beating harder in her chest, but what he had said, she didn’t like. His authoritative tone had reminded her of her parents, and the hell they had put her through. A low growl in her throat and claws pushing out of her fingertips, she snarled, “That was the wrong answer, Sam. The wrong fucking answer.” Lowering her head, Layla charged him and shoved him as hard as she could; her wolf strength sending his buff form into the row of shelves behind them.

At this point she didn’t care if she had hurt him or not. Instead, she continued to destroy the store making sure to take extra care of ripping things up with her claws. If he didn’t want a mess, she was going to give him one. She was taking this as seriously as he had gotten with her. As seriously as her parents took hunting, making it very clear that she needed to as well. Her own personal vendetta being released on Sam and Took’s out of the twisted thoughts that lingered her mind now.

There was a ringing in Sam’s head as he tried to get his bearings. Everything was darkness, strange twisting shades. His ribs spasmed and Sam’s curled into a ball on the floor as he tried to cough in harsh rasping breaths. Sam was enough of an athlete to know that some ribs and his shoulder were dislocated, maybe broken. Flares of pain and cold numbness seared through his chest and spine. Being thrown through metal shelving had opened multiple lacerations before he’d impacted the floor headfirst. There was warmth against his cheek as blood welled from his forehead and temple in a growing pool on the linoleum floor. 

Sam didn’t have the thought capacity to consider how a willowy-seeming girl about his age could throw him like that and nearly broken his ribs when Sam’s gotten through plenty of Lacrosse and Football games just fine. There was only pain, darkness, strange colors of vertigo, the mingled warmth and cold of bleeding out. 

Making sure to trash every inch of the place, she didn’t stop until she was done. Bottles lay busted with soda, beer, and other sticky stuff on the floor. Food lay exposed or crushed. Fishing poles, tackle, and other random items that were contained in the walls of Took’s looked as if it were the holidays and there was a rush on the latest deals. She had successfully wrecked a town staple all out of her own form vengeance for all the hurt she had been put through. All while Sam Rainbottem lay in a crumpled-up heap on the floor.

Giving her masterpiece of destruction one last look, a sinister smile slipped over her blood red lips, and without hanging around any longer, Layla found her way out in the street humming the tune of “Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked” by Cage the Elephant, not giving a second thought to how much trouble she had just gotten herself into.

[deathbyvalentine]

Prompt Fills

Getting Ready for the Ball - Lance

Noble clothes on. Naval tunic discarded, pilot’s jacket abandoned. He wanted this to be a real party tonight. Not something for work, not a secret fucking mission. Admittedly, it was not his preferred scene - his superiors would be there after all and he was stepping foot on a ship owned by the person he despised. He would prefer the mindless noise and darkness of a hive rather than the endless rules of a trader function.

But Astrid would be there, and they’d be pulling pranks, drinking together, whispering like school kids in corners together. A proper return to the old days, albeit it less medicated. And he wanted to dance with Dif, heads close together, arms around each other, almost like they were normal people. He would coax Gwyn into sharing his flask, flirt shamelessly with Esme, connect with Mitra, maybe even see if any of his various exes were up for a tumble. 

Part of him wondered if he shouldn’t drink. Shouldn’t fuck. Shouldn’t enjoy losing himself in movement quite so much. But the abstinence would drive him to cruller things, he was almost certain. The lesser of two evils. That’s what it was about now. He wasn’t strong enough to quit evil entirely. He wasn’t like Nic. Or any of them, really. The ones who seemed to choose correctly every single day.

Oh well. At least he hadn’t killed the amount Erydia had. Yet.

Purple Prose

The hills were covered in lavender, a low buzzing from the pollinating bees mixing with the whispering of the wind rolling down into the valleys. Lorna sat perfectly still, watching one of the bees crawling up her knee, barely perceptible by touch. It was a perfect day, the bright blue sky stretching endlessly above her, giving an invincible veneer to the morning. It felt like living inside of a photograph. 

The breeze blew her hair forward, a few strands sticking to her lip gloss. The wind was not exactly warm. It reddened her nose, raised goosebumps on her bare arms. It only sharpened her joy, made it into something fierce, into the honest experience of having a body. 

Lorna didn’t always feel like her body was hers. Instead it belonged to her friends, the boys who looked at her in school, her family who analysed and poked at her at every occasional gathering.  It was only when she was alone, utterly alone, with no eyes watching and no fingers touching that she felt she inhabited it completely. Here were her lungs, here was her heart, her muscles and her mind. Her mind and her body were not meaningfully distinct like this. Her senses, gifted to her by her body, intertwined with her mind. Her mind was only what her body let her allow.

And she was grateful.

What Is Love? 

Astrid rested her head on her arms, tilting her head to her side, a small smile playing on her face. Syn was a little way away, leaning against the wall, dark lipstick leaving stains on the glass in her hand. Astrid liked watching her like this, in her element. Charming people, selling her product, a much a part of the party as the music or the dancing lights. 

Astrid loved her. She had loved her for a long while now. It was a background emotion, the same area of her brain that craved drugs or sex. It was a need that great. A need that potentially destructive. A need that she considered a part of her personality. Maybe love was the same thing as need. She needed Rei, and she had loved them wholeheartedly. She needed to do something with the love she had had for her sibling. She couldn’t let that love rot or wither. So she would channel it back to Syn.

Maybe that way she would love her back. If she tried hard enough.

Transformation

 She had been lost in the woods for what felt like weeks now. The deeper she went, the less she remembered of what had come before the trees and the journey. Not her name, not where she come from, not what lay beyond the boundary of the woods. She had vague memories of a city, though the very concept was repellent. Some time ago she had discarded her shoes, followed by her jacket, her bracelets. She left a trail of civilisation leading to where she was now.

She kept expecting to be cold. Or for her skin to be torn with thorns or from rocks that she stepped on. But none of those feelings came. The longer she went on the less discomfort she felt. The surer her feet felt. The less lost she felt. The more she felt, the closer to the universe, the more alive. The less worried.

The pool of water looked cool and inviting.  She discarded the dress, the last trappings of a creature she no longer was. She slipped in, up to her hips, the water lapping at her gently. It was colder than she thought, chilling her to her bones. She walked further in, toes feeling out the path carefully. 

It covered her stomach next, then her breasts. When it hit her shoulders, she realised she was going all in. She took a breath, and another step, and the water came in over her head. She didn’t want to drown. She just wanted a moment of peace.

A few more steps and the ground began to slope back upwards. She followed the lay of the land, this time on four hooves, not feet. She stepped out of the pool as a doe, blinking in the timeless sun. This was her now. She shook, the water droplets spraying from her damp fur. She trotted into the forest, disappearing with the flick of a white tail.

Good Days

Rose walked on tiptoes. Even when she didn’t need to be quiet. Her stockinged feet barely made a sound on the thick plush carpets, barely disturbed the hardwood floors. It was in this manner she made her way to the parlour, quieter than a ghost. She cracked open the thick wooden door, peeking around it, ready to withdraw at a moment’s notice. She breathed a sigh of relief a moment later, stepping in. Her mother had indeed went out for the day. You could tell from the bare grate, no morning fire burning. It was one of the only hints you got. She never announced when she was leaving and not seeing her was no guarantee she wasn’t in her rooms, waiting for  wrongdoing to occur so she could swoop out and correct her wayward daughter.

She liked this room. She barely ever saw it, it used mainly for formal occasions and adult conversations she was not privy to. She took her time now, trailing her fingers over undusted shelves, inspecting the fussy porcelain statuettes and severe family portraits. She sought to find resemblances. Here was a cousin with her hair, here was a uncle with her odd grey eyes. Above the fireplace, an actual oil painting of her sat, from earlier this year. Her mother insisted on an updated version every year. After all, they never knew when she would succumb to her sickness and her mother wanted a picture of her as close to her death as she could get. Portrait sitting always felt vaguely morbid for this reason. This was how she would be remembered, forever. 

Her fingers danced over the piano keys, the sweet high notes filling the room. She had another three minutes until she should be back in her bed, her maid little more than a spy for her mother. Her day was clockwork. Wake, medicate, bathe. Read in bed. Sew in bed. Peer out of her window, hoping that the day was clear enough she could see the edge of the forest that surrounded the mansion. Medicate. Have her hair brushed by her mother, be read to like a child. Sleep sleep sleep. Rinse and repeat, until she died. 

She noticed a moth sleepily crawling along the windowsill. With weak fingers, she tried to lift the window to free the creature, but unsurprisingly they were locked tight. She didn’t know why she even tried. The cold air, she had been told frequently, could give her a chill that would rob her breath. No chances could be taken. She let the moth walk onto her hand, leaving lightly dusty footprints. They were both stuck here, for the time being.

Ash & Members of Team Dickhead Night Out at Heaven 

People were often surprised that Ash loved dancing as much as she did. The usually reserved, stoic creature became someone else on a dancefloor. Surrounded by the crowd, by pressing bodies, by music loud enough to drown out thoughts she could pretend. She loved it and the nights she didn’t spend hunting, she spent here instead. The alcohol, of course, helped. 

It was something the Team had in common. It was how she met Bekah, moments after a bar fight, dancing with her, bodies closed, one thing definitely leading to another shortly after. Blood and sweat and laughter. And whiskey. A lot of whiskey. Even now they would share headphones, classic rock and sad indie alike bridging the unspoken affection between them.

Her and John dancing together, her skill so much lesser than his, but they looked good together. It was in these moments, she vaguely wondered if she was less of a lesbian than she first thought, his arms around her, his low voice more often than not singing along to whatever they were dancing to.

Sean and Tammy, none of the heat existed with them. Instead it was just fun, screaming along to the songs that hit too close to home and bouncing to the ones that were not. There was no opportunity Ash would not take to drag the pair onto the dancefloor.

She hadn’t managed it with Izzy and Cordy. Yet. Their time would come.

Maggie

She was pointedly fastidious. Nails clean and trimmed short and without polish. Curls pulled back as tight as possible into a bun. The matron could be merciless and Maggie as of yet had given her no reason to turn her beady eye onto her conduct, and she didn’t intend to. She liked being one of the good ones. The ones who were always on time, always well turned out, never caught around the village with any of the older men.

It was a ritual that comforted her too. Smoothing her hands over the starched linens of her apron, making sure her hair was tidy, her (slightly illegal) stockings were unladdered, looking over herself in the mirror... It promised her that no matter what the day brought, herself was well in order. In the chaos that was the hospital, you needed all you could get. It comforted her, the patients and the families looking for a semblance of normality. 

Today the rain was pouring down with a ferocity that was uniquely British. It was reassuring in it’s reliability at this time of year. On good days, in the summer, she would walk to the manor, waking up with the birds and the sun. On medium says, she would ride her bike, the cold wind reddening her cheeks. On days like this she would wait at the pick up point resentfully, arms arms wrapped tightly around herself, collar pulled up against the wind. 

On days like this, the manor appeared out of the rain like a ghost, outline first. Once it would have been home to a privileged few and a fleet of servants. Now it was home to the dying, the injured and the broken. As well as their carers. Sometimes on sunny days, as she walked down the curving stone steps to the most commonly used entrance, she would close her eyes and imagine she was coming here a hundred years earlier, where grand balls with great silken dresses were not unusual.  Where it was still beautiful. 

Inside was a constant clash of your senses. People yelled and sobbed, instruments clattered against trays, iodine soaked the air, hands were scrubbed in freezing and warm water by turns. She remembered when her hands were soft. Not so any more. Her training had changed that, bit by bit.

Her favourite part of the day came in the early evening. When most of the treatments had been done, where the doctors had shuffled off home. When she would read to the soldiers, letters from home, books and poems alike. Honestly, she was more than a little mediocre at the medical side of her volunteering. This was where she was useful. Talking to them, holding hands, refilling hot water bottles and trying to make them laugh. Ryan was threatening proposal number three at this point, and with each grin she was almost tempted to take him up on it.

It broke her heart too, don’t get her wrong. Several times a week she sat in the lavatory, seat down, knees pressed together, hand pressed to her mouth so no passing nurses would hear her crying. One of the few positive points of the shortage of luxury goods - no mascara tracks to give her away. 

She wasn’t sure what she would do when the end of the war came. Nothing had made her feel so hopeless or so useful. Her studies seemed distant now, the idea of doing nothing but waiting for a husband abhorrent. Some of her friends already thought her odd for not drawing her participation simply at her involvement with the Women’s Institute. So many of them didn’t have the stomach for this. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it frankly, but it was not in her nature to admit defeat.

She supposed she was like her country in that way.

[fuck-customers]

Various annnoying occurences in my job and maybe one nice thing...?

As a customer assistant for a large grocery (supermarket) company in the UK, I have experienced a few things that is very hard NOT to be irked by: 1. The manyeth of times when customers will either... *Place a product they no longer want on another shelf in another part of the store *Place a refigerated or frozen product on to a random non-chilled shelf which gets fucking spoiled/thawed so we lose money through waste *OR the worst one that I cannot stand... PLACE A PRODUCT THAT IS LITERALLY TWO SHELVES AWAY FROM ITS ACTUAL STOCKING SPACE BECAUSE THEY ARE THAT LAZY THAT A STEP MORE WAS TOO MUCH TO PUT THE PRODUCT BACK I MEAN WHY WHY YOU ABSOLUTE CRETIN (Ok I'm chill now sorry) 2. When you have managers who don't understand what too much work means or when they think the tasks they have given you can easily be done (TRY DOING IT YOURSELF ARSEWIPE) and then moan at you when it isn't done or that I took too long to do it even though said task would normally take about 3 people to do it. - additionally, having a horrible store manager doesn't help either but he's out of my life now praise the lord!! The managers I have now are alright though so I've gone from the absolute worst management to now possibly some of the best which sadly can still mean not brilliant but hey ho life goes on... 3. THE GENERAL RUDENESS OF SOME AWFUL PEOPLE. Some have annoyed me, some have made me cry. An example of one... a lady last week who I didn't realise was trying to get through to an aisle behind me until I felt her trolley knock me slightly and then because there wasn't enough space she knocked down the display of Christmas crackers that was on the end of the aisle. I saw this happen as I turn round and as soon I see it I bend down to pick up the crackers. The lady barely apologises and goes to pick some up herself but then as soon I start clearing it she stops and goes off. I said "it was fine" and smiled and everything but what got me was if she had just said excuse me then I could have moved and the BLOODY DISPLAY WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN KNOCKED OVER THEREFORE THE ACCIDENT WOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE BUT OH NO too difficult ffs Wow I have a lot to say I didn't realise until this point of writing this 😂😂😂 I'm gonna wrap it up now *phew* Lastly 4. When a customer doesn't say thank you. Simple one really. (I also would like to point out though that other than one or two people who have spoken me to so awfully and as if I was a piece of vermin who then made me cry, most people are pretty ok and I have been lucky so far compared to some of you on here who have astounded me with their experiences such as customers shitting themselves everywhere I mean I would be sick if I had to clear it up I feel so so sorry for you fuck!!) One last thing... the yay customers are the ones who ARE actually rather grateful for your help. I am happy to help old ladies with their shopping to their car when it means enjoying a lovely conversation and having their gratitude. You feel warm and fuzzy!! So yeah. I hope for all sake, that most of you get lovely customers or average ones who aren't psychotic or rude or disgusting. I also hope for your sake that you get treated with the upmost respect because managers and head offices and CEOs would be NOTHING without their employees on the front line I've said my peace now. 👊✌❤

[thewordonmainstreet]

Well This Day/Life Was A Total Waste Of Makeup

It’s a typical day.  I’m in my pajamas and its’ 12:46 p.m., I haven’t eaten breakfast and I’m still sipping on coffee and I don’t even know why as it just doesn’t have any effect on me. I haven’t showered.  Time loses meaning when you’re severely depressed and your life is going nowhere but falling so quickly into pieces.  I wonder about my medication when it says “take 1 pill every morning”.  Well what if my morning is 1:21 p.m.?  Stepping into the shower takes everything I have.  I’m not doing this story for the likes or to get people to feel sorry for me like those on the Gram do, I’m writing this because I have nothing else to write about and no friends to tell this to. 

My life is a disaster and my antidepressants have lost their power.  I have no Netflix and I have no chill.  There’s nothing for me and nothing seems to ever change.  I don’t want to run away because there’s nothing on the other side for me. I tried that twice before and it didn’t work. When you’re falling through the cracks of life, no one gives a shit anyway about anyone they don’t know and the loneliness is ever the more painful.  I don’t eat properly and I’m far too tired to cook.  I myself am done by 5 p.m. and that’s bedtime most days.  I’m just some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon. I have gotten bloodwork done to see what is off but I really think life passing me by is making me want to recluse and wear pajamas all day, use facial wipes instead of properly washing my face and use dry shampoo instead of real shampoo.  And then when I wash my hair I get that dirty hair smell that most kids have because they always have to be reminded to wash their hair and I have to use more shampoo because my hair is such an oil slick that it renders two pumps of shampoo useless.  When I shave my legs I think to myself, I just shaved my legs for this? To scroll though job postings all day and never see one that I can apply to with my credentials, read a book that I want to escape into and buy more toilet paper and paper towels.  My career never launched, I cannot even get a pet store to call me for an interview.  I don’t have current references and the longest job I held was six months.  I have many barriers to finding work yet no employment agency or service will help me.  I try so hard to get published but I never do and the newspapers and magazines won’t reply to when I ask politely why my material never makes it.

It’s beyond hard to live on a social assistance income.  I skip meals so many times and the shelves at the food bank are more barren each time I go in.  I wake up without hope and go to bed with a heavy heart. The only joy I have are my birds.  The only luck I have is finding great finds at the thrift store and that’s the only social interaction I ever have.  But my closets only become fuller and fuller, and my soul more empty and those people I talk to there don’t become my friends. When blasting Crazy On You by Heart as you drive to Dollar Tree is the most fun you’ll have in a day, you’re really fucking up. 

I say this day/life was a total waste of makeup because I imagine the thousands of dollars that I have put on my face over the years (you should see my stockpile of products) only to be washed away after attracting nothing into my life, not even a conversation that lasts longer than 10 minutes.  Every day makeup is my ardent hope that something good may happen to me.  I put on a perfect face that starts with primer and usually includes an alluring red lip and marvel that I can still look good after all the hardships life has thrown at me.  It’s a way of feeling somewhat normal in a world that keeps telling me to just give up and die.  But nothing, nothing ever.  Men are so hard to meet because it’s bro code or social code or whatever code not to talk to a lady in public.  We are so screwed up as a society, it enrages me.  No wonder so many people are depressed and then you hear that your neighbour killed herself.  I belong in a different city and culture.  My bubbly, kind nature doesn’t truly belong in a city that stifles any semblance of socialization.  I tried religion but that didn’t work because of the people.  They sucked me in with love and invitations to coffee, lunch, promises of prayer and unending friendship, etc. and then betrayed me with gossip, exclusion, shunning, social media fights, etc.  I lost my best years to those people and I can never get them back.  Was I ever stupid.

The job listings are few and the interviews are even fewer and far between in the last few months...damn you summer.  Last year I must have attended 50 interviews, winning none of them.  This year, I can count less than 20.  This is fear and loathing in Ottawa town.  With a minimum wage raise on the horizon, things will only get worse. I have nowhere to run to as bad luck follows me wherever I go and I can’t afford to move all my junk, the junk that is my drug of choice from many a thrift store trips.  That and family is keeping me here.  All I’ve ever wanted in life was a job that I could excel in and to belong but it’s safe to say at this point in the game that the writing is on the wall and it’s not going to happen.  They say that you haven’t lived if you haven’t lived your best life or something like that and every night I feel the ache from a life that is so empty and devoid of the success that I crave almost as much as water and it is as vital as water.  We all need to have our potential realized.  I want to feel something, anything again.  I was meant for so much more than this.