#not gonna tag ghost since this isn’t about them

[waynes-multiverse]

Polaris – Chapter 6

Series Summary: When Beau Arlen moved to Montana, he left behind a past he wasn’t proud of. But when a series of murders requires the FBI’s help, Sheriff Arlen‘s ghosts come back to haunt him one by one. With a wrong turn waiting at every crossroads, it’s hard to make the right choices and find his way back home – back to you.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x FBI Agent!Reader

Warnings: 18+, hurt, angst, more murder mystery, divorce, drinking, death

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: Welcome back, guys! I'm still trying to catch up with comments and reading, so be patient with me 😂 BUT there's a big reveal in this chapter and things are about to pick up. Can't wait to hear your thoughts on all of it. Enjoy! 🤓🤍

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Chapter 6: Curses And Cries

March 2021

As you entered the dingy bar on the outskirts of Juárez, the smell of salsa deliciously hit your nose, causing your stomach to growl. Ever since your prolonged stay in Mexico, you had really gotten attached to the cuisine here.

After your husband’s death, you started to eat your grief in spicy carbs and worked it off with an hour-long jog in the mornings and some Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in the evenings.

And while you were eating your sadness, your companion was drowning his in tequila. Apparently, three shots in this time, judging from the empty glasses on the oak counter in front of him.

You sat down next to him and wordlessly grabbed a plastic menu, skimming through it with interest as Beau watched you from his peripheral and downed another shot.

“Oooh, they have Quesadillas here,” you hummed happily.

“They have Quesadillas everywhere here. And back home. It’s called Tex-Mex,” Beau grumbled and gestured at the bartender for a refill with his fingers.

“Maybe some Nachos, too,” you mused, ignoring his murmurs next to you. He had become quite the grump.

“You’re gonna puke at some point,” he muttered, thanking the bartender as he placed down five more shots in front of him.

“Jesus, by the looks of it, you’re the one who’s gonna puke tonight, not me,” you quipped and arched an eyebrow at his life choices. “Maybe you should order some food as well, soak up all that Don Julio. Or at least eat the limes that come with it…”

“I’m fine,” Beau said and hissed as he gulped down another glass.

“Yeah, by all means, you look great,” you retorted wryly. “What happened? What are you doing back here so soon? You were supposed to be at home the whole week. Weren’t you and Carla planning to go on that cabin trip with Em?”

Unlike you, who had come down here and never gone back, Beau made the trip home every couple of weeks for the sake of his marriage and daughter. You knew, however, from the occasional concerned phone calls with Carla that he barely kept his commitment afloat.

You tried to talk to him, tried to keep a balance, tried to send him home, but you knew deep down that you could try even harder. Selfishly, you wanted him here with you. He was your lifeline, the only piece you still had left of your husband.

Beau snorted a drunken laugh in response and grabbed another shot. “Yeah, that went downhill quickly.”

Your brow scrunched with a mix of concern and confusion. You placed a palm on his forearm in a comforting manner. “What happened?”

Beau silently reached into the inner pocket of his jeans jacket and pulled out a folded and crumpled heap of stapled papers, slapping them onto the counter in front of you. With a creased brow, you took them and unfolded them carefully, while Beau downed another shot.

“Oh Beau…” You sighed when you read over the lines that stung out and looked at him, putting the document back down. “She’s divorcing you?”

“Yup,” he replied bitterly and stared ahead, another shot raining down his throat.

You frowned and snatched the last remaining shot, drinking it before he could.

“Ey!”

“You’re cut off,” you barked sternly at his protest. “Drinking isn’t gonna make this better, you know?”

“You sure? ‘Cause it certainly feels like it.” Beau grinned lazily at you. Judging by the glaze in his green eyes, you were honestly surprised he didn’t slur his words yet. But then again, you figured he had built up quite the tolerance over the last couple of months.

“Uh-huh, worked out great for you the last few weeks. You know, some would even say all the booze is what got you into this mess in the first place,” you retorted and threw him a pointed look.

Beau muttered mockingly into his empty glass, “Really? And who are those people?”

Rolling your eyes with a small sigh, you grabbed his arm and tried to get him up from the barstool. But Beau shook his head and wiggled himself out of your grip. In that moment, you wished that he was lighter and that you were a lot stronger.

“Nuh-uh, I’m not done sulking yet,” he told you and swiftly turned to the bartender once more.

Fourteen tequilas in, you were finally allowed to take him back to the motel. Getting him from the bar into the car and then from the parking lot into the room was quite the straining task. He was a big guy, his full weight resting on you as you had his arm slung around your shoulders, guiding him on wobbly bow legs.

“Where’s your key?” you demanded firmly like a kindergarten teacher talking to a misbehaving toddler.

Beau flashed you a crooked smirk. “It’s in my pocket. Go fish.”

You laughed in annoyed amusement. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that one tomorrow,” you said and dove your hand into the back pocket of his jeans, hauling out the key without further ado.

“Ow! Did you just pinch me?”

Well, some further ado.

“You bet I did,” you replied dryly, chuckling as you turned your back to him and fumbled the key into the lock.

“Oh, you’re a sly one, alright… Kinda like it,” he slurred drunkenly behind you.

You soon caught a waft of tequila as his breath tickled your neck, your gaze wandering up as his flat palm steadied on the door next to your cheek. He then leaned his forehead on your shoulder as he swayed behind you in the cool night air. A shiver ran down your spine, but you tried to remain composed.

“You smell nice,” he noted with a smile in his voice. “You always do.”

You snorted and finally managed to unlock the door. “Okay, now I know you’re really wasted,” you joked and tried to get his mind to focus on something else.

You didn’t take offense to his advances nor did you put too much thought into them. You supposed every guy, who was drunk, lonely, sad, and most of all, a man, would hit on any female in his proximity. His pride was shattered, and you were just the closest thing there to mend the pieces of his ego back together again.

Besides, you weren’t all that scared of him. Maybe currently a little uncomfortable, but that was it. You knew he was a good guy. And if it turned out he wasn’t, you had practiced enough Jiu Jitsu over the course of the last months to throw him on his ass with the power of your little pinky.

However, before you could twist the knob and open the door, he gripped your waist and spun you around. Your back hit the flat surface behind you, pressing against the fragile wood as you came face to face with him. He licked his plump lips with a mischievously cocky smile, leaning closer to you as he dipped his head.

But you didn’t move or flinch. Instead, you patiently crossed your arms over your chest and quirked your brow with an amused smile. “And what d’you think you’re doing here, gaucho?”

As long as he didn’t overstep any lines, you were willing to entertain his little flirtations for the sake of his ego. Deep down, you knew he wouldn’t go through with them anyway. Like the tequila, it just made him feel better in the moment.

As expected, the mischief soon disappeared abruptly from his face and was replaced by a surprise attack of nausea. “Puking,” he managed to spit out.

With a sigh, you grabbed behind you and swung the door open for him, watching him bolt past you into the bathroom. You heard him retching a second later.

“Told you so!” you called after him with a triumphant grin.

With a few taps of your combat boots, you waited till the silver elevator doors of the DA’s office parted with a ding. Your head bobbed mindlessly to the jazzily generic music till you reached the fifth floor and Diane’s office. For once during this case, you were excited to meet with a prosecutor. You finally struck gold and had something in your hands, even if it was just a username and a possible connection to the victims.

Depending on what your tech analysts at the FBI back in Houston would find, you hoped for an arrest by the end of the week.

“Hey, working hard, I see,” you said with a friendly smile as you approached Diane’s desk and saw the huge piles of files in front of her. It was late, too. The office was empty, her colleagues already having cleared out.

“Yeah, I’m the newbie, so I got a lot of catching up to do,” she said, chuckling softly.

You then noticed the diploma behind her hanging on the wall and nodded impressed. “Wow, Stanford Law School, huh? You’re from California?”

“Oh yeah, born and raised. And honestly, it’s not that remarkable. It’s really just like any other law school in the country,” she replied modestly.

You snorted, amused over her response. “Yeah, I doubt that.” There was a twinge in your stomach and a voice in your head.

Smart, driven, the California Penal Code, it whispered, checking off a secret list.

“By the way, I’m sorry about last week,” Diane apologized, causing your brow to wrinkle in confusion for a moment before you caught on. Her voice sounded secretive like the two of you were having a chat between friends. Only that you weren’t remotely close at all. “I didn’t mean to barge in and interrupt anything with that hottie sheriff.”

“Oh, uh, don’t worry about it,” you told her courteously, squinting your eyes a bit.

“You’d think someone like him would be married,” she commented cheekily, while you direly wished you could escape the awkwardness of that conversation.

“Divorced,” you supplied politely, trying your best to remain professional.

Socially weird, the detective voice in your mind noted.

“Oh, that explains it. Wonder what happened there. I was actually so surprised when Sheriff Arlen introduced you as his girlfriend,” Diane said and explained further, “I just noticed your wedding ring, so I assumed you were his wife.”

“Uh, no.” Your eyes flashed down to your golden wedding band around your ring finger, the urge to take it off and hide it in shame before crawling into bed with a torrid lover suddenly permeated your thoughts. As if taking it from your finger and hiding it in some pocket, out of everyone’s judgmental sight, would make the immoral affair less of a betrayal.

There’s nothing to feel guilty about, you reminded yourself sternly.

However, there was a flicker of something in Diane’s gray eyes that tugged and tore at you, cautioning you to tread carefully. That something wicked in her eyes wanted you to suffer and doubt yourself.

“So, what’s the story there? You married?” Diane asked bluntly and then shook her head, chuckling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. It’s none of my business.”

“No, you’re good,” you feigned your assurance with a hard smile. “Dead husband, actually. Happened a couple of years ago now.”

“Ah, well, lucky you. Sheriff Arlen seems like a catch,” she quipped, grinning.

“Yeah, lucky me,” you faux-agreed and kept your smile, although everything was killing you inside.

“So, how did you two meet? Excuse my nosiness, I’m a sucker for a good love story.” Diane’s question reverberated with charm that could’ve easily fooled anybody into thinking it was all just harmless curiosity.

But not you.

You broke a polite smile, but your stare could’ve killed her. “He was my husband’s partner back in Houston.”

“Oh, wow. Sounds a bit messy, doesn’t it?” Diane gave you a surprised look, but you couldn’t shake the feeling she had already known the answer and her question was only supposed to torture you. Your feet were starting to get antsy to leave, your hands itching to grasp your gun. When you only replied by offering her another tight-lipped smile, she cleared her throat and dropped her intrusive exam. “So, uh, what can I do for you? Any new leads?”

Pursing your lips, you shook your head. “Uh, no. It’s a tough one. We’re still chasing down several ends, but nothing concrete. Just wanted to stop by to give you the coroner’s report of our last victim. It came through this morning.” You pulled out only one file from your bag, keeping the others inside, and handed it to her.

“Oh, alright. Anything remarkable?” Diane’s smile was sharp as she leafed briefly through the report. You guessed she didn’t need to read it to know what state the victim was found in.

“Uh, no. Nothing so far. Gotta be honest with you – this case is a tough one. Might take us a while,” you lied openly. You knew she didn’t buy a word of what you said, and you could see that she didn’t care.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll solve the case. After all, you’re a smart one, Agent Y/L/N. I have no doubt you’ll catch her, eventually.” Diane sent you a confident smile.

It was the last insurance you’d needed. You knew for a fact you had never mentioned to Diane that the killer was most likely a woman. That information wasn’t anywhere in the documents you’d given her yesterday. You had kept it close. Only a handful of people knew.

You could then see it all right there in front of you as the alarm bells rang in your head. You were face to face with your killer, staring right into her gray and cold eyes, and there was nothing you could goddamn do about it.

Judging by her cunning look, she knew it, too. She wanted you to catch on. She wanted you to know it was her. She was fucking playing with you.

March 2021

“Oh God…” Beau groaned as he hugged the yellowing porcelain throne, his forehead propped up on the back of his hand, knees scraping against the chipped and dirty green motel bathroom tiles.

“There, there…” you soothed with a hint of amusement in your voice, your palm rubbing his back in comforting circles when he heaved again. “Let it all out, big guy.”

“I think this was the last of it.” Beau straightened a bit as his fingers fumbled blindly for the flush. His eyes were bloodshot and teary, his nose was red and snotty, and his lips were pale and dryer than the desert. He never looked worse.

You grinned and pulled out your phone, swiping to the camera. “Say cheese.”

Beau’s brow scrunched in confusion and betrayal. “What in God’s good name-… Why the hell would you do that?”

“You look terrible, my friend. Figured it’d be a great picture for the slideshow I’m planning for your fiftieth,” you quipped, your wicked grin widening.

“Oh God…”

“Relax.” Playfully, you rolled your eyes back, while you saved the photo to your favorites on your phone. “You’ve still got a while ‘til then. You’ve just turned forty not that long ago. I’m just planning ahead.”

“Not that.” Beau shook his head and clutched his stomach, his cheeks losing color again. His eyes widened in miserable realization. “I think it’s starting again.”

With that, he tossed himself over the stained white bowl and puked his literal guts out for the umpteenth time.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised. Pretty sure you purged all the tequila and drank the entirety of Mexico dry,” you commented with a chuckle over his vomiting noises. If you ever thought the guy was sexy again, you would remind yourself to think back to this moment.

“I don’t remember you ever being this funny when I was sober.” After his last heave, Beau flushed once more and leaned back against the cool wall with an exhaustive sigh. “I think I’m really done now.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “You sure? You’ve said that a few times in the last two hours.”

He nodded with his eyes closed. “Mhm, yeah… That one felt final.”

“Alright.”

You rose from your floor seat against the bathtub and held out your hands. He glanced at them for a second before he took you up on your offer. With your help, he hoisted himself back onto his wobbly feet. You reached behind him and grabbed his toothbrush with a dab of paste from the sink, handing it to him.

You smiled. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

After he thoroughly brushed his teeth and washed his face with cold water, you accompanied him to his bed with his arm slung around your neck. While he was more sober and coherent after his vomit escapade, he was still pretty drunk. You knew the massive hangover that would hit him in a few hours would be more punishing than the desert heat.

Sitting him down on the edge of his bed, you handed him a Tylenol and a bottle of water to swallow it down. “Hydrate,” you ordered as you kneeled down on the carpet in front of him, untying his boots and slipping them off his feet.

As you straightened, your face fell right into his hands, both of his massive palms cupping your cheeks. You stared into his hazy pine-green eyes, a twitch of confusion on your brow as your breaths mingled. Your heart skipped a beat, the white noise ringing in your ears. You weren’t sure what he was doing, but you could guess.

Beau swallowed thickly and dropped his hands from your cheeks. “I should lay down.”

“Yeah, you should,” you bit, a trace of anger in your voice. Though, you couldn’t tell if it was because he almost overstepped or because he didn’t. You knew the latter would be a problem for both of you, so you decided on the first. There was no need to unnecessarily burden your conscience with imagined immorality.

Beau groaned as his head hit the pillow. His eyes found yours, a fragment of an apology fluttered across his features. “Thank you, uhm, for taking care of me. You coulda just bailed.”

“Yeah, I know. But this was more fun to watch.” You grinned teasingly.

Beau pursed his lips, chuckling lightly. “Is that the only reason you stayed? ‘Cause it was fun?”

“No, you’re also my friend, and I’d never desert you. We leave no man behind, remember?” you said with a smile, quoting one of the cliché lines your task force team repeated often. “‘Sides, you and I are trauma bonded.”

“Alright.” Beau bobbed his head pensively, his lips curled. “So… on a scale from one to ten, how full is my quota for tonight to do somethin’ stupid again?”

Your heart twisted and clenched in your ribcage. You knew what he meant. He couldn’t have been clearer. It was all written in his eyes as bright as the stars in the sky when he looked at you, only a dangling question of “May I?” hanging in the air between you two.

“Twenty,” you said firmly and held your chin high, swallowing thickly. “I think that quota is pretty fucking full.”

“That’s too bad.” On his lips flickered a forlorn smile, his hand brushing your cheek for a moment before he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered like smoke on your skin. “But maybe for the best. I’d like to remember that one, and I’m not sure I would tonight.”

A shallow scoff left your nose. “Maybe you’ll remember this,” you said with bitter anger in your voice and stared daggers at him. “You’ll always be the guy that stood on my doorstep and told me my husband was dead.”

Beau nodded with a harsh swallow of understanding and retreated, forcing some distance between you two. “Yeah, I think that’ll stick even through the tequila.”

“Good,” you bit and rose to your feet, walking to the door. “Get some fucking sleep.”

Beau’s mouth opened with a want to say something, maybe even an apology, but the door slammed harshly behind you before he got a chance. And now, all he had left was silence, a raging headache, guilt in his stomach, and regret in his heart.

Breathlessly, you arrived at the Sheriff’s Department and stormed into Beau’s office. The door was ajar as he chatted with Jenny, both of them curiously looking at you before concern took hold of their faces.

“Hey, everything alright?” Beau instantly rose from his chair, his brow knitting with worry.

“No,” you replied with a shake of your head, the alarm visible in every crease of your flushed face. “I think I’ve found our killer.”

“What? How? Who?” Beau ran down the basic wh-questions in confusion. “Weren’t you just at the DA’s office?”

“It’s Diane, isn’t it?” Jenny shot straightaway, and your eyes widened in confirmation as you nodded. “Yeah, I got a weird vibe from her, too.”

“What, no? Diane?” Beau raised his brow at the two of you in disbelief. “Okay, back up a little here. Why do you think it’s Diane? We met that woman only three weeks ago. She seemed alright. Little awkward maybe, but we can’t arrest people ‘cause they’re weird.”

“Look, I know that,” you said and crossed your arms. “And I don’t have anything concrete yet, but it’s just a feeling. I got a really strange vibe from her earlier.”

“Well, we can’t arrest people because of strange vibes either,” Beau retorted. “And if it really is Diane, arresting her at all is gonna be hard. I mean, she’s the DA on the case. Who’s gonna issue the warrant, huh?”

“Convenient.” Jenny scoffed under her breath, earning her a scolding look from her boss.

“Don’t encourage her, please.” He shot Jenny a warning and yet pleading glance.

“Look, I’m not crazy! It’s her. I’ll find proof,” you insisted. It almost sounded like a threatening promise.

“What did she say to you exactly?” Jenny questioned and cocked her head at you in interest. You appreciated her professionalism, unlike Beau who still looked at you doubtfully.

“She asked some really personal questions about me and Beau. And not in a friendly chitchat manner. It’s hard to explain. I guess you had to be there… It was weird, okay?”

“Well, you can’t really fault her for that after what she’s seen,” Beau mitigated the circumstances.

“What has she seen?” Jenny looked suspiciously between you two. When both of you responded with deafening silence and averted your gazes, she chortled. “You two really need to lock that door.”

“Alright, that’s not the point,” Beau huffed his retort with blushed cheeks.

“Can we get back to Diane being a serial killer, please?” you requested impatiently. “Look, she fits the profile. She’s got the California connection. She went to Stanford. She’s obviously wicked smart. And she also knows we're looking for a female perp.”

That caught Jenny’s attention. Her brow furrowed. “You didn’t tell her?”

You shook your head. “No, and it’s nowhere in the files. So unless one of you told her, how did she know that?”

Grabbing the football from his desk, Beau’s head bobbed pensively as he squeezed the peanut between his hands. You tried not to think about Randy, but your heart stung nonetheless. Beau seemed to notice your distracted look and quickly put the ball back down.

“Alright, what do we do next?” he asked with a clear of his throat.

“I hope whatever the tech analysts find points to her. We could also put a tracker on her car. Won’t help in court, but maybe she leads us to one of the bunkers,” you suggested and pursed your lips for the next part. “I could also talk to the other DAs on the case. If we can’t get an arrest warrant here, we can still try through the other states and extradite her.”

“Good idea. Who would–” Beau stopped mid-sentence, his eyebrows drawing together as he realized your plan. “You wanna ask Ted? C’mon!”

“It’d be the fastest way! We’ve worked together for years,” you defended.

“Uh-huh, a little too closely…” Beau muttered under his breath, earning a small glare from you.

“Would you calm down? We only went on three dates. Nothing ever happened,” you stated and looked at him, completely forgetting Jenny was still in the room, too.

“I’m gonna go for this part,” she excused herself and touched your arm on the way out. “I’ll do some research on Diane. See what we can dig up about her past.”

“Thank you. That’d be great,” you said as she left.

Beau waited for a beat, ensuring you were completely alone before he found your eyes. “Nothing happened?”

“No, I ended it before it got to that point. Mainly because I didn’t want it to get to that point,” you explained and could see him relax, his shoulders falling.

He stalked closer to you, wrapping you in his arms. He kissed you deeply, hands wandering to your ass and squeezing the cheeks through your jeans. You smiled up at him.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” you teased.

“I’m not–… You know what? I am,” Beau stated almost proudly. “I don’t like thinking about losing you to some jerk. Actually, I don’t like thinking about losing you at all. It’s killing me that I almost did. I should’ve never let you close the door on me that day. I should’ve never left… At least not like that.”

“It’s okay. I’m here now… with you. It all sorta worked out. Maybe we needed that time apart,” you said softly and hoped you soothed his guilt a little. Your mind drifted back to Diane’s words. Thoughtfully, you twisted the ring on your finger.

“You okay? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just something Diane said,” you told him, your brow wrinkling as the bad feeling in your gut expanded. “She just asked about my ring. It was odd.”

“Well, we already know she’s a bit nutty,” Beau said and gave you a soothing smile, embracing you a little tighter as he pulled you against his chest and pecked the top of your head. But his heart ached with worry and a bad feeling.

“Yeah, I just…” You glanced at your ring again and exhaled one nostalgic breath. You then took it off and placed it in Beau’s palm, who seemed rattled by your unforeseen choice. “Take it and keep it somewhere. Throw it in a lake or feed it to a trout. I don’t care. I don’t wanna wear it anymore.”

“Y/N–”

You stopped his protest, knowing it was well meant. “No, really. It’s alright, okay? I’m ready to let go. I’m with you now… And I love you.” You gave him a smile, and he mirrored a softer one, nodding.

“Alright,” he accepted your decision and lifted the ring to your view. He opened a drawer in his desk and stored it carefully inside. “I love you, too. But I’m gonna keep it safe here in case you ever change your mind… which you can do at any point in time, no questions asked, okay?”

“Thank you.” You stretched up to meet his lips, kissing him passionately. Sometimes, it was hard to believe you’d found it twice – true love. But you were sure of it whenever you stared into Beau’s mesmerizingly green eyes. Maybe Diane was right. You were lucky, after all.

August 2020

The cookbook laid open on the marble counter by the stove, a second one with another recipe right next to it. You stared at them, your narrowed eyes wandering back and forth between ‘Brisket’ and ‘Biscuits and Gravy’ as you tapped your chin with a wooden spatula.

You had never been the best cook, as your mother would attest to, but every once in a while you tried and even had some success with the classics. Those two dishes were Randy’s favorite – like almost every Texan’s if you excluded BBQ.

You’d been gone for close to a month for an assignment that took you all the way to Arizona. You had just gotten home two days ago, and after washing a month’s worth of laundry and getting some well-deserved rest, you promised your husband a delicious meal for date night.

When the food was done, you set the table with the good china you’d received from your mother-in-law at your wedding. As you waited, you filled a glass with Merlot. Then, a second one. You stared at the hands of the clock in the dining room moving in a circle, alternating with the watch around your wrist in case either one was wrong. Every two minutes you checked your phone, scrolled through social media, and exhaled sighs. The food was getting cold, but that was the least of your problems.

You were growing anxious, steadying the slight tremble in your hand with more wine.

But when the doorbell rang, you stood up from your chair with relief and rushed into the foyer. You ignored the voice in your head that told you Randy wouldn’t have rung the damn doorbell. He would’ve just used his key. And you ignored the voice when instead of Randy, you found his partner on your doorstep.

“Beau, hey.” Your brow crinkled at the oddness of seeing him so late at your house, but your lips formed a smile nonetheless. “What are you doing here?”

You ignored the voice that warned you about the universal truth everyone in law enforcement knew about. If a partner showed up at a cop’s wife’s house, it was never good news. Deep down, you already knew why he was here. You saw it in the haunted green of his eyes. You saw it in the dark and puffy circles underneath them. You saw it in the bloodstains on his white shirt. You saw it in the bloody creases of his nails that he couldn’t entirely scrub clean before he came here.

“Beau?” The wrinkles in your brow molded into deeper cracks, hardening like cement. You took a step forward, one hand on the door jamb steadying your jittery bones. “Is Randy okay? Is he in the hospital?”

You needed him to say the words, but he couldn’t. His lips quivered, his hands trembled, his eyes filled with tears. He swallowed harshly and clasped his mouth, not knowing what to say or how to find the words. He turned his back to you, walking a few steps. Whatever courage he had to come to your door in the first place, left him the second he saw your face.

You shook your head, disbelief keeping you from accepting reality. You stood on the tracks, the freight train was coming. “Just lemme grab my jacket. We can drive to the hospital together.”

Snatching a too-large jacket from the coat rack you were sure was your husband’s, you tried to bolt past Beau, but a hand on your arm caught you and stopped you on your front lawn. You found his green eyes. He wordlessly shook his head.

“No! It’s not true,” you insisted desperately, tears starting to flood your eyes. “I just talked to him a few hours ago. I-I made dinner… His favorite. He’s coming home! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Beau’s clasp on your arm tightened, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

Your tears now fell, too. Yet, you vividly shook your head and stuffed the pain down your throat until it felt like you were choking. “No, you’re wrong. You’re wrong, Beau! He’s coming home to me. He’s coming home…”

You repeated those words over and over until your sobs swallowed them all. Beau pulled you to his chest and held you tightly. You felt his tears fall like raindrops upon your head, your body stiffening and bones turning to stone as unbearable pain and grief wracked through your veins and consumed you.

“I’m so sorry,” Beau repeated, his voice muffled by your hair. His arms wrapped around you even tighter. “He’s not coming home, darlin’. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.”

He kept saying it as he held you – how sorry he was. But once the reality of the situation fully hit you, so did your anger. You pushed him away. As you met his gaze, he almost looked hurt by that action, but all you could find in your heart was vitriol, disdain, and blame.

“You should be. You should be sorry,” you spat through your tears. “Where were you in all of this, huh? You said you’d have his back! So, why are you here and he’s not? Where the fuck were you, Beau?”

His mouth jittered open, searching for an explanation for his own failure. “I know… I-I don’t know what happened. It just went south so fast… I-…”

“You guys told me it was a quick job,” you pointed out furiously. “In and out! ‘No big deal, darlin’,” you quoted him in mock. “It was your fucking idea to go in! I asked if you guys needed backup, and you said no! You told me you could do it on your own, you arrogant shit!”

Beau dragged a hand over his face, wiping some of the tears away. “I know.” He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it! You got it? It’s not gonna bring him back now, is it?”

“I know. I know I fucked up. Trust me, Y/N. I know…”

You furiously shoved at his chest, pushing him back a few inches. He let you, didn’t even try to stop you in the slightest. He was willingly volunteering to be your punching bag as if it would magically better the situation and absolve him from his sins.

“You were supposed to be his partner!” you yelled so loudly all the commotion in the front yard of your quiet neighborhood had woken the neighbors, a few of them flooding out of their houses and gathering in their own yards to gawk at the spectacle.

You pushed him again. Harder this time. “You were supposed to fucking protect him!”

Another push. “You promised me you’d take a bullet for him!”

Push. “You fucking coward!”

Beau just nodded in agreement with all your accusations, his eyes brimming with tears. “I know. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

This time, you slapped him across the cheek. “Stop saying you’re fucking sorry!”

The harsh slap echoed through suburbia. Your palm tingled and stung as you watched Beau’s cheek redden with your furious mistake. You stared around you and glanced at the gasping and gaping faces of your neighbors. You clasped your mouth with both hands as you broke down and started to sob uncontrollably.

Kind and forgiving as he was, Beau pulled you back into his embrace, strong arms locking around you and soothing your anguish. “It’s okay… I’m here. I gotcha… It’s okay. I gotcha… I’m not lettin’ go, alright?”

Sobbingly, you nodded as you cried and sniffled, burying your face in his chest. You wrapped your arms around his torso and held onto him, too weak to keep standing on your own.

“It’s okay… I know,” Beau said and tucked you under his arm, leading you back to the house. “C’mon, let’s get you inside, darlin’.”

Chapter 7: Storm Coming – JUNE 19

Welp, we know who our killer is now! Ready for the approaching storm called Diane? When it rains, it pours... 👀⛈️

Join the TAG LIST here! 🌌 Wanna sponsor my caffeine addiction? ☕️

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @deans-baby-momma @yoobusgoobus @jessjad

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @autistic-gothic

Everything Beau Arlen: @snowayumi

Polaris Series: @corruptedcruiser

[thewritetofreespeech]

tags: bondage, blowjobs, handjobs, heterosexual intercourse, fem!dom, 69, orgasm delay, mild ice play

He came to with a groan and tried to force his eyes open. It took a few tries, lids fluttering like bird wings, but Shuhei was finally able to get them open and was met with....darkness.

‘What the fu...’ His senses suddenly became ultra-heightened as he tried to sit up, but a heavy weight pulled on his wrists. He now realized they were above his head. Keeping him tied down. Immediately he started to jolt and thrash to get himself, or at least his eyes, free.

“Don’t try to fight it dear.” The vice-captain stopped as he heard a soft, silky, familiar voice around him. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“Goddamit [Y/N]!”

He remembered now. He was coming over after work. Late, as usual. He tried to get off sooner, but his duties as vice-captain and member of the 9th & 13 kept him very busy. Shuhei had been more than prepared for a tongue lashing or cold shoulder when he showed up. Ready to fall on bended knee and apologize if need be. What he hadn’t expected was to be hit with a stun kido the minute he walked through the door. Knocking him out and landing him in the current situation he was in. “Let me go! This isn’t funny!”

“It’s not meant to be funny.” [Y/N] responded coolly. “It’s meant to be a punishment.”

Shuhei gulped a little. Ok, so she was a little madder than he expected. How was he gonna get out of this one? He might write words for a living, but coming up with the right ones to say were always at a loss for him. “Look, [Y/N], I’m sorry.” Apology always seemed a good place to start.

“I don’t want your apology.” ‘Crap’. “I want you to suffer.”

Shuhei tensed at their words. Since he couldn’t see, he couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. And since he couldn’t move, he had to consider the possibility that he was in actual danger. ‘Dammit!’ He cursed in his head as he tried to break his bindings again. Why did he have to be dating a kido master?!

There was a shift in the reiatsu in the air he could pick up on, then a shift in the bed. A long pause. Then suddenly something very cold was on his chest. Shuhei flinched and made an undignified sound. Startled by the cold. His brain associating it with the cool bite of steel, but he realized it was just a piece of ice in their hand. “Hey! Quit it! That’s cold!”

“That’s the point.” [Y/N] said. Her tone about as cool as the ice.

Shuhei mentally huffed and laid back. He realized he wasn’t getting out of this without taking his lumps. She was angry. He supposed he should be in trouble for breaking their date again. And, [Y/N] was right, fighting would only make it worse.

He flinched and gritted his teeth as the ice passed over his skin. Leaving pimpled flesh behind. It would start. Then stop. Pass over his nipple, or a particularly sensitive spot on his chest, making him jump. Then it would stop again. Eventually he got used to the sensation. His blinded sight making him incredibly aware of the different temperatures on his skin.

“You’re getting hard.”

Their voice suddenly cut through his focus like a knife. “N-No I’m not!” Shuhei backfired. He could just guess how red his face was. One, because he was never comfortable talking about sexual things directly. And two, because it was absolutely true.

“Don’t lie to me.” [Y/N]’s fingers ghost over the top of his hakama where his erection was starting to form. It twitched and raised slightly higher as Shuhei let out a gasp. “Lying to me once this evening about our date was bad enough.”

“I’m sorry…..” He apologized again. His voice a little weaker this time.

He felt ashamed for breaking his promise. But how could he make it up to them? Make them see that he really was sorry, and that he had no intention of breaking that promise to them. “I really did try. It’s just that my duties are…”

“They’re very important to you.” She finished for him. A hand slipped into his pants to stroke his partial erection. “I’m important to.”

“You are!” Shuhei insisted. The ropes biting into his wrists as he tried to sit up in earnest but failed. “You are important to me. You’re the most important person to me.”

“More important than Kensei?” [Y/N] asked. Her hand still stroking him slowly. “More important than Mashiro?”

“Yes…I mean…that…” It was getting hard to think with her hand on him.

He wanted to say ‘yes, you are more important’ but then again, he couldn’t really say no to his captain or a superior when they asked for something. Both were important. But he couldn’t really explain that as his brain was starting to cloud with pleasure. Like a slow rolling fog over the hills in the Rukongai. The blindfold making it almost impossible to block it out or focus on anything else. “[Y/N]….”

“You’re not supposed to be enjoying this.” Shuhei let out a sharp wail when she twisted his nipple, hard. The pain creating clear focus for a second before it sharpened the edges of his pleasure and made them more intense. He liked the pain, he realized, and his face had to be beet red now as he felt embarrassment and shame along with an undeniable pleasure. “You’re supposed to be being punished for being in trouble.”

“I…I am…” His tongue felt like it weighed 10 pounds. The back of his throat was a weird mix of dry and sopping wet from the drool in his mouth. “I am. I was wrong. I’m sorry. You were right. I deserve to be punished.” His whole body felt on fire now. Gods what was wrong with him!

There was a shift on the bed and Shuhei was terrified for a moment that she was just going to leave him there. Then he heard the sound of rustling fabric over the pounding in his ears. He realized she was taking her clothes off. She was naked right now. He had to swallow as his mouth salivated at the thought and imagine of her naked body his mind had conjured up for him. “You want to make it up to me?”

He would have nodded enthusiastically but was caught off guard when the bed shifted again. Only this time above his head and not by his waist. The soft feeling of her thighs against his face and arms, still pinned above him, and she doesn’t have to say anything for him to know what he has to do to make it up to her.

Shuhei craned his neck up almost immediately before she even lowered herself down to start licking her. He moaned loudly in tandem with [Y/N]’s soft whimper when his tongue touched her. Lapping at her with a gusto he’d never had before; and he usually wasn’t stingy in that department when they were together normally.

The vice-captain continued to pleasure [Y/N] as she settled nicely over his face. The binds on his wrists biting now and then as he wanted to touch her but couldn’t. But maybe that was part of his punishment. Aside from keeping him here, the binds were meant to keep him from touching her. Which she knew was his favorite part. Shuhei had always been a tactile person. Needing to touch everything to figure it out. He’d spend hours just touching her body if he could. Mapping out every space. Finding all those spots that made her giggle or sigh. Just holding her close. It was torture not to touch her with anything but his mouth, but he assumed that was part of the point.

She lifted up to give him a chance to breath and he felt her fall forward. “Oh fuck….” Shuhei hissed as he felt her breath near his cock. He’d been so focused on her taste and her pussy that he forgot how aching his cock was. The simple whisp of air enough to make it painfully reaware of how hard he was. “[Y/N]….”

“Keep going.”

If he’d been in his right mind, he would realize how hot & thick her voice sounded. Not cool and collected at all now. Clearly not unaffected by their game. But he couldn’t think of anything accept his throbbing cock and her command, so he went back to licking her like he was told.

[Y/N] let out a heavy moan when he started again and Shuhei let out a shout, his whole body convulsing, when she wrapped her mouth around his cock. He didn’t cum, but it felt like his whole body had an orgasm when her lips wrapped around him. He knew he wasn’t going to last long.

They continue to pleasure each other with their mouths. Shuhei’s brain overwrought with pleasure. His cock in her mouth giving him the best blowjob he’s ever had and simultaneously tasting her sweetness and feeling her pussy quiver on his tongue as it was about to cum.

He wanted them to cum together. So he sped up his movements and sucked on her clit, while his hips bucked into her mouth. Just a few more seconds and he could finally cum. Just a little more…..Just a little more…..

His mouth came off [Y/N]’s cunt with almost a wet pop when suddenly nothing happened. “What did you do?!”

[Y/N] pulled back from his cock with a long, wet pull of her mouth. “61.”

It took Shuhei a moment to figure out what that meant. His thoughts lost in a sea of pleasure, pain, about to cum, not about to cum. Then he realized what that meant and his whole body went tense. “You used Six-Rod on my dick?!”

“Would you prefer I stopped and got a cock ring?”

He couldn’t even think to come up with a response to that. Shuhei was still too shocked that his girlfriend had used a binding kido on his dick to stop him from cumming, and that it actually worked. The desire to cum was still there. The feeling of he was about to cum was still there. But he just…..couldn’t. “Take it off!”

“No.”

He felt the bed shift again and Shuhei started to trash this time in panic of being left alone. Her hand came down on his stomach, just at his naval, to settle him and also use it as a base to straddle him. “You’re going to know what it’s like to be kept waiting.” Shuhei let out a long, deep, aching moan as [Y/N] slide down on his cock. Warm, wet, and blindingly hot. He could almost see white flashes behind his eyes they were shut so tight as he continued to moan. “To feel what it’s like to wait for someone to come. To be left hanging while other people do what they need to first.”

His moans turned into whimpers as she started to rock. It felt so good. But with that it also hurt because he was so desperate to cum. He felt helpless. His mind tormented by all these feelings & sensations that it could really help him. It could only do one thing. “Please….” Beg.

“Are you going to make me a priority from now on?” [Y/N] asked as her hips rocked faster.

“Yes!”

“You’re not going to blow off our dates or keep me waiting anymore?” She was fully riding him now.

“Yes!!”

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes! Yes! I learned my lesson! I won’t do it again! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please, please just let me cum!”

There was the sharp sound of the snap of her fingers and the binding was off. Instantly Shuhei came so hard he thought he might pass out. His hips arching off the bed as far as they could to bury his cock as deep in her as possible as it felt like his cock was cumming forever, wrapped in the quivering walls of her pussy.

Eventually, it stopped. The two of them collapsed on the bed in an exhausted, pathing heap as Shuhei’s brain still tried to make sense of what happened.

[Y/N] moved off of him. He let out a soft, over stimulated whimper when he felt his cock slip from inside her, then hissed when the blindfold was removed from his eyes. “Sorry if I was mean to you.”

Her hand moved to brush against his cheek, and Shuhei realized that tears had been welling up on his eyes. “It’s ok.”

Her hands move to untie him. They fall in a heavy flop once released, before he instantly moved to wrap them around her. Finally having a chance. “I’m sorry I was late. And if you were feeling unimportant.”

“I was.” [Y/N] replied into his chest as he held her close. “I suppose this was a little dramatic.”

“It was….fine.” Shuhei wasn’t in a place mentally to be honest and say he enjoyed it. Despite everything that just happened, he was still wasn’t comfortable talking about sexual things directly. Maybe the blindfold helped. “I promise, I won’t be late again.”

“You better not be.” [Y/N] lifted her hand and a gold orb of light formed on her index finger. Shuhei’s cock twitching in response. He got the message.

[boo8008]

Three Months - Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Fem!Reader

Prologue | Chapter 01: Quadriller | Chapter 02: Mince

Notes: Its been one year since The Bear's soft open, and with everything running smoothly, Carmen's lost in his thoughts, until the final table of the night is seated.

Warnings: angst | fluff | ghosting mention | mentions of suicide | language | mental health | pining | unrequited love????? | substances (alc & weed) | overdose | yelling | grief | descriptions of panic attacks| eventual smut

Notes: This is my first time really writing so let me know what you think, I'm probably gonna do more just for me. If there's something I should add/remove from the tags please let me know. I hope you enjoy :)

A year after their soft open, The Bear is like a well oiled machine, working perfectly as Richie calls out the orders and their corresponding tables. Carmen’s on auto pilot as he works, doing his best to not think about where he was this time last year: breaking down in the walk-in and subsequently breaking up with Claire. If you can even call it a break up, he still isn't sure if they were actually dating. 

He’s pulled from his thoughts as Fak enters again announcing the final table of the night was just seated. Almost from memory Richie calls out your name and party of one, doing more than trowing Carm from his thoughts; practically gut-punching him through the thick metal wall of the walk-in with memories of New York, not the asshole of an executive chef he worked for but of the calm and blissful three months he had from December to February with you. 

Before his life got uprooted. 

Before The Beef. 

Before Mikey…

He’s brought back as Richie yells at him before he looks up at him, looking at his face.

“Cousin, you good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don't look fine, chef.”

“I’m fine.” Carmen insists again.

Richie rolls his eyes as he returns to calling out orders for a moment.

“You look like your gonna throw up,” Sydney mutters.

“I’m fucking fine, Jesus fuck,” Carmen snaps. Stoping his task as he looks up to Sydney then Richie, whose still scribbling something down.

“Take five chef.” Richie says, still not looking up.

“Richie, I said-”

“It wasn't a request Carm.” Richie finally looks up at him, ever sense that test night a year ago, and when Richie started wearing suits, hes been more final in his input. Telling and suggesting and researching rather than just complaining. Fuck he even learned to do more prep properly to help out on the busier nights. Why Richie even stayed after that night he isn’t sure, the shit he said was fucked. He wouldn't have blamed him, Syd, or anyone else for walking out on him if they did. 

“Syd take over for Carm, Tina for Syd, and Alex for Tina; Carm needs a sec.” If the uniformed call of “Yes Chef” from the kitchen doesn't do it, the sudden movement of the kitchen to function without him more than solidifies it. Carmen’s taking five wether he wants to or not.

Not wanting a repeat of a year ago, Carm takes to the office instead, seeing Sugar seated at the desk looking at paperwork, all shes been relegated to now that shes just had little Mikey. A name Carmen was surprisingly happy to approve of when Pete brought it up to the two of them, asking if it was okay. Nat had nearly bawled her eyes out thanks to the combination of pregnancy hormones and the normal grasp she had on her emotions compared to Carmen.

“You look like your gonna throw up,” she says, glancing up from the papers before her. A half hearted fuck off is all she gets in responce as Carmen flops back on the soft leather couch in the office. She tosses him the pepto before she turns to sign something.

“You wanna talk about why Richie kicked you off?” she asks, her back still turned.

“It’s nothing,” he says before taking a swig of the pink liquid as he sits up and faces her.  

“It’s not nothing if you look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that,” she says turning and gesturing vaguely at him. “Like you just found out Santa isn’t real or some-fucking-thing.” Carmen shakes his head avoiding her gaze and looking out the door with a huff. Crossing his arms trying to end the conversation. It wasn't that he never wanted to talk about it, he did. He just didn't have the time. 

The last time he had told any one about you, he had talked to Mikey about how awkwardly ended things with you. Mikey told him not to be a jagoff after hearing his rant. That was almost a week before he died. It became easier to not think about you because it always led to thoughts of Mikey. How Carm should have known or should have talked to him more about how he was, how the beef was doing, how ma and Natilie were, if there was anything Michael wanted to get off his chest or was stressed about or something other than Carmen's girl problems.

Then Carm had to worry about selling his apartment in New York, quitting his job, getting an apartment here and moving, running The Beef, which was its own massive undertaking, turning it into The Bear and worrying about Claire, dishes, codes, tests, money that was likely tied to the mob via Uncle Jimmy, chefs, the building, new hires, the test night and the the dreaded walk-in he had to thank for letting him rant until he talked out of his ass and fucked up his personal life even more.

“Fine whatever avoid it if you want but thats not going to make it any better,” Nat huffed out, rolling her eyes as she turned. Carmen knew she was right, but that didn't make it any easier. But if the Al-Anon meetings had taught him anything it was that talking about it did actually help. 

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, leg bouncing with the nerves of from trying to find the words he wanted to say.

“When I was in New York,” he started, already feeling a nervous sweat breakout on his face, back, and hands. “There was this girl…”

[chxrrylime]

What about top!puppy boy humping ghost/soap (or maybe both) like a horny dog, overstimulating them and himself, unable to stop because it feels so good

Thank you for indulging me. Ghost is the main bottom here but Soap is there to guide + comfort him through it since he's taken you before and Ghostie hasn't.

Ghost x Soap x M!Reader  ↪ 686 words — 18+ / SMUT

Content tags — cis male dominant dogboy reader, submissive cis male Ghost, submissive cis male Soap, established relationship, implicit pet play, knotting, breeding kink, licking/saliva kink, overstimulation, unsafe sex, rimming, anal sex and very mild dubious consent.

“Fuckin’ mutt,” Simon growls, hearing how your tail thumps against the bed as you lap messily at his hole. 

You whine at the insult, trying to bury deeper in hopes of pleasing him, Soap chuckling from his place underneath Ghost.

“Play nice, L.T.,” he chides, running his fingers soothingly through Simon’s mussed hair, “He’s being good, isn’t he? Making you feel good?”

Ghost breathes out a curse, rocking back on his knees as your long tongue glides over his sweet spot. 

“God, you should see ‘im, Simon. Lil’ red rocket’s leaking like a faucet. You got ‘im real pent up, huh?”

You whimper again, hindbrain taking over as you move from his hole to lick up his spine, feeling how he shivers beneath you. Your hips are already humping uselessly into the air as you shuffle forward, and Soap laughs again, pulling Simon into a kiss to muffle the shout he knows is coming. He’s more than experienced with the first brutal thrusts of your prick.

Your cock brushes Simon’s thigh, nudging his balls and taint as you lay your weight over his back, legs spread wide over his own. Your tip catches on his rim and you can hear his choked gasp as you finally hit home, pushing in and immediately thrusting—quick, shallow little things that make Ghost’s breath catch in his throat as he buries his face against Soap’s throat, biting and gasping for breath, blunt nails scratching up Soap’s biceps.

Your tail wags excitedly as you lick at Simon’s ear, making him groan in disgust and shift his head away from you.

“Y’feel so good, Simon, oh my god—oh my god, you’re so tight,” you keen, sucking at the pale skin of his neck, marking your claim as your hips thrust bruisingly quick. The wet squelch of his hole stretching around you is sickeningly loud, and you vaguely makeout Soap’s shifting arm through your hazy state as he strokes both his and Simon’s cock in tandem.

“Mmm, I think Si wants your knot, pup,” Soap purrs, grinning up at you, leaning up to let you lick sloppily into his mouth with a small moan.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Simon groans, breath hitching with each rock of your hips. He squeezes you so tight at Soap’s words, and you can feel your knot swelling, catching on Simon’s rim with each brutal thrust—you’re sure Simon can feel it, with the startled moaning gasp that rips from his throat as his muscles tense.

“Relax, Ghostie,” Soap coos sweetly, “gotta stay relaxed for ‘im. It’s gonna feel so good, promise, just let our good boy breed you, huh?”

You swear you hear Ghost whimper underneath the noisy sounds of you panting and wet skin on skin slapping, resounding through the small room. 

“M’gonna fuckin’ cum,” Ghost grits out, clinging to Soap like a life line, his hips mindlessly rocking back onto your cock and forward into Soap’s fist. 

You can feel his hole fluttering around you, adding to the already blissful sensation of his squishy walls sucking your cock in. You growl, fluffy ears flattening back against your head as you bite down on Ghost’s shoulder, your incisors sinking into the flesh, feeling the taut skin snap beneath your hold.

He shouts out at the dual sensation of pain and pleasure as you finally pop your knot into him, his own orgasm ripping through him and milking your cock with each shuddering spurt of cum pulled from him by Soap’s skilled hand. 

It feels so good. Your cock is oversensitive and sore, rubbed raw as it pumps Simon full of cum—but you can’t stop humping, rocking into him desperately.

Ghost chokes, his twitching and spent prick rubbing through the wet and sticky mess they’ve made of Soap’s stomach. 

“Johnny—” he gasps, pushing up onto his hands briefly before collapsing back onto his elbows.

“Christ, he’s really pent up L.T.,” Soap mock whispers, pressing a kiss to the other man’s temple—said man’s mouth agape and eyes wide open as he gasps and spasms from the overstimulation, “don’t think yer coming off that knot anytime soon, love.”

[onceuponapuffin]

Fanatic Intervention Part 12!!!

This post features the way I think renting cars works. I'm very sure it doesn't actually work this way, and I could have researched it, but the image is in my head and I thought it was funny having cars on shelves with little description tags like some kind of Automobile Costco Warehouse.

Also, I'm gonna link my playlist because I feel like you all might be interested to see the list of songs I'm working from lol.

Fun fact, the playlist used to be called List of Holding and was meant to be a small collection of songs that I wanted to hear REALLY often. But, um...well, I've since had to change the name :P

This is All Good Omens Now Who Am I Kidding

And yes, I'm very VERY picky about my Queen songs.

OKAY here we go.

Beginning || Previous || Next

********************

In the end, it was surprisingly easy to find a rental company willing to loan you all a car (considering that three out of the four of you have no identification, documents, credit score, valid driver’s licenses, etc.). Deciding on a car, on the other hand, was a bit more complicated.

“I don’t understand why I can’t just miracle the Bentley over,” Crowley whines as the four of you wander the aisles of cars.

“Well for starters, the steering wheel is on the wrong side,” Anathema reasons.

“The wheel’s not on the wrong side! All of these have steering wheels on the wrong side! They drive on the wrong side of the road here too! Americans!” He shoves his hands in his pockets, practically spitting the last word like it’s some kind of curse. Anathema raises an eyebrow at him, but otherwise says nothing.

“Ooh!” Aziraphale calls from further ahead, “Look at this one! The description says that it’s very good for the environment. I mean, aesthetically speaking it isn’t anything extraordinary, but I do like all of these things written on the tag.”

“What kind of car is it?” Anathema asks.

“I believe it says it’s a...Tesla?”

You snort a laugh. “I am NOT getting into one of those things,” You say between giggles.

“Why not?” Aziraphale’s confusion is genuine – you can see it in his face.

“Well,” You begin counting on your fingers, “It farts, it can see ghosts, and it may or may not explode while we’re in it, SO!” You see Crowley’s face light up.

“Sounds like my kind of car!” He says, making his way towards the car that Aziraphale is inspecting.

“No,” Anathema sounds like she’s talking to a child. Or maybe a dog. “No, we are not riding in a Tesla. I’m with you on this one,” she says in your direction.

“I have a suggestion,” You pipe up, raising your hand.

“Oh-ho!” Crowley calls. He leaned slightly to the left, and took off between the aisles. All three of you have to jog to keep up with him. He’s stopped in front of an enormous Hummer. “Now THIS is a CAR!”

Anathema is shaking her head.

“No, wait, listen, I have it,” You say, and everyone turns to look at you expectantly. “It’s the only logical option here. It fits the vintage vibe that you two like, and it’s the most reliable car I know of aside from Bentley.”

“Well go on,” encourages Anathema, “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“What we need is a 1967 Chevy Impala!”

And THAT, dear Reader, is how you find out that none of them have seen Supernatural. Or heard of it, even. Criminal, really. You resolve to make them watch it next chance you get. In the end, Anathema suggests a very practical SUV and well, you’ve all learned not to argue with her by now.

Honestly the woman needs a cake for putting up with the three of you.

Also, as it turns out, one of the perks of having a current car model is that you can sync up your playlist to the bluetooth. So guess who ends up in charge of the music.

“And THIS one,” You say, flicking through your playlist, “Is a song that was suggested for the Season 3 playlist by Neil Gaiman himself!” And you press play on The Book of Love. And you watch their faces. You want to see their reaction when it gets to the part about wedding rings.

“Are all of your songs for us love songs?” Aziraphale asks. He stopped complaining about your taste in music an hour ago. Crowley is driving, and Anathema has been zoned out for a while now.

“Uuuummm, the ones that aren’t breakup songs you mean? Pretty much yeah.”

Crowley groans.

“Except for like, Queen and Hozier.”

Crowley groans again.

“I thought you liked Queen,” You are shocked and alarmed. Crowley rolls his whole head (probably because you wouldn’t see him roll his eyes behind his sunglasses).

“Go on then,” he says, “Which Queen songs do you have on that playlist of yours?” He glares at you through the rearview mirror. Suddenly, you hesitate.

“Um...Somebody to Love, and Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy,” You finish meekly. Crowley nearly crashes the car. Whether it was on purpose or not doesn’t matter. Anathema takes the wheel and he gets demoted to the back seat. Next to you. As a peace offering, you hand him your phone with your spotify open, and let him take charge of the music. You feel that you might not survive the ride otherwise.

Google Maps pegs the estimated driving time from NYC to New Orleans at 19 hours. Splitting the driving between a demon and a responsible human woman, the four of you manage a respectable 12 hours including a number of breaks to: use the washroom, get coffee, get food, look at the view, poke around a used bookshop, pick some apples, eat the apples, and buy some fudge. Crowley refuses to admit that he may or may not have stopped time once or twice, and Aziraphale refuses to account for your sudden bursts of energy from time to time (conveniently and suspiciously whenever there was a stop he was interested in).

So, having made excellent time, all four of you arrive in New Orleans. Crowley is back at the wheel now, and he pulls the car into the parking lot of The Ritz. Because of course it’s The Ritz again. Anathema doesn’t even comment this time. You figure she was probably expecting it. Learning fast, that one. You check in, and aren’t all that surprised to find that you’ve been booked into the fanciest suite in the place once again. According to the pamphlet at the front desk, this suite is supposed to only be two rooms, but when you arrive, you find that it actually contains 3. Why? Supernatural beings who influence their surroundings.

“You really do have some expensive taste,” You say casually to Aziraphale as you place your bag on the floor.

“It was Crowley who booked this one,” the angel replies, inspecting the knick-knacks on a shelf to his left.

“Crowley? Trying to impress you, no doubt.”

“Pft!” Comes Crowley’s response from behind you, “Right, and not at all because to get up here you need a special passkey, which keeps unexpected guests few, far between, and easy to notice.” He gives you a pointed look over his sunglasses. “We’ve been lucky so far that we’ve been left alone since Heathrow. But don’t think for a minute that he won’t be back.”

“That’s...fair.” You pause and think for a minute. “Then we should probably limit going out too. Unless we really need to.”

“That would be best, yes,” Anathema agrees, “But please, leave the hotel staff alone.”

Well, honestly she could only expect that request to go so far once Aziraphale found the room service menu.

❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 🖤

Beginning || Previous || Next

[dustofthedailylife]

hi hi!! i saw that you take requests(sorta), but if you don’t, please delete this ask or ignore it!!

so, recently it emerged the rumor that diluc and donna are gonna get married, or are in a possible engagement fruit from some sort of contract

now, supposing that my last supposition is correct (the contract), how would the reader reacted when diluc tells them about it, while they both are in a relationship with each other? (basically a tiny angst)

again, if you do not take requests or are too busy for them, or simply the prompt isn’t to your appeal, feel free to ignore/delete it!!

"I love you more than words can say..."

→ Masterlist || → Taglist

Pairing: Diluc x (gn!) Reader

Tags: SFW, angst to comfort, both Reader and Diluc are crying, lots of fluff, cuddles and confessions at the end.

A/N: I know this has been sitting in my ask box since September but I meant to write something for it for so long already and now I finally had time to do so. I hope you still get to see and read this. I always feel guilty for keeping some requests in my inbox for so long 😣

“Did you already hear that the young Ragnvindr is going to be wed our Donna soon? That must mean he and his current fling must’ve broken up.”

“Oh, pray tell?”

You froze in place as you heard the gossip of some oblivious bypassers. You were just standing in front of Good Hunter, buying some groceries as you heard a sentence that made your heart throb while simultaneously causing your thoughts to race a thousand miles per hour. You almost dropped the bag with groceries you were holding because of the sheer wave of panic and shock those words had inflicted upon you.

“... hey, is everything alright?”, Sara asked worriedly.

“Sorry. What did you say?”, you shook your head in order to get back to the here and now. Surely this was just one of those weird rumors without any substance again. Diluc would’ve told you if it was true, right?

“You suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence and looked like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Ah, pardon me. I thought I heard something.”

You continued putting the remaining groceries in your bag in silence. You were so startled you even forgot what you and Sara even had been talking about prior to this incident. You paused as you considered asking Sara about the rumor and whether she has heard about it, too.

“Say, did you happen to hear about the marriage of Donna and Diluc, too?”, you hesitantly inquired after giving it some thought.

“Oh, that one. Yeah, of course. Everyone’s already been waiting forever for it to happen. After all, you don’t get to see someone marry the richest person in the entirety of Mondstadt every day. It’s pretty exciting if you ask me. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, very… exciting.”

You gulped loudly as you hurried off to the Angel’s Share where you hoped to find Diluc to confront him directly if what you just heard bore any truth. And you prayed to Celestia it doesn’t.

Not only would it mean he kept it from you the entire time and essentially lied to you, but also that he just used you. But it was just a stupid rumor, right? It had to be.

You basically barged into the Angel’s Share with panic evident on your face. It wasn’t open for business yet seeing as it was still pretty early in the day, so the only one present inside was the one you were looking for. Diluc was just carrying some things into the store room when you arrived and he immediately dropped everything to rush over to you.

“Love? Are you alright?”, he attempted to take your hand but you yanked it away. The expression on his face shifted to one of great concern.

“Don’t touch me!”, you yelled. “Stop pretending and playing me for a fool!”

Hot tears welled up in your eyes and flowed down your cheeks. You had tried to hold them back but it proved to be impossible. Even more so when you didn’t know where to put all these emotions in your heart. Anger and sadness mixed with the unsurmountable love you felt for the man before you who had also betrayed your trust.

“I don’t quite follow.”, he said, shook his head, and furrowed his eyebrows.

“Bullshit.”, you hissed. “How long do you intend to play with my heart? Just stop I know the truth…”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is you being engaged to Donna!”, you said with your voice barely above a whisper. Your throat felt constricted from all the things you wanted to scream out but couldn't. “What even am I to you, Diluc?”

He rubbed his hands over his eyes and let out a long sigh. You noticed that they too had become red and puffy. You had completely missed that he had started crying too and you didn’t know how to react or interpret it. Did he want to be pitied, was he just frustrated that he got caught, or was it something else?

“It is not what it sounds like.”, he breathed out as his eyes continued to fill with tears. But you were done, you didn't want to hear any excuses that he would probably just make up as well. You turned around and headed for the door as you felt him holding onto your arm to keep you from leaving.

“Please - please listen to me.”, he begged and you could feel his grip tighten on your arm in desperation.

“I’ll give you two minutes.”, you stated coldly.

You walked over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools, looking at him expectantly. And he better had a damn good excuse or this will be the last time he’d ever get to see you.

He exhaled shakily before facing you and taking both your hands in his.

“What you heard was once true… however, it is no longer. I never loved Donna, nor will I ever. You’re the only one I love and you’re the one I want to marry. I’m sorry you had to find all of this out the way you did, I should’ve told you about it way earlier. But I didn’t think it would ever resurface. My father was the one who arranged the marriage but after his passing, it sunk into oblivion and I thought it would stay there for good because I never wanted to marry someone I don't love.”

You were still shaken up but you were watching his expression carefully as he spoke and your gut was telling you that he was speaking the truth.

“Recently... Donna came up to me again and wanted me to fulfill that arrangement which I politely declined and told her I wouldn't want to marry anyone but you. She left in an angered state but I didn’t think she would go as far as to start spreading rumors. She must've intended to put me under the pressure of the public eye or cause you to leave me.”, he continued to explain with frustration in his voice.

He deeply sighed once more and reassuringly squeezed your hands a little tighter. He looked deep into your eyes and a soft smile seeped through his pained expression before he spoke again.

“So, I beg you to believe me when I say there is no other person I love. There is only room for you in my heart and there only ever will be. I don’t know what I would do if you left me. You complete me like no other.”

He wiped the tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand before looking at you once more with a heartbroken expression looking back at your equally shattered expression. So you both stood there crying, unsure whether it was out of relief or aftershocks of the initial fight had.

“You idiot.”, you sniffled through your tears as you nudged his shoulder with your fist and made an effort to throw him a playful smile. “You should’ve just told me!”

“Yes, I know… I'm so sorry.”

You got up from the stool and embraced him in a mind-numbingly tight hug while nuzzling your face into his chest and soaking in his scent. He was quick to return your embrace with a sigh of relief. He patted down your back and kissed the crown of your head softly. You felt like ten stones were lifted off your chest at once and you were finally able to breathe again.

“I love you so much, it almost kills me.”

“I love you too, Diluc. More than words can say.”

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments and asks about Genshin or my fics are always greatly appreciated.

Maple dividers are mine - do not copy.

[ofsappho]

Heartless, Chapter 5

🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, SMUT

-

You get into trouble and Ghost disciplines you for it.

CHECK TRIGGER WARNINGS/TAGS UNDER READ MORE

-

TRIGGER WARNINGS: in the first part of this chapter, homophobic slurs (fag, faggot) and insults are tossed around. From an inconsequential side character towards Soap. I want to note that I myself am queer/nonbinary, and I have been harassed/attacked/bullied for being queer. Additionally, this scene is directly inspired by real events. A friend of mine, who is queer + nb AND is a veteran, got into a fight during their service with another Marine on their base for saying vile homophobic shit. My friend dropped the guy in an instant. My friend knows I am interpreting their story in this chapter, and they approve.

SMUT TAGS: degradation (a lot of it), humiliation, spanking, bondage, dumbification, edging, spit kink, dacryphilia, bratting/brat taming, choking, face slapping, praise kink, overstimulation, squirting, care taking (tbc next chapter!). Knife kink. All consensual. By degradation, I mean degradation in the context of the smut.

Everything goes wrong like this:

You’re out with Ghost and Johnny to explore the base. 

They show you the fields where people like to play soccer. “It’s football,” your friend insists in his thick Scottish brogue. Ghost agrees with a grunt like the traitor he is.

Your heavy, exasperated sigh draws out chuckles from them both. “I’ll stop calling it soccer on the day you beat us at football.” And you don’t even like football. But fuck the British if they think they can get one over you. Well, the British and Scottish. Whatever.

The two of them start chattering- correction, Johnny chatters, and Ghost genuinely listens, you can tell, about sports and teams, and you regret bringing up the topic at all because you can barely follow.

What’s the difference between Manchester City and Manchester United? Isn’t that, like, the same thing?

As your husband discusses a recent game, a few guys kick around a ball, and some people smoke a few feet outside the designated smoking area. You watch a guy stub out his cigarette on the sign that says not to smoke elsewhere.

You’ve gotten too comfortable referring to Ghost as ‘your husband.’ Hm. You should check that impulse before it spirals into something that might validate Alejandro and Gaz’s conspiracy theories about love at first sight. Gross.

Do you know what else isn’t helping? Ghost’s refusal to let you be alone with them again. He doesn’t try to stop you or interfere, but you can’t ignore him lurking in the background like a little stalker whenever you socialize.

It’s… kind of cute.

Oh, and you finally encountered Roach in the wild. You spotted him in the mess a couple of days back, collecting the randomest assortment of snacks (Cool Ranch Doritos, a pre-workout drink for balance, you guess, a chocolate milk, and three lemon sugar cookie flavored energy bars).

He had on some interesting cat ear headphones, so you just waved and wordlessly gestured that you liked his headgear. He waved back, then shot you a thumbs up.

You tap back into your surroundings. Ghost has wandered into the smoking area to light up, and you might as well join him.

When you stretch out your hand, he plucks a smoke from his pack and places it delicately in your palm. He even lights it for you from a Zippo engraved with skulls, with one scarred hand cupped around the flame to keep it steady.

Johnny wrinkles his nose. “That’s gonna kill you in five years, you ken?” He stands on the other side of the painted smoking area line to hang while letting his disapproval be known.

You take a drag instead of laughing in his face. After all, he was the one who charmed every convenience store clerk at the young age of 17 into buying what he wanted without getting carded, smokes included.

“Since when have you been so health conscious?” You say as you blow the smoke away from Soap’s face.

Ghost does the same without thinking - like he’s stood somewhere and smoked while chatting with Soap enough times to make it a routine.

You envy the easy way they complement each other. You used to be like that with Johnny, and you wish… you want your own routines with your new husband, to know that he goes out into the world and does something different for the rest of his life because of you.

Distance is only natural, you tell yourself. You’re new to their friendship.

But Soap has been one of yours for so long, and Ghost is becoming yours faster than you thought possible. Like a rapacious strangler vine or fungal colony occupying a rotted tree, you find that you’re plotting all the ways you can twist yourself around and into Ghost.

Soap laughs. “Aye, well. You try getting shot a couple o’ times. Am not goin’ down over one of them cancer sticks.”

You hear it just as you tap some of the ash off the end of your cigarette.

“...can’t believe they let those fuckin’ fags…”

You bring the smoke to your mouth to conceal your grimace before turning ever-so-slowly. You’ve learned this lesson many times over; gathering further context is important— no need to bring a knife to a situation that does not call for knives.

The same guy you heard before continues with his little rant.

He’s a miserable-looking dude with a pasty milk face, no defined chin, a bad haircut, and a shitty name tag on his shitty uniform that says ‘Pvt. Langford.’

But somehow, despite lacking any discernible charisma, he holds rapt court with a bunch of other similarly-miserable peeons. “They’re a bunch of pussies, like, it’s pathetic, bro. Gonna give me fuckin’ AIDS or some shit if I gotta be in the same room. Criminal.” By now, he’s seen you watching him.

The corner of his thin-lipped mouth lifts as if he’s said something funny.

Eh. He’s maybe got half of a foot on you. At most. There are worse odds.

Then he slides his smarmy, revolting gaze from you to just over your shoulder, and his smirk grows. He’s looking at Soap.

You’ve seen this exact look before. You know what it means, what nerves motherfucking Langford is trying to trample on.

Before anyone can stop you, you’re across the smoking area and in Pvt. Langford’s face in about five seconds.

-

Soap thinks he’s about as level-headed and reasonable as the average man, but Langford has been getting on his nerves for way too fuckin’ long. For the whole time they’ve been stationed at this base, so, weeks.

Everyone knows Langford is a little shit. Everyone hates him and his bitch boys.

You’re just the first person willing to do something about it.

So while Johnny has never felt the urge to personally handle the Private’s homophobia because swatting flies is beneath him, he’s content to sit back and watch the show.

Naturally, Ghost tries to follow you. You’ve got the poor fellow whipped and wrapped firmly around your little finger.

He supposes he shouldn’t have expected any less.

Soap holds your husband back with an outstretched arm. “Let the lass do her thing,” He advises. You won’t appreciate it, and Soap has no intention of being on the receiving end of your wrath.

Ghost rolls his shoulders back. “Not gonna stop her?”

The Lt. doesn’t know, does he? “D’ya really think ya can?” Even more reason to let you go off. This will be fun and, frankly, a necessary introduction.

Ghost stills. “…” Not so new, then.

What a bloody buzzkill. Now look who’s fussing and clucking? Like a rooster.

Soap watches his teammate flex and crack his knuckles and decides that you owe him for what he’s about to say. “If she needs it, we’ll grab her before it goes too far,” He reassures Ghost before leaning against the ‘Smoking Area’ sign.

It’ll work out one way or another. No big deal.

The scowl on your face as you stare down Langford is somethin’ real ferocious. “What the fuck did you just say?” You demand, voice low and proud and loud enough to catch the attention of everyone in a ten-foot radius.

Langford laughs and tries to play it off. “That’s classified.” Oh, haha. Real fuckin’ original. Like half the girls in town haven’t heard soldiers try that line a million times.

The Army sure didn’t take Private Langford for his brain cells.

Next to him, Riley shifts from foot to foot. “She always like this?” He asks as if the words are throwing themselves against his mask and demanding to be let out.

“Mmm. Since we were wee mates.” From here, Soap can see how viciously you throw your cigarette to the ground and grind out the lit ember with your heel like the poor thing did something to you.

“No. Say it again,” You snap, cracking the sentiment over Langford’s thick head like you’re breaking a chalkboard in two.

Ghost stiffens up even further, and behind the mask, his eyes glint in the sunlight like that flame you just put out.

Is it possible that he’s…  impressed by you? “Go on. I just want to make sure that I heard you correctly. That we all heard you correctly,” You say icily.

Global warming would be solved in a day if they could translate your tone into real ice.

Watching Langford take a small step back without realizing it is funny as hell. Even his minions have backed away as your aura of menace sets off their self-preservation instincts with the subtlety of a pulled fire alarm.

Lt. Riley’s eyes narrow as he memorizes your scowl and how you crowd Langford forward without letting up. “Spitfire.” Damn. That’s some bloody high praise coming from him.

Heh.

Riley’s hood can’t hide the shadowy hickies on his throat; one would think that Ghost has realized it by now.

Are those teeth marks he spots? “You sound surprised. Figured she was teachin’ ya that already,” Johnny leers.

Ah, the expression he can make out under the skull mask. He wishes he had a camera so he could show you later.

Ghost closes his eyes for a long moment. “Shut your face.”

Across the way, Langford musters up a little courage. “Aw, are you mad? Did I make you mad ‘cause I spoke the truth, snowflake? Did those faggots get to you already?”

In the aftermath, even the birds stop chirping.

“Fighting words. Surprised you’re not out there with her,” Ghost says.

Only a fool would think the Lieutenant is relaxed right now; Johnny can tell that his breathing has slowed, that he’s holding perfectly still with an unbreaking focus on his prey.

That’s part of how Ghost manages to disappear in broad daylight. When those subtle signs of life go away, it’s easy to overlook him, unsubtle mask and all. 

He’d best save it for the field, but that’s none of Johnny’s business.

You two are so well-suited. “That’s the thing. About bein’ her friend. That bird- that bird’s a psycho.” If your marriage outlasts the bets everyone’s placed on an irrevocable breakdown, Soap figures he could make a killing on a matchmaking side hustle.

You take a deep breath. “I didn’t hear the truth. I heard a bunch of yapping from a little boy who a recruiter conned into signing his life away to lick the boots of his COs because he was a complete waste of resources otherwise.”

Yikes.

Occasionally, Johnny regrets quitting. He regrets quitting now, specifically; he could use the calming rush of nicotine. You’ve never ended fights in a good way, but this will end… spectacularly badly. He can see it already.

Ghost lets out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Then the Lieutenant looks around, and Soap realizes he’s checking for their Captain or any other superior officer.

Soap was planning on doing that anyway, and your new husband wins another point of approval in his book for thinking of it on his own.

“Pretty nice though, canny lie. Who else d’ya know that would fuck up a man for you without hesitatin’?” He says as he watches you open your mouth again.

“How does it feel to know you’re just that worthless?” Your voice rises and rises, acrid enough to melt paint, and it keeps Langford frozen in place.

“How long have you known her?” Lt. Riley asks.

“Eh… give or take sum’ ten years, prolly.”

“She like this the whole time?”

You go in for another round. “Thank God you’re not deployed anywhere important. It would be like the Bay of fucking Pigs all over again.” You’re close enough to spit on the Private, right fuckin’ close to his sallow face, and as your lip curls up, Johnny knows you’re definitely considering it.

Anger thrums in the air as bitter as gunpowder; it’s infecting Lt. Riley, churning in his posture, and it’s (unfortunately) starting to break through Langford’s shock.

“Aye. Never seen a law, or a rule, or a fuckin’ polis stop her. It’s nice not to fight alone, an’ if she had her way, I wouldn’t have lifted a finger in school.” He pauses, then looks at Ghost.

Johnny picks his following words with care. “Bet that one could carry the world on her shoulders if we’d let her. You know that she’s taken to you right quick?”

And then…

“Shut the fuck up, you dumb whore. Who even are you? Some slut whose only accomplishment is spreading your legs for a uniform? I’m not afraid to hit a little girl.”

Fucking Langford. Way to ruin a moment between mates, when Soap was just trying to help you.

God knows you need it; Lt. Riley is a piece of work.

The other man puts out his cigarette.

Now Soap has to think about how many soldiers he needs to threaten into silence after Ghost is through and how Soap will hide Langford’s body once he gets the final hit. “Lieutenant-“

They start moving in tandem, trying to get to you as fast as possible, like sharks circling after tasting blood in the water.

“Yeah, well, that’s funny ‘cause ‘little girl’ is what your mom calls me when we fuck,” You jeer before raising your hand.

Johnny loves you a lot, but man, do you make stupid choices sometimes.

-

Private Langford stumbles to the ground like a little bitch.

Damn. You didn’t backhand him that hard, and you’re not wearing any rings.

You can take a slap way better.

You stand over him as he clutches his face, practically cowering on the ground, and your knuckles are stinging, and all you feel is the adrenaline flash-flooding through your veins like cocaine or a really good fuck.

And then- strong, immovable arms clasp around your waist and yank you away.

Your hair’s in your eyes, and you can’t tell who’s holding you back, but whoever they are… you’re gonna make them regret it.

“Fuck you!” You howl at Langford, kicking and thrashing against the stranger’s grip.

You try to get an elbow in the side of whoever it is, but they evade it with ease. “Let go of me! I’m going to fucking kill you, you inbred motherfucker!” You scream as Langford gets to his feet.

The stranger carries you a few steps back and eliminates your chances of getting your nails in Langford’s face.

You redouble your efforts to free yourself. “Let me go! Let me at him! I’ll rip his fucking head off!”

The person shakes you like a rag doll. “Calm down. Calm the fuck down, lass. It’s me, Johnny. Stop your fucking fighting,” Soap hisses.

Oops. You stop moving all at once, causing Soap to almost drop you.

The adrenaline levels off, leaving you empty, and you drag breath after breath into your lungs to make up for it.

You shove your hair behind your ears just in time to watch Ghost put Langford in a headlock with beautiful, immaculate, careless ease.

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him take anyone down, and it takes away the breath you just found. Like, your mouth goes dry, and you forget Soap is restraining you.

Just… holy shit. He moves like the hand of God, eyes flashing and skull mask fierce.

Langford blacks out the same second Ghost gets his arm around the other man’s neck, crumpling to the ground like a chewed-up paper doll.

Oh. Oh no.

Now you understand why Soap keeps you in place because Ghost tosses Langford’s unconscious body to the side without blinking twice and then beelines straight. towards. you.

Your hands push and hit Johnny’s arms. You need to- you need to run this time, get away, and get out of Ghost’s path.

Flee. You need to flee before he unpicks you with his teeth and eats your fucking bones like a fairy tale monster.

God fucking damn it, why won’t Soap let you go?

A rush, you can’t breathe, oof, your stomach hurts, have you been swept onto Ghost’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes?

The upside-down sight of his very well-formed ass in his jeans tells you that, yes, you are hanging from his shoulder as he takes you to a secondary location.

All the blood in your body surges to your head. “Ghost. Ghost, let me down,” You tell him, voice jostling with each step he takes.

No reaction.

If you could just breathe, an action obstructed by his stupid shoulder jabbing into your stomach, and clear the fuzz from your mind (thanks hanging upside down!), you’d make him regret this.

“Put me the fuck down. I’m not fucking kidding.” Again, nothing.

If anything, Ghost actually tightens the hold he has on your hips, accurately predicting that you’re seconds away from kicking him.

Fuuuuuck this. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU OAF. I AM YOUR WIFE, YOU CAN’T JUST-“ You try to be as loud as possible, so maybe someone will hear and save you? Or irritating enough to make him set you on the ground?

Ghost keeps walking. “No,” He tells you before digging fingers into the back of your thigh. It’s painful, and you inadvertently shut your mouth, teeth grinding together. For now.

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T SET ME DOWN THIS INSTANT-“

Once Ghost unlocks your front door, he shoves it open viciously with his boot and locks it behind you without letting you go.

You fully expect him to unceremoniously drop you on the bed, but he- he doesn’t.

He pulls you into his arms like a husband carries his wife on their wedding night and lays you down gently.

Then he backs away as if burned by your skin, backs all the way to the other side of the room.

Shit. Shit. You’re in trouble. You’re in so much trouble, Ghost leans against the wall and crosses his arms, and you can’t meet his gaze; you can only look at his shoes.

He sighs. “You know what’s gonna happen next. Nod if you know.”

You nod, still looking at the ground, and feel the humiliation and anticipation trying to strangle each other in your stomach.

“If you don’t want it, you need to get the fuck outta my sight. Right now. I can’t look at you,” Ghost tells you.

You’re not sure how to find the right words. Do you want to beg? Resist? Ask him if he’s proud of you? You end up shaking your head in a negative and propping yourself up on elbows planted firmly in the bed.

He doesn’t say or do anything for a few minutes. You know he can see you squirm, how your fingers flex and feet tap the ground.

You pick yourself off the bed and walk towards him like a moth drawn to a flame.

Ghost moves as soon as you cave. He plants his large hands on your shoulders and pushes you back, back, back, until your back slams into the wall with his body boxing you in.

Before your head can hit the wall, he slides his palm around the back of your skull to cushion you.

He braces that same arm on the wall as he speaks. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some stupid shit.” You’re not really listening because his flexed bicep is right there, above your head, and he has to tap your cheek to get you to focus.

You look up into Ghost’s mask and his eyes- his eyes burn, greedily eating up your blush and your throat bobbing as you swallow your nerves.

His other hand trails along your neck and then wraps around it. “Thought you were s’posed to be smart. My smart, clever girl,” Ghost croons, all condescending like he’s talking to a misbehaving animal.

Then his voice deepens to a sound that’s just a touch inhuman. “You could’ve gotten hurt. That fuckin’ wanker almost laid a finger on you.”

Your heartbeat pounds fast, screaming in your chest. “I got him first,” You point out.

Ghost’s eyes crinkle at the ends. “That you did. You were brilliant there, love, won’t deny it.” Here’s where your flush brightens, where the praise makes you look away. “I see that went straight to your pretty little head.”

He falls silent when your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“But oh my fuckin’ god. You can’t go ‘round gettin’ into fights like that.”

“It was for Johnny,” You protest weakly. You don’t regret a single thing, but you find yourself caving at the slightest pressure.

The hand on your throat tightens, not tight enough to do anything other than remind you that you’re his. “I don’t bloody care if it was for Jesus Christ himself. Nothing is more important than you. Than your safety,” Ghost amends.

But you heard him. Nothing is more important than you, he says.

Why does he care?

Ghost sees the fight flare up in your face. “Listen to me. Nothing. Not Soap, not me. You- you are…” He’s supposed to be scaring you right now. He’s meant to be reading you the Riot Act, and the part you play is the frightened doe he teaches a lesson to.

You’re scared for a whole different reason.

Ghost is looking at you, looking through you, and it’s like you’re a little girl again, learning that the only time people give a fuck is when you do something for them.

‘Nothing is more important than you’ plays over and over in your mind.

He lets go of your throat to grab your hand, the one you hit Langford with, and his gaze drops to your reddened, bruised knuckles.

When he talks, his voice sounds odd, like he’s shaking the rust off his vocal cords. “Fuck. I was so-“ Ghost cuts himself off.

His fingers are gentle with your fingers. He turns them over, runs his thumb along your palm. You’re not used to people touching you like that.

You find your words as fast as you can. “What? You were so what?” You challenge him.

You feel him drop your hand in favor of digging his fingers into your jaw. “You’ve talked a lot today, doll. The next thing you say better be a fuckin’ apology.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s how you wanna play this?” Ghost asks, eyes flat and unreadable.

You let him apply more pressure so your mouth lolls open, you let him think he’s got you. “Yep.” Then you poke your tongue out and lick the side of the finger pressed into the corner of your lips.

“Another stupid choice,” He tells you before letting go.

He wears holsters strapped on his back and jeans, and for the first time, you’ll get to meet what he keeps in them. “See, I was gonna be nice. Was gonna… fuckin’, I dunno, say some sappy shit, be real sweet, make sure you were okay…” Ghost says matter-of-factly as he finds a single-edged switchblade that is definitely illegal for civilian carry.

There are rules for that sort of thing. The blade is an inch too long, and that popping mechanism was outlawed in 1958.

You know that he keeps bigger knives on him, ones that look like they violate the Geneva Convention. In comparison, this is small fry.

Ghost deliberately pinches the collar of your shirt between his fingers. “But you’re gonna be a bitch about this, aren’t you? I’m gonna have to get it through your thick fuckin’ skull?” He asks, moving far slower than he’s capable of, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.

You hear yourself pant desperately, you look at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, then hold perfectly still so that he won’t nick you.

The tip of the sharpened knife pokes a tiny hole in the fabric. “Hope you’re not too attached to these, doll,” Ghost tells you before slicing a clean line down the middle.

It’s cold in your bedroom, you had the air conditioner running earlier, and you blame your instinctual shivers on that instead of the need brewing under your skin (and between your legs).

When he pulls the tattered remnants of your shirt from your shoulders, you let him.

Your bra goes next. A swift rip and then your tits hang free and bare, nipples already beginning to harden.

He makes sure to click the blade back into the handle before reaching out to caress the heavy swell of your breasts, unable to resist stroking your soft skin even when he’s mad.

You picked a good day to wear a skirt that falls just past your ass with a hemline that dances teasingly around your thighs. To be clear, it’s not a good day for your skirt itself.

When the blade comes out again, Ghost cuts your skirt with steady fingers that brush your curved stomach.

Then he slips the knife between your underwear and your skin, carefully aiming the sharpened edge out so you feel the cool metal press into your heated skin without risking an accidental cut.

He doesn’t react to how your panties stick to your cunt when he takes them off you, most likely to deprive you of the satisfaction of any reaction at all.

You see part of his balaclava twitch, and after a moment, you realize he’s raising an eyebrow.

Right. Shoes. You kick them off with far too much eagerness.

He returns the closed knife to its designated holster. It’s very safe of him, very proper.

“I won’t go easily,” You remind Ghost.

He answers by covering your eyes with his hand and kissing you, his mask bunched over his nose and pressing awkwardly into your skin.

Each kiss makes you dizzier, hazier, you forget why you’re fighting, he ravages your mouth with his, and when you moan, it makes him even more feral.

He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, and you shout at the pain and try to curl away. But the hand over your eyes keeps you in place, and you shudder against him, naked and helpless.

The webbed straps of his chest holster grind into your breasts and leave rough streaks of chafe wherever they touch your skin.

His tongue slips against yours, Ghost tastes like smoke and something uniquely him, it feels like he’s pouring nicotine into your synapses, and your spine relaxes, your muscles soft and compliant.

When you try to bite his lip back, he pulls away without acknowledging your unhappy whine.

“Open your fucking mouth,” Ghost snaps.

You do that and even stick your tongue out for good measure. You might not be able to see him, but he can see the little tease of how good you can be.

You hear him spit before you feel the glob of his saliva land messy and hot on your outstretched tongue. Your legs shift, and you press them together, anything to help with the pressure beginning to build in your core and the arousal trickling down your thigh.

Cloth rustles, and then Ghost removes the hand covering your eyes. His mask is back in place like he never lifted it at all. “Step away. Hands behind your back.”

You turn around on unsteady legs, then put your wrists together behind your back as ordered.

Something unclicks behind you, and then he pulls it off his… pants? His belt - he’s cuffing you with his belt, deftly weaving the nylon strap between your wrists and securing it into place.

As you test the strength and make sure he’s restrained your hands in a way that doesn’t cut off circulation, Ghost gathers your hair and drapes it neatly over one shoulder so it won’t bother you.

He touches your back and neck with an almost unbearable fondness. Fuck.

You feel him kiss your shoulder through the mask, closed-mouthed and chaste. “This isn’t coming off until you’re ready to behave,” He murmurs into your skin before sliding an arm around your waist, pulling the mask down, and biting the place he just kissed.

You struggle and twist in his grasp, but he holds fast, and you slump into him with a pained moan. Is he trying to fucking brand you? It sure feels like it.

When Ghost releases you, he turns you around with a hand on your bound wrists and then walks backward faster than you can keep up.

Then he sits on the bed as proudly as a king on a throne and beckons for you.

Without your arms free to help you balance, you stumble a few times, and Ghost watches you with a pleased glint in his gaze. That may be the point.

By the time you get to him, you’re thoroughly unbalanced. “Come on. Yeah, over my lap.” You kneel without complaint, too busy avoiding eating shit to consider resisting.

He helps you lower your torso with an arm placed below your collarbones and a hand flat on your stomach so you don’t face plant into the sheets.

“Are you going to-“ You feel him guide your hips up, encouraging you to place most of your weight on your face and shoulders.

Conveniently leaving your ass exposed. And- and he can see your dripping folds, see proof that you crave him.

He goes on as casually as if he were describing the weather. “Spank you? Yes, I am. A slag like you can’t see reason, obviously. Got to train it in ya.” You practically jump out of your skin when you feel him drag a finger along the inside of your thigh, tracing the rivulets of slick trickling from your pussy.

You feel like a thing, like putty in his hands that he can bat about and talk to like you’re not even there.

“Don’t act like you don’t fucking get off on this. Be honest. Or are you too stupid to do that?” Ghost asks as if he’s just remembered that you can answer questions.

You clench around nothing and desperately wish he’d take that finger playing with the sensitive skin of your thighs, and do something useful with it. “…I do.”

“There’s my needy girl.” He neatly fists a hand in your hair, somehow mindful that you won’t appreciate losing a few strands without you telling him.

His free hand caresses your ass, then up and down the backs of your thighs. You feel him grab one cheek tightly, grinding down with his fingers so he can see red marks bloom under his touch.

You jerk forward with a cry when he hits you the first time, though the hand in your hair keeps you from going very far. Ghost doesn’t spank you hard, more of a warning tap than anything.

The shock smarts more than the blow did. But you’re determined to show that you can, in fact, take a hit better than Langford, so you dig your knees in and psych yourself up for the next spank.

“Fuck is wrong with you?” His voice cracks like thunder, then he follows it with another spank.

This one hurts. Hot, hot pain radiates from the spot he hit, but your body wrenches with a different sensation as your body processes that pain as… well… pleasure.

When he spanks you again, he takes the time to force your head further down into the blankets. “Hm? Running your dumb fucking mouth, talkin’ all that big shit?” Ghost snaps at you.

Each time he spanks you, you cry out, your eyes roll back, and it hurts, and he keeps hitting the same spots, so even when he isn’t touching you, you’re sore. 

Another set of blows, each one harder than the last.

You gotta- you gotta tell him- you push back against his grip, and he lets you lift your head. “God, Ghost, please-“ Your voice is choked-up and pleading, mirroring your thighs trembling with want and your aroused, needy core that he’s fucking ignoring.

He slaps your ass again, this time right where your ass cheek meets your thigh, close but not close enough.

“Please, what? Please, what, doll? Come on. Dumb little doll doesn’t know how to talk?”

Your breaths are ragged, labored, you’re shivering and there’s so much pain that you can’t tell where it stops and where the want begins.

“Harder-“ You cut yourself off with a gasp when he does just that.

That one burns. That one feels like an open flame, like Ghost’s touch is burrowing into your muscles, down down down, like it will leave a lingering mark that you don’t want to fade.

He rubs over your heated skin, massaging away the worst of the soreness. “You’re welcome. Now listen to me,” Ghost speaks in a low, reassuring tone like he’s gentling a startled animal.

He notices the exact moment you get lost in the feeling, when you push back and fucking present yourself in the hopes that he’ll give you more.

Then he cracks his hand against your ass; the sound is louder than your answering shriek. “Listen. You are going to apologize for almost getting hurt. You’re going to mean it. You’re going to swear you’ll never get into a fight again.” Ghost tightens his hold on your hair and twists his wrist to push your face back into the bed, taking back the advantage he granted.

“Or what?” You won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week at least, the ache and the bruises forming have you strung out for the tiniest scrap of pleasure… but you did tell him you wouldn’t go easily.

“Or…” Ghost trails off slowly. Your scalp begins to tingle as his grip grows even tighter.

It’s so painful that you almost miss the two thick fingers he slips into your pussy. Almost.

“Fuck!” You keen, your mouth open as your nails dig into your palms.

He thrusts them into you slowly, lazily, totally unsympathetic to your pleading noises and your muscles quivering around his fingers as he drags them in and out of you.

Your cunt has to stretch to accommodate them, and he grinds into you each time he gets knuckle-deep. And then he holds your head down like you don’t get the privilege of looking at him… Your pussy clenches around him at the thought.

Eventually, Ghost stops moving at all, but you’re gone, you’ve been gone, and when you start fucking yourself on his hand, he lets you.

You can tell he’s rock hard, you can feel his dick through his jeans, but he has far more willpower than you could even imagine, and brushing up against it does nothing. “Oh- oh my god, fuck, that feels…” You pant as you chase the sweetness, chase the tension twisting up your guts that’s so close to boiling over, so close.

Your clit is aching, screaming for pressure, for stimulation, but he doesn’t grant it to you. You can only work your hips against his hand, over and over.

Your eyes close as you speed up, you’re whining, you’re gonna come any second, your cunt can’t stop twitching. “I’m so close, wait what-“

Ghost pulls his fingers out before you tip over the edge.

“Or you’re not coming tonight,” He informs you, and you can hear the stupid fucking grin in his stupid fucking voice.

When you try to protest, to get up and fucking bite him or some shit because that’s not fair, Ghost spanks you with the hand you soaked.

You’re sort of blissed-out, sort of pissed, and a lot horny. “I’m sorry-“ You start in the hopes that Ghost will fold and give you what you fucking want.

His mask rustles as he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

Then he slides you off his lap like you weigh nothing so he can stand.

Ghost keeps you in the same position, head down, ass up, and nudges your thighs open a bit wider.

You can’t see him through any of this. That seems to be something he’s taking full advantage of. You can’t touch him, you have no idea what’s happening next.

The only clue you have that he’s taken his mask off again is when he puts his tongue on your sensitive, aroused clit.

(He really should just take the damn thing off more regularly. This is inconvenient, and it’s not like there’s anything under there that could make him less attractive.)

He laps at your swollen folds with his hands on your hips to steady you, and the thoughts melt straight out of your head and drool from the corner of your mouth.

You struggle against the belt in earnest this time, maybe you can loosen it enough to slip your hands out and get away from Ghost and his planned torment. As much as your body pleads to stay put, as much as you want to push yourself back and let him consume you, let him fuck you stupid with his tongue, you know it will end soon.

And he’s going to be fucking mean about it.

Ghost takes his breathing break as an opportunity to taunt you. “You’re not goin’ anywhere,” He promises, leaving handprint bruises on your thighs.

Your stomach churns as he sucks on your clit, like there’s a knife slicing through you, and it’s the hot, burning pleasure pulsing through your body.

You’re not sure you can hold yourself up any longer, your knees waver like you’re a baby deer, and oh God, you’re going to come again, you can feel the spasms in your cunt grow stronger and stronger.

The beginnings of your orgasm tremble through your muscles, so close that you can taste it, you feel it throbbing with every beat of your heart.

He keeps sucking, his wet mouth relentless and dragging you painfully to the edge of the cliff. “Ghost, please, please let me- Fuck!” You wail as he backs off. 

Tears well in your eyes as the tremors fade into nothing.

You get yourself upright before he can stop you. “Why are you being such a dick?” You blurt out, lurching forward on your knees like if you can get to him, you can do… something. You’re not sure what, other than that you want to kill him.

Ghost blinks a couple of times.

In the silence that follows, the deadly, threatening silence, you realize your mistake. “Just- just let me come, I’ll be good. I promise. Just wanna come.” You beg, you sit down and tilt your head up like a dog doing a trick, and you pray he gives you grace.

He gets his hand around your throat faster than a snake striking its prey. This time, Ghost squeezes the sides hard enough to make you see white lights. “I am being a dick,” He agrees congenially. “But that’s not what you need to say, is it?”

“…no,” You mumble.

The next thing you feel after he releases you is his palm meeting your cheek. Hard.

“Have I spoiled you that much? You think you can fuckin’ ignore me?” Ghost sounds so calm, so authoritative.

After the ringing in your ears clears, you’re proud to see that you’re still upright. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” You stretch your jaw a few times to release the ache from his slap.

He hunches over, puts his hands on his knees, and gets right in your face. “Oh, but you did,” Ghost whispers. 

There’s something about the fogginess clinging to your eyelashes and the inside of your ears and the folds of your brain that makes his skull mask seem more than real.

A hovering specter of exposed bone, hollow eye sockets with no end, and a gaping, horrifying maw.

You’re starting to understand why people call him Ghost and mean it.

Your mouth goes dry. “Please, I’m begging you,” You whimper, eyes round with awe and flustered blood rising in your cheeks.

He nods, and you swear there must be hearts in your eyes at his approval. “Mm. I like that. Beg again.”

“Ghost. Husband. I’ll be so good. Anything. I’ll do anything. I can’t take it, I need to come so badly.” You lean forward to touch your forehead to his, making yourself as obedient as possible. For the most part.

“That’s not an apology.” Then he sighs, long and drawn-out and aggravated. “Anything, you say?” Ghost asks.

“Y-yeah.”

“Alright. You can come…. When you promise not to fight. And you’re gonna wait until you do,” He tells you as he slips his hand between your slick thighs.

“No…” You moan. He’s doing it again, torturing you again, you just want to give up, you feel him play with your throbbing clit, and it hurts so good.

Ghost clamps a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to roll your hips against his hand. “Sounds like you weren’t listening. Now that makes me think you don’t care.” Shit. Shiiiiit. He pushes a single finger into you, and you collapse into him as you start to ride it, hips jerking unconsciously.

He laughs when he hears you squeal. “You’re just a mindless whore who’d let half the fuckin’ base run through you, aren’t ya?” He’s found your g-spot, he rubs the patch of ridged flesh inside your cunt over and over.

Sweat beads on the back of your neck and drips down your spine, your fucked-out gaze can hardly focus on him, you feel like you’re burning alive in your skin.

“Don’t even need me at this point…” He circles your clit one more time and your mouth hangs open and you want to beg, but you can’t focus-

Tears fall down your cheeks when he wipes his fingers on your heaving breasts.

“No, no, no, Ghost, I need you. I want you. No-nobody else. I do care, please, you’re the only one,” You sob into his chest, pushing your nose into the fabric of his hoodie because it’s soft and smells like him, warm and like home.

“Yeah?”

You feel him rub your back, then slip a few fingers between the belt and your wrists to test your comfort.

You nod without lifting your head. “I- I was- I’m listening, promise, I can’t- you gotta make me come, don’t want anybody else.” You’re so tired, so worn out. There’s a patch of dampness on his jacket from your weeping, and you let out little high-pitched whimpers like a neglected kitten.

He frees your hands in an instant. “If I gotta repeat myself, I’m gonna leave you here,” Ghost tells you, though his voice isn’t as mean as before.

Your arms cling to his neck as you nuzzle your face into the space below his sharp jaw. “Ghost. Don’t go.” The edge of his balaclava muffles your words, but you don’t have the strength to say them to him straight.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so stupid,” You sniffle before bringing a hand to your nose to wipe a little snot.

Ghost gently knocks your fingers away and replaces them with the edge of his sleeve, delicately cleaning the mucus from your upper lip.

Next, he dries your cheeks with the shadow-black fabric.

You protest when he unhooks your arms from his neck, and your hands scrabble for purchase in the hood of his jacket.

One soft look, his fingers brush your chafed wrists, and you let him lay you down. “Took you long enough,” Ghost quips as he unbuttons his pants and pulls out his dick, mouthwateringly hard and long. He pumps his cock a few times.

You’re in a daze, hovering in that raw space on the other side of crying but wanting him anyways, needing him more than anything.

“Spread your legs, love.”

Ghost leans in like he’s about to kiss you. Then he remembers his mask and changes his mind, having lifted it enough today.

He taps your sensitive clit with the fat head of his cock, and you suppress your shudders, how your legs automatically try to close and get away from the feeling. “I won’t do it again,” You tell him, voice breathless and sweet.

Once he’s coated in enough of your arousal, he keeps one hand flat on your pelvis as he pushes in. “Fuck- fuck, I…” You groan. There’s never any room in your body left for air when he fucks you. Never.

He’s so large that it hurts a little when he’s bottomed out, you can hardly twitch or clamp down like you desperately want because of how fucking full you are.

You can feel every inch of him, you’re on the brink of crying again because all of those denied orgasms are tearing at your insides, and your painfully aroused cunt screams that you can’t take it, that it’s too much, too good, he’s too big.

You have to be good. “Uh, I won’t fight, aah-“ That’s the only thing that gets you to say the words he wants through numb lips, especially when Ghost starts to thrust, and your pussy convulses around him each time.

He moves slowly, really slowly, shallow at first, your tits bouncing in time, and you’re crying out underneath him, so used to all that edging that you subdue your pleasure on instinct.

The slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out are loud and profane, filling the room more than your weak, almost pathetic whines do.

The solid, imposing weight of his body settles you down so you can enjoy his faster, harder pace, and his balls slap against your ass as he fucks you open. “Promise?” Ghost pants, his hands pressing your knees almost to your chest.

He’s looking for something. He moves your legs every few thrusts, opens you up a little more, tilts your pelvis up and-

When his dick catches on your g-spot, your tears cover your cheeks and trickle into your hair in earnest. “Yes, yes, shit, hngh- I promise…” You’re so wet that you can feel it dripping down to the bed and pooling under you, you feel that familiar pressure building, except this time it’s stronger, it’s got a stranglehold on you.

Every time the fly of his pants brushes your engorged clit, your eyes go large and you hiccup, unable to moan properly because it’s like electricity is coursing down your spine.

He kisses the side of your face before nailing that sensitive spot with terrifying, mind-breaking accuracy.

“Come on. You can do it,” Ghost groans, cursing under his breath when you squeeze him so tightly that he almost loses his grip on your thighs.

Oh. Oh. He wants- he’s trying to make you…

“I can’t, I don’t know how, I, I-“ You sob, the pleasure is so intense that you feel nauseous, he’s rutting into your body furiously, and you’re stuck on a horrible knife’s edge of needing to come or you’ll die, but it’s not happening.

He nudges your knee until you wrap one leg around his hips. “It’s alright, love. Let me help you. That’s it, that’s a good girl,” Ghost shushes you before slowing down so he can place his hand on your throat and restrict the blood rushing to your head.

Everything goes sweet and hazy, and you give him a cock-drunk smile in return, eyes rolling back and drool stuck to the corner of your lips.

Once you’re suitably pliant, he slides that hand between you and finds your aching clit. “Just focus on me.” He’s pressing his forehead to yours, you look into his dark, fathomless eyes ringed with pale lashes.

The coil tightens, and you arch into him, gasping and biting down on your lip so hard that you draw blood. 

“Ghost, fuck, can I-“ You beg, voice choked and strung out as his fingers move faster on your clit, circling it in tandem with his cock pounding you so deep that it feels like he never ends.

“Go on. Come for me. I know you can.” Ghost pinches your clit, and you come with a wail, thighs shaking, your cunt seizing and it fucking gushes out of you, you soak his jeans, you clamp down so tightly that he slips out.

He replaces his dick with three fingers slotted right on your g-spot, moving in quick, jerky thrusts to see you through it. “Holy fuck. Did you just…” He mutters as your eyes screw shut, and your nails snag his shoulders. 

You feel like you’re dying, you can’t stop fucking squirting, the waves grow and grow-

Your hips jerk for the last time, and you’re left a whimpering, quivering mess of oversensitive nerves, the last of the aftershocks still simmering in your muscles.

Ghost kisses your forehead as he carefully withdraws his fingers. “You’re too good to me,” He tells you with something like awe in his rough voice.

You slump to the bed, boneless and empty, not even giving a fuck that the sheets are all messy with sweat and… squirt?

That’s new, you think blearily. That kind of shit only happens in porn? Right?

Your head lolls to the side so you can watch him through lidded eyes.

He moves you out of the wet patch with one arm under your back and the other under your knees, then tucks himself back into his boxers.

“Wait… you didn’t- you didn’t come…” Your voice is fucked up and hoarse, and maybe you should give in to the overwhelming urge to sleep, but…

Did he not want to? You did everything he asked.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Don’t need to. You were perfect, you learned your lesson.” He splays a hand out on your stomach, luxuriating in your squishiness.

Your brow furrows. “Ghost…” Then you rub the sweat and crusted tears from your eyes and set your mouth in a mulish, determined line.

He watches you like a hawk. “Yeah?”

“Please? Fuck me?” You ask as you touch his forearm with a weak hand.

A beat passes. “You’re crying. And you drenched me, the bed too,” He tries to reason with you. You see him swallow harshly, you know he’s shifting where he sits because he’s given himself blue balls.

Your eyes flutter when the exhaustion almost gets you, but you power through it. “It’s okay. I- I’m tough. I want you to come.”

“Yeah. Alright… Tough girl.” Then Ghost reaches for your hips with all kinds of enthusiasm that tells you the truth.

It was sweet of him to try and be gallant. You’d rather he break you open and fill you up.

To be extra nice, you even hold your knees apart so he can push back in.

You’re not going to come again, you’re too fried for that, but it still feels… incredible. You’re glad for all the extra lubrication and that you can make him feel good.

Ghost fucks you with abandon, and deep, animalistic groans echo from his throat. “Shit- I could fuck you forever, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, fuckin-“ He grunts, head tilted back the tiniest bit and composure gone.

Breathe, you tell yourself, breathe. Do it for him.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Your swollen pussy spasms from the praise, constricting him so tight that he cries out. You just can’t help yourself when he says shit like that, especially when he’s making you ache in such an addictive way.

His hips move faster. “You like that? You like it when I tell you how good this fuckin’ pussy feels?” Yeah. Yeah, you do.

“Fuck, fuck fuck-“ You feel him orgasm, he paints your walls with his cum, then grinds those last few thrusts so deep that you cry out.

His pelvis bumps the backs of your thighs like he’s trying fuck his cum in as deep as it will go.

Ghost catches his breath as he softens inside you, panting as raggedly as you are.

He pulls out before dropping his chest harness to the side and unzipping his hoodie so he can clean you up.

You can’t stand the thought of anything touching anywhere near your beat the fuck up pussy right now, so you shove his hands away and drag Ghost down to snuggle.

Of course, he obliges you and helps you rest your head on his shoulder as you curl into his muscular frame like a little bug.

“What happens if the fight comes to me?” You ask. 

He’s running a hand up and down your spine, soft touches to bring you back to earth in a gentle, comforting way.

His hand stops until you kick his shin, gently, then he starts up again. “You run,” Ghost says.

“What happens if I can’t run?” You press your cheek into his t-shirt, so close that you can feel the heat of his skin through it. And a little rhythm that must be his heartbeat.

Next, Ghost threads his fingers through your sweaty, messy hair and attentively smooths it away from your face. “You call me. I’ll come get you. Every time.”

-

Hope y'all liked this one! Next chapter will be super soft/sweet/fluffy with lots of caretaking, I promise.

Tagging:

@abbiesxox @thedevillovesflowers @poohkie90 @averyyreads @lialacleaf @backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @555ilovecats @pinkwigonmytv @almightywdm @discowizard88 @castielsangelsx @jaymicrosoft @rengokulover96 @copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld @idesofarch @teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan @deadpoetsandhoney @crowsjourney @vanevafu @xxghostyx @rafaelacallinybbay @akaotv @chibijusstuff @wasteland-babe @anubiseqq @lilpothoscuttings @soapyghost @maliceex59 @valdemarismynonbinarylove

[coffeemakerwriter]

GhostSoap playlist

TW’s: suicide, SA, death, depression, grief, abuse mentions, heavy angst with little to no fluff, may be ooc!! Heavy on soaps death!! Please proceed with caution and let me know if I miss any tags!

A/N: I prefer light and fluffy stuff for ghost and soap but :)) I thought this would be fun! I don’t really have any angsty headcanons for them but I kinda just wrote out my thoughts for this :) this is probs super out of character but that’s okay!

Wc: 1k woords!

Reckless driving by Lizzy mcalpaine and Ben Kessler:

I don’t exactly know why this fits, but it makes sense to me in a way, I think in the way that ghost and soap are both reckless, but ghost is reckless in the way he doesn’t care if he died, but I think in a way, he doesn’t want to take soap with him, and I think that’s frustrate soap, that ghost is so willing to risk his life for him that he’d go as far as to kill himself if it was needed. As long as it keeps soap alive.

The Gold - Phobe Bridgers version:

I think of this in the way after the soap's death ghost is different, ‘I don’t think I love you anymore, that gold mine changed you’? That feels like after Soap's death ghost someone says how different he is, closed off, ‘I don’t wanna be me anymore’ could be ghost agonizing on how he feels because of ghosts death and feels guilty about how he’s been acting since and fears it’s damaging his remaining relationships.

Cherry wine - live by Hozier:

Soap to ghost is a spitfire, loud and wild, hard to contain, harsh barks of laughter and his eyes light up at an ability to fight, but he loves when he’s calm too. “Her fight and fury is fiery Oh but she loves Like sleep to the freezing

Sweet and right and merciful I'm all but washed In the tide of her breathing” can be how soft soap is with ghost, how sweet he can be regardless of his bright and fiery personality. He would love him regardless if he was soft or harsh.

Born to die by Lana del rey:

Regardless of whatever timeline you look at, both of them are born to die, never actually destined to be together forever. Either they both die or one is ripped away. Neither get a happy ending.

Johnny boy by Twenty One pilots:

‘Get up Johnny boy’ can be ghost begging soap to get up, getting more and more distraught as he repeats it, the sickening realization that his pride and joy isn’t getting up, because his pride and joy is dead. ‘I will carry all your names, and I will carry all your shame’ can be ghost vowing in some way that even after his death he will make sure he means something, that his death didn’t go in vain and even with his faults and mistakes he will make sure Johnny will be carried on.

Army dreamers by Kate bush:

The entire song can be played on the fact that soap's body is being brought home, that his coffin is being home to his mother and sisters, how they wish he had chosen something else to do instead of being a soldier, an army dreamer. How he died so young, and how he’ll never make it past his 20’s. But even then, he’ll always be his mammy’s hero.

Not strong enough by boygenius:

I think this kinda deals with more so, ghosts grief with soaps death, how he feels empty and doesn’t know why he is the way he is after he dies. ‘Do you see us getting scraped off the pavement?’ Could be in allusion to the fact he thought about killing himself after soap's death, that in some way he felt like it was his fault soap died. And maybe the emptiness he feels going home to shared space, knowing that soap won’t be there anymore, knowing that he’s alone now. Knowing that he’s never coming home.

I bet on losing dogs by mitski

Ghost holding soaps body, cradling his head in his lap, his baby, he’s watching him die, holding his cold, lifeless body. He knew he wasn’t gonna live, how do you survive something like that? That’s a bet you can’t win. He knew he wouldn’t survive, so all he can do is hold him in his last moments and offer comfort in his last moments. Because either way he’s watching him die.

Savior complex by Phobe bridgers:

I think soap wants to help ghost get better, offer him a place of comfort, save him, but ghost isn’t all that open about things. Not his childhood, not roba, and sure as hell not his family. But soap wants to be there for him, show me yours show you mine? He’s willing to be vulnerable with him if only he’d be vulnerable too, soap thinks he will be, with time at least.

Sarah by Alex g:

I don’t really know how to explain this one either, just the fact I feel like ghost would feel like he’s in a dream, constantly seeing Johnny, seeing his face, hearing his voice, running to him, only for him to be woken up just before he can reach him. I feel like ghost would wait for him like a dog, despite knowing he’s gone, he’s not coming back, he still waits. Or atleast waits till he can join him.

All for us by labyrinth:

I feel like Johnny and ghost would do anything for eachother, they love each other so much that they would die for the other. They would risk their careers for each other if it came down to it. Genuinely I think they’d kill for the other if they had to, without a thought.

Feel better by Penelope Scott:

I think ghost found comfort in his unwellness after soap's death, a routine maybe, I think ghost agonized over it not only becaUse of just how close they were in general but because someone had actually loved him, loved him despite his flaws, his issues, despite everything they loved him. I think in a way, he thinks he’s incapable of being loved. But soap disproved that, and the fact that he loved him despite everything made it hurt even more.

Funeral by Phobe bridgers:

Imagine ghost talking at soap's funeral, going to the funeral of someone he cared so deeply about that he didn’t think would die so soon. Imagine him having to talk to his mother, comfort her and tell her how much her son meant to him. And how sometimes he wakes up from nightmares of johnny's death, only weeks after it happened, and how he just has this deep feeling of sadness and emptiness and he can’t help but wonder if it’ll always be like this.

I love you so by the Walter’s:

Imagine ghost seeing soap in a dream, begging soap to stay only for him to tell him he needs to let go, but he’s not ready to yet. He doesn’t want to let him go, he doesn’t want to forget him. He loves him. Why does he want him to forget? He doesn’t want to forget his smile, or the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. He doesn’t want to forget any of it.

Freaks by Surf Curse:

I feel like ghost dreams about soap a lot after his death. And everytime he dreams of him he hopes he doesn’t wake up, either because he wants to stay with him just a little longer or because he hopes somehow he’ll die in his sleep, so he can finally be at peace.

We’ll never have sex by leith ross:

I feel like ghost has a fear of sexual intimacy or at least some anxiety around it. And he’s afraid that soap will want to initiate that sort of stuff with him, and he’s worried that soap will leave him when he finds out that he doesn’t like sex all that much, or that can make him uncomfortable at times. He's in therapy for sure, but that doesn’t make it completely go away. But I think Johnny would be understanding, willing to listen to him when he explains how sometimes it makes him uncomfortable. I don’t think Johnny would do anything to make ghost uncomfortable on purpose. I do think he’d make sure ghost is comfortable with anything sexual.

Mr. Loverman by Ricky Montgomery:

I think this is just mainly ghost missing Johnny, maybe drinking too much one night, agonizing on how much he misses him, what he could’ve done differently, and if he got there sooner, could he have saved him? Would he be sitting here beside him instead of in an urn?

Like real people do by Hozier:

I think this is just them learning to love, being soft with each other, about how they met, I don’t think soap would ask very many questions about ghosts' childhood, I think he’d figure out pretty early on that it wasn’t a good one. I think he’d let him speak about it when he was ready, when he felt safe to do so. I think in a way he’d feel a sad bitterness when he sees ghost exhibit behaviors he learned from his childhood, like walking quietly, doing things to please him when he got upset, things to make him happy. I think that’s when Johnny would connect the dots, that he didn’t have a good childhood. I think regardless of that though, Johnny would treat him with the care he deserves, and I think ghost would do the same too.

Nothings new by Rio Romeo:

I think ghost would settle in this emptiness that he felt like he could never get out of, this never ending feeling that nothing will ever change, that he will always feel empty now that soap is dead.

Sunlight by Hozier:

I think soap and ghost do make eachother happy, that they work well together as a couple, that they have boundaries that are good and they communicate well. Soap his ghosts sunlight and he’d die on that hill. Soap means everything to ghost and soap is the same way with him. I feel like they make eachother better as people and learn to better themselves for the other. Because they WANT to make their relationship work.

J’s lullaby (darlin’ I’d wait for you) by Delaney Bailey:

I think in a way, ghost will always wait for soap to come back, he’s always gonna hope for him to come through their front door after a deployment, and curl himself into his side and rest their for the rest of the night. Logically he knows that won’t happen, but he’d give anything for it to. Because he’d do anything for his Johnny.

[effervescentdragon]

WIP WEDNESDAY! On a Friday because time is meaningless, taking the tag from @ayceeofspades bcs I can, and sharing the part of my Jurassic Park AU bcs I'm super proud of this part 🥰 the intended audience for this is Me and I'm using it to get over some shit and my writers' block bcs I need to. Gonna tag @river-ocean just because this is part of what I was telling you about, and leaving the tag open for whoever wants it 🥰

“What the fuck did you do?” he asked in a voice that sounded like a knife cut. “Are you trying to tell me - you actually - what do you mean, you got creative?” Rosberg almost stuttered, his words coming out fast, mixing with each other.

“Please tell me you didn’t,” Hamilton added softly. “Please, tell me you didn’t.”

George looked both baffled and embarrassed.

“What, uh, what do you mean?” George said, straightening himself up. “I assure you -”

“He means, please tell us you didn’t try to play God,” Sebastian said. When Arthur turned to look at him, the man looked furious and scared in the same measure. “Please tell us you did not engineer a new species of dinosaur.”

George cleared his throat. “Well. The corporate thought, and from what I understand, the numbers confirmed it, that Jurassic World was losing its relevance as an attraction. So they -”

“- let their greed influence them,” Sebastian interrupted. Arthur caught some movement through the glass. They were lowering a cow, a live one, into the paddock, probably as bait for this new dinosaur.

Arthur thought Indominus rex was a very cool name. He wasn’t about to share it with anyone, not now, when Vettel and Rosberg both looked outraged and Hamilton looked like he’d seen a ghost. Max and Ricciardo, who were both standing behind them, both had frowns on their faces.

He glanced at Charles, who was looking at the cow, and grimaced. Charles really liked cows. Arthur stepped closer to his brother on instinct.

“I - I would not put it quite like that,” George tried to argue, but Rosberg was having none of it.

“Did none of you learn anything from Jurassic Park?” He scoffed. “Let me guess, you took Marko’s research and completely ignored the consequences of it, consequences we-” he gestured around, “barely fucking lived through and testified against, since you managed to straighten out the genetic code for regular dinosaurs.” His eyes flashed. “Are regular dinosaurs not enough anymore?”

“Corporate thought a new species may up the ‘wow’ factor of the establishment and make us more relevant,” George answered.

“They are fucking dinosaurs,” Sebastian spat. “They are already ‘wow’ enough.”

“They thought it would make more money, more like,” Hamilton scowled. “Cash is king, isn’t it. Just like in Jurassic Park.”

“It took years to iron the knacks in regular dinosaurs’ DNA,” said Rosberg. “How long have you had to mix up this creative solution?”

“And even with regular ones, they are animals born and bred in captivity,” Hamilton continued. “The patterns of their actions are barely quantifiable.”

“What did you even put in the cocktail?” Vettel asked. “Which species have you added, and have you considered all the variations of their instincts and how they may interact with already fragmented dinosaur DNA?”

“Did you consider anything aside from corporate greed and trying to make as much money possible from playing with things that shouldn’t be played with, since you can’t even begin to predict the consequences?” Hamilton’s eyes flashed as he spoke.

“It’s no wonder we weren’t notified of this,” Rosberg snorted. “The ethical considerations alone are a fucking nightmare, but neither the corporate assholes nor you scientists think of ethics much, do you?”

“You only thought of whether or not you could,” Vettel finished in a low voice. “It never occurred to you to think if you should.”

Arthur admired George in that moment, because the man bore the triple attack with only slight rufflement. They are like raptors, Arthur thought, Vettel, Rosberg, and Hamilton. Attacking the prey from all sides, playing off each other, not allowing the prey to catch a moment’s respite. And they aren’t even in a good relationship right now. I would have loved to see them when their attacks were coordinated.

[ghostlyplacetobe]

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My sona/oc (pretty much both + I update him)

He has both acne and freckles, he has body hair so if you draw him shirtless or anything make sure to draw him with leg, arm, and armpit

-sona/oc boundaries-

Is fanart okay? - please it would make me so happy!

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Gonna say this too but also ask permission before putting headcanons on him too

[starksvinyls]

Title: Kitten Around Rating: Gen Pairing: Peter Parker & Tony Stark Tags/Warnings:  Animal Transformation, Irondad and Spiderson, Fluff, Platonic Cuddling, Magic Summary: The Bad Guy of The Week hits Peter with magic and turns him into a kitten. Notes:  fills square I5 'animal transformation' on my @pparkerbingo card!

AO3 Link

“Oh, fu-“

“Peter?” 

“Spidey, report.” 

“Kid?” 

Mew 

— 

“Well,” Clint stared down at the pile of red and blue fabric that once had a teenager inside it. “That’s different.” 

The brown kitten, that was sitting in the middle of the fabric pile, blinked up at him. 

“What the hell happened?” Tony demanded as he landed, his face plate flipping up as he metallically stomped over to where Clint and Natasha were standing. He came up short when he noticed the kitten. They were all silent.

The faceplate flipped back down and Tony demanded Friday connect with Karen to find out what happened. The footage from Peter's suit came up on his HUD and Tony watched as Peter came face to face with the baddie of the week they had been attempting to subdue. 

A spark arced between the villain's hands as Peter tried to talk to the man, throwing out a quip about turning himself in, and then the wizard was shooting that spark at Peter. It hit and suddenly Peter was falling off of the streetlight he had been perched on before the camera cut out. 

“From what I can tell,” Karen spoke up. “The spark that hit Peter turned him into the kitten. The kitten was inside the suit when the suit hit the ground.” 

Tony stared at the screen, not seeing anything, taking a moment to process. The guy turned Peter into a kitten? Well, fuck.

–

Natasha had carried Peter back to the tower, and the kitten had fallen asleep curled up against her chest, so she sat down in the common room still holding him. The purring was absolutely adorable, and Tony wanted to snatch the boy away from Natasha, but he knew it would just piss off the spy and disgruntle Peter. 

The team gathered on the couches and they all stared at the fluff ball that was now Peter. The fur was the same chocolate brown as his hair, and they had noticed earlier that his eyes were the same, as well. So at least they knew it was Peter for sure. No one said anything for several minutes before Steve finally cleared his throat. 

“Well,” He seemed at a loss. “I suppose we should work on finding this guy so he can turn Peter back. I’ll go back out with Clint and begin the search.” 

“I’ll have Friday start combing the cameras around the city, see if we can figure out which way he went.” Tony couldn’t stop staring at the kitten. 

“Oh, here,” Natasha stood, took the three steps over to Tony, and then held out the kitten for him. 

Peter made an unhappy squeak and Tony quickly took him so he wouldn’t just be dangling there from the spy’s hand. He tucked Peter in close to his chest and Peter started back up that little motor in his chest and snuggled in close. A ghost of a smile crossed Tony’s face. When he looked back up, everyone was staring at him. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Bruce chuckled. 

Tony narrow his eyes playfully, and then stood. “I don’t have to sit here and take this,” He started for the elevator. “Me and Pete are gonna go hang in the lab. Isn’t that right, Pete?” 

The kitten said nothing. 

–

It took a day and half to track down the wanna be wizard, but it turned out he couldn’t do anything for Peter. Apparently, it would wear off on it’s own after a few days. May had called Peter out sick from school, and Tony agreed to keep him at the tower since May didn’t want to leave a kitten home alone while she was at work. 

Peter spent his time on four legs following Tony everywhere. Every time someone saw Tony walk by, a brown kitten would be trotting along behind. He explored the lab and caused mischief in the penthouse, refused to eat anything but canned tuna, and seemed to have a hard time with the litter box. 

None of them were sure if Peter was still himself in that cute little fuzzy head, but Tony made sure to talk to him like he was still a 16 year old kid, throwing out all his ideas as he worked in the lab, despite only getting a crash of something being knocked over in reply. DUM-E had a blast helping to destroying the lab, much to Tony’s annoyed amusement. 

On the fourth day of having Peter be quadrupedal, Tony was down in the lab trying to work on the new StarkPad. A crash, the third one in the last hour, sounded from the other side of the room. With a sigh, Tony got up to go see what it was - an old coffee can of nuts and bolts. DUM-E was zooming away from the scene of the crime and Peter sat there looking up at Tony. He could swear there was a gleam of mischief in those eyes. Having had enough, Tony scooped up Peter, and headed up to the penthouse. 

“Alright, nap time.” The couch cushions sunk comfortably under Tony’s weight. “Just curl up and go to sleep, you’re a cat, it shouldn’t be hard.” 

Peter squirmed, trying to get away, but Tony held firm, keeping Peter on his chest. Eventually, the kitten tired and curled up, the tip of his tail secure under his front paws. Tony closed his eyes and slipped off into a cat nap. 

Sometime later, Tony woke to Peter wiggling. Before he could say anything, there was a flash of light, blinding him, and then human Peter was sprawled on top of Tony. By some miracle, the kid was wearing clothes. 

“Oh my gosh, Mister Stark!” Peter jolted when he realized he was laying on his mentor. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Shh,” Tony closed his eyes again. “It’s still nap time.” 

“But-” 

“Lay down and go to sleep, kid.” 

Peter laid back down after a second, half tucked into the space between Tony’s body and the back of the couch and half on top of Tony. He relaxed, his arm thrown over Tony’s belly, and his head resting on the older man’s shoulder. 

“Good to have you back, Pete,” Tony smiled when he felt the kid snuggle closer. 

[whimsicalmeerkat]

Find the Words

I was tagged by both @mirrorthoughts and @dear-massacre. I’m gonna do both sets of words in one post. That means my words are suspect, bat, incriminating, ghost, fragile, and heart. I know this is probably intended to be from wips, but I wouldn’t have anything if I limited it to that. I also only searched my Teen Wolf file, so they’re all from that fandom.

Low pressure tags: @jammerific @calenlily @bad-at-names-and-faces @the-glacian

Your words to find are: wisdom, sarcasm, joy

suspect (whiskey on the rocks & adderall, sterek)

Stiles sounds comfortable with this part, and Derek knows he wouldn’t bring someone suspect around Lydia, for all she can take care of herself, so Derek offers his hand and Chase shakes it.

bat (Despite having written over 50 fics with Stiles, I apparently haven’t written about him having a bat. Have a snippet that came up when I searched scrivener. Also from whiskey on the rocks & adderall)

Stiles fucks in especially hard, and Derek collapses face first into the pillow. He fights a losing battle to keep his claws in, holding onto the sheets even as they rip. He’ll just replace them.

incriminating (in the middle of the night, sterek)

Stiles looks up nervously as Derek stands over him. He makes an aborted movement when Derek reaches out and turns his laptop so he can see. Stiles knows it’s incriminating. No matter how much he’s tried to avoid making the comparison in his head, he knows the couple has a strong resemblance to him and Derek.

ghost (The Giving Tree, sterek)

Stiles saw what might have been the ghost of a smile cross Derek’s lips, but it had a distinctly evil vibe to it. He had a bad feeling about it.

fragile (wash off all this blame, sterek)

Derek opens the door and leans against the doorjamb. He’s looking at Stiles, but not the way Stiles expects to be looked at by someone he just woke up screaming. He looks concerned, but the way he’s watching Stiles is so different than how his dad does, how Scott has on the few occasions he’s been there when Stiles has a nightmare. Derek isn’t looking at him like he’s fragile or broken. Stiles hadn’t even realized just how much of that has been directed his way until he’s sitting here seeing its absence.

heart (stackson friendship movie fixit, sterek)

It’s been a really long time since Stiles has heard Lydia’s voice. He would say it’s good to hear it, but he knows too well how she sounds when she’s heartbroken. He feels his claws slice into his palm. He doesn’t know when he shifted.

[impossible-rat-babies]

wip wednesday!

i got tagged by @thevikingwoman and @roguelioness ! tysm you two <3 im gonna tag @scionshtola, @hythlodaes, @lavampira, @myreia, @birues, @hylfystt and whomever else! (i know some friends have been tagged already <3) I got two wips--one not spoilers for stormblod and the other post EW spoilers!

---

Lyse stands beside them—just out of arms reach. The gap not wide enough for all the broken trusts and misgivings plaguing them since [redacted]. She crosses her arms, heaving a sigh as she stares up at the palace, brow furrowed and lips pulled tight. Hands clenching in her sleeves and they follow her gaze. Their arms folded, hands tucked into their armpits. they hunch their shoulders, sliding back half a step. This isn’t their stage—it isn’t their place up beside her. Not that she would want them there.

“At dawn, this will be it. The last push for the freedom of Ala Mhigo.” Conviction and tiredness fill her voice, her jaw set and her chin sticking out. They hold their words behind their teeth, watching the palace still.

“You will be there, I presume?” She turns to look at them.

“If that is what you want, Commander Hext.”

“And what do you wish for, Eyrie?”

——

“Ze-Zenos…” his name a stutter as it crossed their lips, “was my friend.” They breathe out, eyes fixated on the table.

“Did you care for him?”

Lips twist, brow furrowing; trying to find anywhere but her eyes before they speak. Hold the words tight behind their treacherous lips, even as the trace the words on the backside of their teeth with their tongue.

They turn their eyes to the open window—curtains fluttering. A cool breeze rushes in, the dim light of Radz-at-Han’s lamps only stretches so far to the moon—a silver sliver in the ocean of inky blue black. Casting their eyes further up towards the peak of the sky—further still past the darkest points behind those specks of light.

Maybe if they could just reach their hands high enough to the heavens—drag themselves further and further towards the firmament. Grasp in the dark behind the eyes of the stars to that place at the edge of creation—the little corner of that nest. And there would be something of him there. Some part of him still lingering in the loneliness of an emptiness before daybreak—a ghost in the stillness of motes of dust hanging in that cold air.

Maybe they could stretch enough like sunlight to grasp onto him—hold his cold, cold face betwixt their blood stained light filled hands and bid him come back. Whisper it with lips against his brow, their eyes so wide shut.

His name has been lodged in their throat since that day—stuck in their nose. begging to be screamed. To be wailed and rallied against the universe so indifferent to their grief. Maybe then the sun would break on the horizon and breath would break lips.

Maybe the universe would care about their grief. The beat of it beneath their chest and their ribs are cracking from the inside out. Wrists swollen and the outside edge of their palm throbs. Maybe it would care enough to finally let them be silent. No more songs to be carried on raw peeling lips and born from a voice that cracks. The final string plucked and the note would hang in the air long enough for one final bow.

[esther-dot]

"His fur had darkened until he was all black, and his eyes were green fire"- Tyrion(AGOT III)

"The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals." Dany(AGOT X)

It seems like Shaggydog and Drogon are similar in looking. Black with eyes described as fire. Both are feral and are difficult to control. Both senses their masters moods and reacts violently. Thoughts?

I am very puzzled by Shaggydog's description. It's bothered me for some time because at one point, it certainly meant something, and I'm not sure if that has since been abandoned, or if I should still be concerned. Your comparison between Shaggydog and Drogon isn’t helping! 😂

Here's what I said before:

(link, I include the examples of green flame in various POVs for context — def not a random choice!)

It's possible that Rickon was initially gonna be a wild KitN, a little more dangerous than the other Starks, and that's all it meant. I pointed out before that this passage could be read as foreshadowing for that (picking up a dead KitN's sword):

Robb had set half the castle searching for him, and when at last they'd found him down in the crypts, Rickon had slashed at them with a rusted iron sword he'd snatched from a dead king's hand, and Shaggydog had come slavering out of the darkness like a green-eyed demon. The wolf was near as wild as Rickon; he'd bitten Gage on the arm and torn a chunk of flesh from Mikken's thigh. It had taken Robb himself and Grey Wind to bring him to bay. Farlen had the black wolf chained up in the kennels now, and Rickon cried all the more for being without him. (AGOT, Bran VI)

I hadn’t connected him to Drogon, but the eye color’s connection to dragonfire is there so it isn't too much of a reach. I felt that it was quite foreboding for Shaggydog and by association, Rickon. At one point I wondered if this was brother (Rickon/Shaggydog) v brother (Jon/Ghost) foreshadowing because flames are later written as a threat to the godswood and that's what the coloring of the respective wolves reminded me of, and AGOT/Jon's story in particular has a lot of brother v brother stuff, but that doesn't make sense, not with how young little Rickon is. Sorry, I still don’t know what to make of it!

I’m gonna tag @branwendaughterofllyr because she has talked about abandoned foreshadowing for events Martin ultimately drops, so maybe she has some insight for us?

[watercubebee]

Oh please give us more of the Dream House AU...I'm such a sucker for sentient buildings and (I'm assuming) that this is that sort of situation.

As always, your art is glorious and haunting. You have such a way with color!!!

HELLO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 FIRST OF ALL THANK YOUUUUUUUU FOR YOUR WORDS SKFVBKSBDVBAKDBVAKDVBAKDBKVADJV (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)இ௰இஇ௰இஇ௰இ I- I love color shfbvkhsabdvk aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaOkieee soososososo here I come here I come… 

tagging @pursuingyourtrueself for the House too!!! sakdbvakbdkv

YOU ARE RIGHT!!!!! SDKBVKABDSVJKBAKDV SENTIENT BUILDINGS ARE TOP TOP, CHEF KISS FOREVER AND EVER MY LOVE

Tbh I did tried to do some comic…(which didn’t work sfkvbsjv mostly because I was having some shift in the way I draw and well skbvksvd)

Here the "comic" sdkjvnjksd -If I reboot it, im gonna go a different route

The premise is that, indeed, Dream IS the House, or at least the concept of “A House” in my brain, he is something that has been there, like, forever, you don´t know how or when or who did the House (since in the main story, it belongs to Johanna´s family, but she doesn’t really know about it either, and her family suggest that she should not look for info, its an asset, and well, who wouldn’t like to have a House where you can go to in summer/winter breaks?)

It´s so old that not even memories remain in its rooms. 

My main insp….as expected is…this vid…. THAT I NEVER STOP TO RECOMMEND SKDVBKADV

Since I saw it, it immediately clicked, its quite different, and at the time, whenever I saw this stuff or read something related to it, I didn't know how to put it, what to name it(?) and when I saw the vid, my mind went

its not like a ghost story it is the concept of the place, simply being…alive….in some sense fbksjfb

The things that haunt them are the people that reside in them, isn’t that amazing????

Some sort like a parasite, or a symbiotic relationship (the video is ART and it explains SO MUCH BETTER than I could ever do!)

"You take care of me, I will do the same for you"  Contemplates the House

Gotta admit that this vid made me play some bits of Control JKSBDSBVKJABDVK

I SUCK AT VIDEOGAMES LIKE THAT AND YET I DID TRIED AJDVNJADV

ALSO HAVE YOU GUYS SEE THE MY HOUSE.WAD???? AMAZINGGGG

ALSO THE APARTMENT FROM SILENT HILL 4, WHICH, MY FAV SILENT HILL AND MY ULTIMATE BLORBO ALSO FOLLOW SOMEHOW THAT PREMIse

-A bit of…spoiler…I guess…

The apartment, to Walter (another character), becomes his mother figure, he was left there as a baby, and so, all his life, he thought of it as his mother, he went there always, and began the 21 sacraments in other to finally be with her (It) The apartment becames the womb of a mother, that safe space. It lives. It is a motherly figure, the apartment, in the game is the place where you return, and each time you leave, you have to go through this hole, like being birthed over and over and over again, and Henry (HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY) has to come back.

And it is like, very amazing imo, to understand that some objects do have life, not because we give it to them, but because they always had it.

They are just waiting, and least you expect, its happening.

SO DREAM IS A HOUSE AJKDBVJABDJVADV DREAM HOUSE DREAM HOUSE WUWUWUUWUWUWW

and tbh I´m not sure if to name it like that (originally it was named halp me 2.0) so Dream House....idk if its provisional or if its gonna remain like that..... kadbvkjbadv

Also shamelessy adding more influences/insp/vibes below:

-Stalker by Tarkovsky (Atmosphere)

-Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson ( HILL HOUSE, HILLL HOUSSSSEEEEE)

-Hereditary (mostly the vibes of being watched, feeling trapped on your "secure" place)

-Superliminal (game, mostly the vibes)

-Poltergeist (mostly the beginning and the way the family react to the events)

-Paintings by Dragan Bibin

-Gallows by Cocoroise (leaving aside the lyrics, the sounds...THE MUSIC AUUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH PERFECTIONNN)

-Mirrors (mirrors are scary and spooky 👌🏼)

Jan Švankmajer (imma have to check it out again cos AMAZINGG SKJVBJKSV)

and so much more but its always picking bits from here and there and such and such

[nabtime]

Our Empty Graves VI

Fandom: Danny Phantom / Batman: Under the Red Hood

Pairings: Danny Fenton/Jason Todd (Dead on Main)

Rating: Mature

Tags: batfamily, hazmat AU, Nobody Knows AU, Mute!Phantom, potential ghost king danny, slow burn?, DC means Disregard Canon, AU means AU nothing is exactly the same, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, more than canon typical violence, danny is a Halfa and also a Fetch, no beta we die like basically everyone

Summary: They say that Red Hood has a loyal mutt. The man rules his territory in Crime Alley with an iron fist and a guard dog at his side. They say that Hood calls him Fetch, sometimes Fetcher. No one's ever heard him speak. Anyone who's ever seen him says he looks like an experiment gone wrong, that Hood picked him up somewhere unspeakable. They say he'll do anything Red Hood asks of him and he'll do it well. That he's strong and fast and probably inhuman. The girls say he's sweet; quiet but charming in his own way. Rival gangs say he's vicious; that he'd sooner rip your throat out than let you go.

Jason just wants to help him.

Chapter 6: i’ll cover the mirror (til it shows me someone i can face)

Chapter Summary: Danny settles into being part of Red Hood's gang. Gets shot and almost bleeds out. Again. Red Hood doesn't let him and also makes grilled cheese.

Chapter Notes: title from I WENT TO HELL AND BACK by AS IT IS Links: AO3 // Chapter 1 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 7 // Spotify

Danny would often just drift about the apartment. Haunting it. He certainly wasn’t living in it. One would have to be living first, in order to do that. No, the safe-house apartment Red Hood insisted he stay in was a place he haunted. Shambling aimlessly unless called upon by Red Hood himself or the screams of someone in need within the Alley.

He’d been in the Alley, working under Red’s command, for three weeks now and he’d say he was getting pretty familiar with his surroundings now. Learning the layout, learning the people, learning the rules both known and unspoken. Learning more about the politics and about Red Hood’s hostile takeover.

He’d been right that Red Hood was a new Gotham Rogue. But he’d been wrong about the man’s character. He was ruthless, true, but only to those that crossed the line. He could be callous, but only to those that deserved it. Sure, the duffel bag of heads was probably a bit much and might even be considered needlessly cruel. But he’d done it with purpose. He’d done it for a good reason.

Red Hood was trying to take over the Alley and make it better. He’d seen the plans. The strategies in motion. Harm reduction. Protection. Housing projects. Assistance programs. All of these funded by his gang, run by the community, and controlled by Red Hood through his lieutenants. He was a Crime Lord in the sense that all crime within his purview was controlled and run through him. His methods were bloody and oftentimes vile, but they worked. Danny had come to really admire him in the few weeks he’d been running errands for the guy.

And he was, honestly, often just running errands.

“Go help this family move in, I know you have super strength. Put it to use.”

“One of the girls isn’t feeling well and Ms. Bajorek made her some soup. Drop it off for me. You don’t have anything better to do anyway.”

“Here’s a list of groceries and a tip for Mr. Nguyen when you get them. I’m making you and the Alley kids lunch today. Don’t argue, I know you haven’t eaten, Glowstick.”

When Danny asked, the man had shrugged and said, “Well, since you won’t tell me more about what a Fetch is I’m gonna take the name seriously. So, you know,” and handed him a list, “go fetch.”

For all that he was a Crime Lord that did Crime Lord things, there was also quite a bit of mundane managerial tasks he had to do to keep everything running. And he was so meticulous about it all. Danny would often watch him in awe, hovering over his shoulder as he ran calculations and mapped out routes. Patrol routes that would cover the most vulnerable areas, delivery routes that would hit the most in need, drug running routes that would ensure the product stayed clean from the source to the buyer and cutting down anyone that messed with it. Red Hood had plans upon plans upon plans. Take out an uprising here, build a clean shelter for the houseless there, plant a communal garden, shoot one of Black Mask’s men in the kneecaps. Everything had a time and a place and was leading towards a safer city. Even if his methods were less than desirable.

Red Hood did bring him on more serious tasks, though. Ones that needed doing quickly and efficiently and viciously. Ones where mercy wasn’t likely and back-up was needed for stragglers. Red Hood never ordered him to take a life, never made him cross that line he was reluctant to cross. It wasn’t that Danny had any compunctions against killing, but he didn’t think he had the stomach for it himself. Didn’t think he could live with a death so directly on his conscious when so many were already piled there. He didn’t want to think about the ghosts that might come back to haunt him. He admired Red’s resolve all the more for it. He was ruthless but he was practical. He didn’t shy away from taking a life that didn’t deserve to keep living, but he spared all those that could reform.

Danny was always there as his shadow, as the menacing monster he kept on a leash. He was starting to earn a reputation in Gotham’s criminal underground. Red Hood’s loyal dog. Get too close and he might bite. (He’d only ever done that once, turning his mask intangible and lunging, his fangs sinking into reprehensible flesh. The woman had been beating a child. She lost her arm for it.)

He was also known, embarrassingly enough, as a sweetheart among the girls and the kids. A mystery and most times scary and off-putting. But the girls still cooed whenever he came to their rescue and the kids insisted on following him around (the braver ones even attempting to climb him like a tree). He didn’t know how to feel about it. Most of the time he popped out of invisibility rather than mingle. He was supposed to be a monster. Just a ghost haunting the city. In Amity the people had fled at the sight of him, screaming even as he saved them. They knew what he was, knew to treat him accordingly. But- the people here- they- It was different. He tried not to think about it too often.

Communication was something he was working on. Red Hood seemed to be the only one really able to puzzle out his game of charades, the others taking ages to guess what he meant or giving up after the first few tries. He rarely went anywhere by himself unless Red Hood specifically sent him out or it was an impromptu rescue, so it wasn’t often a problem if Red could translate. One of the kids had given him a whiteboard and a dry-erase marker at one point, making it so much easier. He kept them phased in his suit whenever he went out. One of the guys that ran with the girls had offered to teach him sign, but the lessons were slow-going and sporadic. He’d only had two in the past three weeks. But maybe someday he’d get there. He didn’t try to ‘speak’ much anyway. These past three weeks had been the first time in years anyone had even tried to talk to him. Most Amity Parkers had seen him and run and the ghosts he fought just tried to kill him.

Again, he tried not to think about it too much.

There wasn’t much else to do, though. He drifted through the halls of the apartment Red Hood had shoved him into, only occasionally using the couch for naps when gathering ectoplasm wasn’t enough to recharge, and it left his mind free to wander to dark places. Places he didn’t want to visit.

It felt odd. To inhabit a space meant for humans. To have a place to sleep and eat and live again. Red had come by a few times with ingredients and cooked for him in the empty kitchen, saying he didn’t care what Danny was- he needed to eat sometimes. Danny would obediently eat when the man was there, but the leftovers often went to rot. He felt bad about it. That was food that could go to someone else, someone who needed it more. But he could never bring himself to eat without company. It felt wrong. Ghosts didn’t eat. Didn’t need to eat. Often he would open the fridge and just stare. Stare at the food that was made for him, the food that he was allowed and encouraged to eat. It felt like too much and he’d shut the door.

He’d been drifting through the kitchen when the walkie-talkie Red used to talk to him from a distance with crackled to life. They’d tried regular burner phones, but something about Danny’s whole- being, didn’t agree with good signal. So after pouring a little bit of his own ectoplasm into the radio, the walkie-talkie seemed to be the only thing to work.

“You there, Fetcher?” Hood’s voice was extra staticky through his mask and the radio, but at least he didn’t seem hurried or in pain. Starting a mission or patrol instead of in the middle of one, then. Danny really didn’t like it when Hood called on him because he was injured, hated seeing the man in pain like that even as he felt honored to be trusted.

Three taps against the speaker. Yes.

Danny couldn’t exactly talk into the radio and without working burner phones he couldn’t text. So they had a system of taps that Hood could hear instead. Three for yes, four for no. Two taps for help, and five for false alarm.

“Good. We got some fuckers trying to take back territory for Black Mask. Need you to help me scare ‘em shitless.”

Three taps. Pause. Three more. Hell yes.

“Good boy,” and damn if that didn’t give him a highly inappropriate shiver. “Meet me on the roof and we’ll plan our ambush from there.”

Well, here’s hoping for a fun night of bashing heads and shooting out kneecaps.

═════ ◈ ═════

Danny stumbled into the tiny bathroom of his apartment, clutching his stomach in a bid to stem the flow of toxic green blood, gloved fingers slick with the substance.

His free hand slammed down onto the sink counter for balance as he wobbled and he made the mistake of looking up. Looking up into the mirror.

He never looked at his reflection. Hated the sight of it. The reminder that he was no longer human. Would never be human again. The thing that gazed back at him from the surface of the mirror was a monster. With the lights off in the bathroom it was extra eerie. Black hooded figure blending into the shadows, nothing standing out except for the pinpricks of glowing green eyes- reflecting like tapeta lucidum from under his tinted visor. The outline of his breathing apparatus just barely there, like the maw of a beast just barely in view. The only other source of light was the glow of the blood dripping through his white gloved hand.

He turned from his reflection with disgust and tumbled into the bathtub, hoping to rest and soak in whatever ectoplasm he lost. Here he could just- lay down and also not make a mess. He’d hate to have Red Hood flambe another couch because of him.

He hadn’t meant to get shot. Honest. He’d gone intangible, he knew he did. The bullet should have never hit his abdomen. It should never have caused as much damage as it was currently doing. He was bleeding so much… Man he really hoped Hood didn’t show up while he was trying to heal in the bathtub. He didn’t need to face the man while delirious with blood loss again. The first time was embarrassing enough, he didn’t want a second.

The wound was healing so slowly… There was something about that bullet. About that gun. Something wasn’t adding up here.

It was like he’d been hit with one of his parent’s inventions all over again.

Black Mask wouldn’t deal in ectoplasm, would he? What use would he have for it? He’d heard something about a kryptonite shipment that Hood was planning to ambush, so maybe the rarity? It was from another dimension after all. Didn’t matter that the place where Amity used to be was still crawling with it and so was Gotham. It wasn’t easily harvestable for humans. The GIW or his parents might be the only ones with a good supply, and even then they couldn’t control what type it was. For weapons it might be useful, if it was combative ecto. Some people had adverse reactions; tingling, numbing, temporary paralysis. If you were a ghost or ghost adjacent it was worse. So much worse.

In the beginning, most Amity Parkers were fine if they got hit by a blaster, just annoyed and covered in goo. But as time went on and more and more people were exposed, more and more of them started becoming susceptible to the many uses ectoplasm could have. Good to use for healing with the regenerative ecto but also more likely to be hit by a stray blast of combative ecto and not come back up. His high school classmates had been particularly vulnerable, having been infected multiple times directly. The combative type would take them down and then the healing type would bring them right back up. It could take time, though, if you were human- time some of his classmates hadn’t had enough of.

They’d lost a lot of people before they realized they had to be more careful with their shots. Before they realized that the thing that was killing them could also bring them back. Stupid. It’d all been so stupid. It had taken so, so many times of him trying to frantically heal everyone hit before his parents arrived to shoot him indiscriminately, before anyone realized he was trying to help them. And even then they hadn’t trusted him. It was one of the last things he did before giving up on being human. The last time he’d pretended to be alive, just to sneak into his parent’s lab and leave them a sample of regenerative ectoplasm and a theory written in his dad’s handwriting.

It didn’t matter how careful his parents pretended to be with it- the suits, the breathing apparatuses, the heavy gloves and protective eye-wear- they still slung it around in the name of taking down evil ghosts. Shots firing every which way- hitting people and poisoning the land around them. Whatever got the ghost. Whatever “saved the day”. It’s not like it actually hurt anyone, right?

Ectoplasm was a funny thing. It’s what ghosts were made of. What they fought with. What they ate and used to heal. What the lairs they inhabited were made of. Goo but with feelings. Multipurpose soul juice. The thing that he was losing a lot of…

Man, he was starting to feel a bit dizzy. He sure hoped the wound would start to heal itself soon, before he fainted and couldn’t do anything about it… Would be a silly way to fully go out. Bleeding out in a bathtub.

Oh, his vision was going black.

Well, it was no worse than the first time he died…

═════ ◈ ═════

He could remember the initial disappointment the most. How his parents had deflated so completely when the culmination of decades of work had failed them at the most pivotal point. He remembered the uncertainty- they could live off the patents, yes, but they weren’t exactly bought all that often and they mostly got by on the grant money. And if the grant money was gone because none of their inventions or theories or anything ever worked- then how would they survive? He remembered the despair. He remembered the relief he felt when the portal didn’t work at first. Maybe without the portal in the way his parents would pay more attention to him, spend more time with him. And then the guilt because his parents just looked so sad. He remembered the discomfort, the whole family dressed in their restrictive HazMat suits. He remembered how suffocating the SCBA felt to breathe in and how hard it was to move in. How hot it’d been. He remembered his parents ushering them all back to the entrance to dress down in heavy silence.

He remembered his parents going back to the drawing board, however dejectedly, and learning to resent the portal all the more for it.

And then Sam had presented him with a challenge. A dare. Goading him into exploring the portal on his own. To look into the maw of the monster and place himself inside its jaw. This was a mystery in need of exploring and Danny was the only one that could do it.

They’d huddled together, the three of them, at the entrance to the lab. Sam eager, Tucker reluctant, and Danny… Danny had been scared. They’d snuck in after his parents had left, and they’d been alone in the lab when they really, really shouldn’t have.

Uneasy, he had donned the HazMat suit once again. Piece by piece. White with black trim. Specifically designed by his parents to deal with non-vapor ectoplasm. Not that they’d seemed to ever encounter it. He had prepped all his pieces, made sure his tank was full of oxygen. Checked for cracks and tears. His hands had shaken the entire time. He had pulled the mask over his face, pulled the overalls over his jeans and clipped them into place. He had snapped the nitrile gloves on, tearing one in the process and having to get another. He had then stopped to watch his hands flex under the gray material, trying to put off the inevitable. The hooded coverall had come next, slipping his socked feet into the strange material of the white suit. His socks had been mismatched- one red and one blue. Then the black boots with steel toes and shanks. Then the outer gloves. Then the tape to seal it all in. To seal him in his tomb. And lastly he had shrugged on the tank and connected it to his mask and turned the oxygen on. And with heavy, heavy feet, he’d made his way into the lab proper. To the dreaded portal.

He could remember the chill he’d felt, before he’d even stepped near. Remembered the sense of impending doom. He’d taken one last look back at his friends, taking in the hesitant thumbs up from Tucker and the happy shooing motion from Sam. She’d thought it all so cool. Thought that trying to study ghosts, trying to punch a hole in their dimension to do it, was all just fascinating. After though… After she couldn’t even think about ghosts without paling, without running. Running from him.

He’d seen the pale imitation of a reflection in the glass that sectioned off the entrance from the lab proper, face unrecognizable behind his mask and gaping hole of darkness set behind him. Translucent like he was already a ghost. He’d pulled the small flashlight his suit had within its pockets and had shone it into the abyss. Small glow piercing the sticky shadows. He’d felt the livewire energy beneath his feet when he’d stepped inside, but did not heed the warning. It was just wires and metal plating. Nothing more and nothing less. It was another of his parent’s failed inventions. He’d thought nothing more of it before diving further in.

The cables. The cables that his parents- his mother more- had been adamant about keeping tied away and neatly stored within the machine itself had been strewn about. A result of his father’s frustrated tinkering in the aftermath. And what had it mattered to him that he hadn’t placed them back where they should have gone? His prized invention was moot, anyway. There was no harm in leaving a mess when the mess was inert. When nothing was likely to happen anyway.

But Danny hadn’t seen them. His pen light had been facing above, checking the upper pallet of the monster he had climbed inside. Checking for teeth. And then he’d tripped. And he’d felt fear like he’d never felt before. Heart-stopping. He’d faintly heard the grumbling roar of a hungry beast, felt the eagerness like it’d been palpable around him. And his hand had landed on a button that shouldn’t have been there. The secondary on switch that had been forgotten about. Until that moment.

And after that it was nothing but pain. Burning, scorching, tearing. Fire and shock and blinding white pain like he’d never experienced in his life before. Like he was melting and being ripped to shreds at the same time.

And all he remembered was screaming and screaming and screaming. And there had been nothing but green and green and green until it all. Went. Black.

Anything that had immediately happened after his half-death was a blur. Stumbling out of the portal feeling wrong. Not even noticing that he was completely alone in the lab. That Sam and Tucker had fled with the flash and the screaming. He barely remembered doffing his gear, completely haphazardly and with no regard to the burnt and melting pieces. Collapsing on the bench and blacking out until he was being shaken awake by his sister. Jazz had been crying, taking in the lichtenburg scar that was less lighting through his veins as more burns across his skin in the same pattern. She’d been desperately shaking him awake. He remembered looking over and seeing his parents watching the swirling green of the functioning portal with gleeful awe. His mother turning with a question on her lips before it all morphed into concern. He remembered his mother and father being so worried about him as they had loaded him up into an ambulance. But he’d also remembered that the portal had come first. That the portal had always come first.

Scratchy sheets and thin blankets. Bland jello and plain broth as his vocal chords healed from being shredded by his screaming. Burn cream and bandages. Stress tests and neurological checks. Can you squeeze my hands? Breath deep for me. Look into this light. Can you raise your arms? Twitching nerves and bradycardia. Hands that would shake under stress and a temperature permanently low- no matter how many times they placed him under the heated air blanket- the bair-hugger. All he’d ever felt was suffocated. Overheated. Drowning.

Low, low, low. Everything had been low. Dangerously. Blood pressure check. Low. Alarmed Nurses and Doctors, checking and rechecking. Adjusting the cuff, moving the cuff, using a manual cuff. Low, lower, lowest. Heart rate check. Too low. Too, too low. Stand up. Sit down. Walk. Move. Please, please move. And it would get higher, just a little bit. Acceptable. But not for having just been forced to jog. Respiration check. Slow, slower, slowest. Breathing any faster had made him feel like he was going to panic. Temperature check. Freezing. Frigid. Too low, again and again. He’d never felt so cold in his life. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

But his heart was still beating, however slow. His lungs were still expanding, however infrequent. He was still alive. Mostly. Probably. Right?

Sam and Tuck never visited.

And then the changes began.

It didn’t happen until he’d been released from the hospital. Cleared only after meeting with every specialist under the sun and getting hesitant approval for outpatient care. Talks of pacemakers, burn treatments, and invasive surgeries in his future. And then he fell through his bed.

Not out of. Not on top of. Through.

He’d woken up in a panic underneath his bed- and holy shit had it been rank under there, he really needed to clean more- in the dark and in the dust, not knowing what had happened. He’d crawled out from under it and flopped back onto his bedspread, heedless of whatever grossness he’d dragged with him. He’d been too tired to think about why he’d woken up under the bed, but in the morning- bed sheets covered in dust- it had been harder to forget. But there had been no answers, not then. Nothing to even guess at, nothing at all to tell him that he hadn’t just died in that accident, but had become the monster under his own bed. Inhuman.

He’d woken up a different day, feeling heavy and like it was hard to breathe. He’d felt disoriented and out of sorts. Then he’d seen his hands. Covered in gloves. White, rubbery, chemical-resistant gloves. And with dawning horror he’d looked down and seen those heavy white steel-toed boots. And the bunched black material of a hazmat suit. The colors were wrong- he was wrong. But it was the same suit. The same one he’d almost died in. And suddenly he’d realized that maybe that almost wasn’t as almost as he’d first thought. That there hadn’t been an almost at all, just death. Just. Death.

And then he’d spiraled. Had he been pretending this whole time? Convinced himself and everyone else he was alive when he’d really been a wolf in sheep’s clothing? A monster just waiting to tear off the thin veneer of life he’d disguised himself with?

And then there had been a knock on his door and the surprise of the sound had shocked him into reverting back to human form. And from there the process had been slow and painful, but he’d learned. Learned of the word Halfa, the term Fetch, and what it meant for him. Learned how to fight, quick and dirty, in order to prevent himself and the rest of his town from becoming full ghosts. Learned that despite his heroics, deep down, he was still a monster. Other. He’d never been exactly normal, not with parents like his, but now it felt impossible to be comfortable in his own skin. Unsettling. Disturbing. Nightmarish. A creepy little boy with creepy little powers. It was all he’d become and all he’d ever be. Didn’t matter how cool the powers were on the surface, how much he distracted himself from the truth by playing with them. He’d still had to deal with the fact that he was no longer human. Not fully. And no one knew. Nobody would ever know. He’d seen to that.

Not that it mattered now. Not with everybody gone. Long gone. And it was all his fault.

═════ ◈ ═════

“Son of a bitch,” came the familiar static of Rad Hood’s voice, rousing Danny from his dazed state. “Don’t you fucking die on me you limp noodle!”

Danny wanted to groan. He could feel bandages tightening around his midsection, hands- shaking hands?- winding the fabric around a tender bullet hole, parts of his suit cut off and leaving his skin vulnerable to the air when it so rarely was.

No. Danny clumsily signed. It was one of the few things he could sign, along with- Good.

“No,” Red said angrily, “you are not good. I had to fish a bullet out of you, Fetcher!”

He sounded distressed. Or maybe that was just Danny still delirious from blood loss. Again. He really needed to stop doing that. He let out a calming trill, hoping that would get the man to relax and stop yelling. It did not.

“Don’t you make stupid noises at me, Jellyfish,” he reprimanded, voice terse. He was close, so very close, hands still busy wrapping up Danny’s abdomen. Red’s body loomed over his, crammed into the tiny space of the tub. He could see the tweezers and saline and suspiciously green bullet still sitting on the lid of the toilet next to them. “You’re a fucking dumbass coming back here and just laying in your stupid toxic blood. What were you planning to do? Marinate? Idiot.”

He wanted to protest. He signed another No. And even tapped out four taps for a No he would use for the walkie-talkie for good measure. He hadn’t exactly planned to keep bleeding into the bathtub, alright? How was he supposed to know the bullet would stay lodged in there? I mean, sure, he could have made an educated guess before passing out, but still.

“What kind of guy that can density-shift gets shot in the first place, anyway?”

Danny rolled his eyes and smacked Hood’s shoulder for that. Not his fault the bullets were phase-proof when they shouldn’t have been.

“Don’t you smack me when I’m trying to save your life,” he grumbled, tying off the wrapping and sitting up. “Asshole.”

Red crossed his arms and glared down at Danny, his bulk almost blocking out the light above them. His knees caged in Danny’s hips and they were awfully, awfully close. Damned blood loss again.

He sighed without making sound, his shoulders rising even as he felt a twinge from his would pulling. With the bullet out he’d start healing in no time. Not that Red knew that. He patted Hood’s thigh in reassurance and immediately regretted it. What the hell kind of juicy-ass thighs did this man have? What the fuck. He needed to focus, dammit.

He motioned with the other hand for something to write with, scribbling in the air.

“Don’t you carry a whiteboard?” Red asked flatly.

Danny pointed to the wrappings around his wound. He kept the whiteboard and marker in his chest. He couldn’t phase that out right now if he tried. He couldn’t phase anything right now. He was surprised to find that he was even still in his phantom form, probably thanks to Hood’s interference, otherwise his core would have retreated into itself and used all other available ectoplasm to heal while in “human” form.

Red shook his head and climbed out of the tub. “Alright, alright, jellyfish. H-up we go.”

How many times was Danny just going to be casually scooped up by this guy and carried like a princess? Twice was already too many to keep his dignity intact. Once again he was plopped onto the couch and left as Red rooted around for something to write with. Deja vu, much?

He came back with a legal pad and a purple crayon. Why crayons? Always crayons?

“Explain,” he demanded, handing off the utensils.

Danny grabbed a cushion and used it as a makeshift table of sorts to balance the legal pad on and began writing. At least this time he could use his hands properly. Even if they were shaky from the anemia.

Bullets didn’t pass through like they should have. Something is wrong. They shouldn’t be like that. Coated in something Black Mask shouldn’t have access to.

He flipped the pad around, Red grabbing the edge to keep it steady as he read.

“Well, kid,” he said, slowly. “Looks like you’re fucked.”

Danny flipped him off. Not helpful, Red.

“Any idea what this substance is that our number one enemy shouldn’t have is?” he asked, settling down to sit on the flimsy coffee table right beside the couch. Danny was surprised it could hold his weight.

The question made him pause, though. Did he tell Red Hood about ectoplasm? Risk the man finding out more about what, exactly, kind of monster he insisted on harboring in his territory? Risk his only ally ratting him out to the GIW?

He kept silent, hesitant. He trusted Red. He did. But not that much, not yet. If it became a bigger problem, became a problem that was going to hurt others, then he’d confess. But for now he shook his head, hoping Red would take his silence as contemplative instead of edgy.

(The incident with the knife that had left Red Hood himself paralyzed with a dangerously growing weakness, was far from his mind. He hadn’t seen the green sheen to the knife that cut the man. Had no reason to know that combative ectoplasm would have such harsh repercussions for him. The consequences of this were yet unknown.)

Hood hummed and Danny couldn’t tell if it was because he believed him or not but mercifully the man moved on. Unmercifully, Danny did not like the change in subject.

“You need more hand-to-hand if your powers are going to be useless. You rely on them too much as it is.”

Danny ripped a page from the legal pad and threw it at him. He knew how to fight just fine, thanks! Sure he’d learned it all on the fly, but still! He could brawl!

Red snickered as he caught the paper and threw it back. “Non-negotiable, jellyfish. I’m kicking your ass for almost dying on me tonight.”

Danny threw his hands up, exasperated. He hadn’t almost died! He’d have been fine! Probably. Maybe not. But still! No ass kicking required! He crossed his arms and tried to project the feeling of a pout. Maybe he could puppy-dog eye his way out of this. Red Hood was built like a tank and if he was the one that was going to teach Danny how to properly fight, then no thank you. He may be okay with the thought of dying by those thighs, but he’d rather not be bruised all to hell first. He also didn’t want to loose any more dignity and he was sure that sparring with Red would take all he had left.

“Nope,” Hood said cheerfully, ignoring Danny’s silent protests as he moved toward the kitchen and rummaged around Danny’s fridge. “No amount of sparkly-eyed looks will get you out of this, glowstick. I’m talking to Sandra in the morning and setting up a time in the dojo for us and that’s final.”

Danny waved his hand in a flopping motion, resigned. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. Woe be unto him and all that. Death by Hood punches it was.

“Why do you not have anything in this fucking fridge ever,” he heard Hood mutter, along with clinks and bangs as he moved about. “I swear to Batman’s furry ass if you haven’t eaten since Friday you’ll be wishing I killed you earlier tomorrow.”

Batman’s furry ass?! Tomorrow?!

“Don’t act surprised,” he rebuffed, voice still distracted as he dug through cabinets and gathered any and all cookware that was only there because Red brought it in the first place. “If you insist you’re fine I’m gonna treat you that way. I know you have accelerated healing.”

Danny slapped the couch cushions so Red Hood would properly hear his protests. Ancients, he really was going to die. Hood was going to kill him. Kill him good and dead. He was not long for this world. Goodbye, all, there wasn’t anything good keeping him here anyhow.

“Well, shit, at least you got cheese and bread. Somehow. How have neither of these gone bad already?”

Ooh, does that mean grilled cheese is on the menu? Suddenly he found his will to live.

He popped up from behind the couch like a meerkat looking towards the kitchen, excited at the possibility of cheesy-bready goodness. The only thing missing was tomato soup, but he knew he didn’t have that in his cabinets.

Hood leveled a threatening spatula at him as he turned to face the living room. “You. Get back down. Losers who bleed out because they agitated wounds don’t get the good stuff.”

Danny huffed and fell back into the couch. Spoilsport. It’s not like it even hurt anymore. He was fine. Would be fine. Probably.

Oh man, he was really gonna hate tomorrow. But tonight- grilled cheese and witty banter would heal his heart and soul. And probably also the ectoplasm. But, the power of Red Hood’s grilled cheese was not to be underestimated.