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starsofang · 8 months ago

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CALL OF THE SEA / PART FIFTEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, hallucainations/hearing voices??, inaccurate depictions of medicine, idk how ppl made medicines in 1800s but idc its fiction masterlist a/n: thank u for the love from the hurricane i went thru!! i'm okay and back in business, i love u guys <3 things are gonna get a lil spicyyy

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

“Dove,” a voice singsonged, a whisper in the wind that whisked away almost as soon as it appeared.

You halted in your steps, whipping your head around. Standing on the deck, you knew you were alone. You had just been on your way to collect your variety of herbs and powders to teach the Captain of medicine making, yet the sense of dread overtook you the moment you heard your name called out.

Looking out into the vast sea, there was nothing. A heavy mist clouded the air from the storm that was brewing mere lengths away, its arrival unknown. It clouded over the horizon, hiding away what lay beyond in the dull, gray atmosphere.

Yet, Graves had spoken yet again, as if he had sent his voice to travel miles upon miles just to get a rile out of you. It felt like a warning, letting you know he was still present, and very much still attached.

“The one who heals the ill and poor,” Graves echoed tauntingly, a dark chuckle rasping at the end of his words. “The one who has the 141 in knots. That’s you, isn’t it, dove?”

You couldn’t see him, and you weren’t sure whether that was ideal or not. You knew he wasn’t there physically, hell, you weren’t sure it was even really him talking. Your mind could be playing tricks on you.

The words of the prophecy were spoken with such mockery, the ones referring to your very role. The venom in his tone made you queasy. A cold chill dripped down your spine, causing the hairs on your neck to stand.

“Oh, this will be fun,” he cooed. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Stood frozen in place, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horizon. It was gloomy, and you were beginning to mirror that feeling. You felt toyed with — like a puppet on a shelf, waiting to be used when Graves deemed you useful.

“What are ye doin’ down there, dove?” a voice called. “Looks like ye seen a ghost.”

The faint snickering had you tilting your head up in the direction it came from. Soap sat high up in the crow’s nest, peering down at you mischievously. His broad arms rested on the rim of the nest, leaning lazily.

“I am fine,” you scowled, quickly regaining your composure. Graves crept menacingly in the corners of your mind. “What are you doing up there?”

“She’s a crow’s nest for a reason. I’m watchin’ for the storm, seein’ if I can spot anythin’ out of the ordinary like I’m a bird, birdie” Soap explained with a grin, cocking his head. “What are ye doin’ down there?”

You frowned at him, unamused. “I plan on teaching the Captain how to make medicine,” you replied. “I’m just going to collect my things. It is wealthy to have knowledge in medicines, you know.”

Soap blew out a puff of air, waving his hand dismissively. “If I have any more knowledge up in this noggin’ of mine, it might explode.” He made a point of knocking his knuckles against his head.

“I do not believe there is much in there at all,” you sighed, unable to force a small smile away. Even in times of fear and uncertainty, you couldn’t deny the way Soap put you at ease.

“Ach, yer a bird that bites. What happened to bein’ a sweet bird?” he mumbled in feigned hurt, lips puckered into a pouted frown.

Your smile grew and you shook your head. “Where is Ghost?” you asked. Soap rubbed the back of his neck, fingers twirling into his messy mullet.

“That lad. Locked himself up again, he did. I think the weather’s makin’ him all moody. He helped me out for a bit before goin’ back, so I’m not sure what’s wrong,” he explained sympathetically. There was a hint of hurt at being shut out.

It made you recall the two of them. Embracing. Whispering amongst each other. Ghost, unmasked, leaning into his touch.

You tried your hardest to not let it shift your expression, even if it dug a little hole somewhere in your heart to be reminded of what you didn’t have.

“I see,” you hummed, playing off your tormenting thoughts and shoving them to the side with the rest. “I am… happy that he has someone like you.”

Soap’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He stared at you, confused, before smiling softly. “Ah, c’mon, dove. Ye got us, too.”

Not in the way your heart longed for. But that was a thought that attempted to fiddle with your mind and leave you stranded on an island of foreign feelings far, far away.

You weren’t sure what you desired, anyway.

“Right,” you agreed with a curt nod. “I’ll be going now. Please, do not fall while I’m gone — or do. I have not been able to aid anybody in quite a long time.”

Soap laughed, the sound rumbling you to the core. “Mean li’l bird,” he teased.

With a smile, you continued on to your quarters, shoving any strange ideas behind and focusing on the task at hand. Price was still waiting for you, after all.

Entering your shared space, you nearly cursed the world for putting Gaz in there. While you hadn’t quite avoided him like you wanted to, that was due to the others being around. Now, here alone, was different.

“Hello, Gaz,” you greeted stiffly, giving him a nod. You quickly retreated to your side of the room, which really was Soap’s clutter. You needed to organize it soon or you may lose your mind.

“Dove,” Gaz hummed from where he laid in bed, arms resting behind his head in a lazy position. His eyes followed you like a hawk as you rummaged through the bag taken from your village on your first night with the pirates.

The resources you’d been forced to bring so long ago were now going to be of use, which was something you wished to be excited for—yet, the elephant in the room was a downpour on your mood.

You felt ridiculous. It was not as if you were avoiding him in rejection—it was that it was not rejection that you were avoiding him.

Your heartstrings seemed to tighten and pull whenever he was near, and it made you feel crazy. It felt like you couldn’t catch a break, constantly toying with your own feelings.

What was this feeling of longing you so hopelessly seemed to feel differently with each of them? Was it still the craving for a sense of belonging?

“Is someone hurt?”

You glanced up from your bag, fingers pausing. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before realization took over and you shook your head. “No. I am teaching Price the ways of medicine.”

So much for avoiding him.

“Is that so?” he asked. You weren’t sure why his tone seemed so… off. As if there were a taste of bitterness to it.

You recalled the night you threw your food at him from the stuffiness of your cell below deck when he had done nothing but try and quench your hunger. He truly was not a fan of you, nor you him. While you were scared, he was protective of his kin.

Now, his tone was a grave reminder of how much time had passed, and how different things were.

You gave him another stiff nod, watching as he stood from the bed. Your heart pounded in your chest, banging against your rib cage with every step he took closer.

When he finally stopped, he was mere inches away, standing tall and proud over you. You focused your gaze on his chest, mapping the loosely tied strings that hung from the middle of his billowy shirt. You were overcome with spikes of awkward anxiety and unable to connect eyes with him.

Seeing this, he tilted his head down, cocked to the side in a mocking way. He forced your gaze to meet his from leaning down alone, and you held your breath at the sight of slight annoyance burrowed somewhere in his expression.

“Are you avoidin’ me?” he asked lowly.

You attempted to swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands grew clammy, and you couldn’t take them out of your bag to wipe them on your dress or else he’d know.

“No,” you stammered, frowning. “I am just— Price is waiting for me.”

Was he angry that you did not reciprocate a kiss? It was not your fault—you had never shared one.

“There is no playful banter. Nor even a gaze in the eye,” he commented.

“I am looking at you right now,” you defended weakly.

“What you’re doin’ is actin’ different,” he said slyly, mirroring your frown. “What, you hand me a gift, a beautiful one, and now that I have read the signs wrong, you wish to hide from me?”

“That—” You inhaled sharply. “That is not what is happening.”

“So, I have read them right, then.”

“I do not know what signs you are referring to.”

“Don’t be daft, dove.”

Your fingers tightened around a small jar in your bag, knuckles going white. You wanted to avoid the forced eye contact altogether, but now you could not look away. It was as if you were in a trance.

“It is improper to refer to a woman as daft,” you hissed in defense.

“You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met,” Gaz mused, his head tilting once again.

This is what he wanted, and you were giving it to him. He wanted the banter, the jests, to see you grow irritated to tug a reaction from you, and unfortunately, it was working.

“You have never been kissed before?” he continued.

Your ears were beginning to ring. Your entire body felt hot to the touch, like a scorching fire burned through your veins and trickled its way up to your brain.

“That is inappropriate, Gaz,” you tried, though your defense was weak. He was right. He was always right, and you hated it. “I must return to Price. I—I cannot have this conversation.”

“You will have to avoid the whole sea if you believe I am the only one,” he stated calmly, growing soft now that his initial annoyance was wearing off. “Do not make me the one to suffer.”

You stared at him, mouth opened to speak but the words lost in translation. You felt like you were betraying yourself by choosing to avoid him out of mere uncertainty. You were only doing a disservice to yourself.

The words he spoke laid heavy on your mind, but you were unable to decipher the true meaning. Perhaps you were avoiding that, too.

The two of you said nothing, sitting in tense silence as you hurried to throw your bag over your shoulder. You didn’t want Price to slam open his door and search for you, believing you accidentally fell into the treacherous waters and sunk below the angry sea.

You shuffled to the door, hand hovering over the handle. You risked a weary glance over your shoulder, seeing Gaz standing and watching you with keen eyes, a glint of something unrecognizable in them.

You had nobody else to feel sorry for but yourself.

“I will not avoid you,” you muttered quietly. “I do not think I have the strength to do so, anyway. Not with you.”

You tugged open the door, excusing yourself.

The chill in the air was refreshing against your warm skin, cooling off the heat that radiated off of you like a furnace. As you returned to Price’s quarters, your mind was scrambled, overloaded with millions of thoughts that plagued you.

The wind rustled and blew, and you could only pray there wasn’t a familiar whisper hiding in its trail. It seemed as if the universe had plenty of tricks up its sleeve today, and it was dealing them all to you one by one.

When you looked up at the crow’s nest as you walked by, Soap remained. He gave you a smile when you passed, and it made the worry in your stomach simmer to a low boil.

“You took quite some time,” Price noted as you stepped inside. “Did you walk the plank along your way?”

You chuckled, shaking your head and shooing the bag off your shoulder. It fell to the desk with a small thud. “I ran into Soap,” you explained.

“I see.” Price smiled in acknowledgment. “Alright, dove. Let’s begin, hm?”

“You are not very good at this.”

You watched as Price attempted to grind a mix of herbs and powder in the bowl you lent him. Teaching him how to make a paste meant for burns proved fruitless, as he seemed to mess up the measurements when you weren’t looking.

“That’s why you’re the expert, dove,” he huffed in annoyance, laser focused on grinding the end of the wooden stick into the roundness of the bowl, mashing down the mixture. “I do not see how this will become a paste.”

“Did you mix in the drops of water like I told you?” you asked.

He glowered at the clear dropper you held up, which seemed just as full as when you first started. He snatched it up, squeezing a couple of drops into the failed paste for good measure, then continued mixing.

“Was I correct?” you teased, peering down into the bowl. You were pleased to see it mixing much more smoothly, almost like thick butter.

“Silence,” he grunted, shooting a weak glare your way. “I pray this medicine proves to be useful.”

“It is for burns to ease the flare up of the skin,” you explained, keeping an eye on the mixture. “I am sure it will come in handy.”

Price hummed, mashing the paste until he seemed satisfied. He shifted the bowl towards you, waiting for approval. The idea of it made you snort—a Captain, seeking approval from his ex-prisoner.

“It is not bad,” you praised, earning him a furrow of his eyebrows. “Much better after the water.”

He gave you a look, unamused, eyeing you as you shoveled the paste into an empty jar. You were happy to add it to the collection, though you wished you had the opportunity for a room for yourself to display them. Soap and Gaz’s room was feeling crowded.

“I am only teasing,” you said with a smile. “It’s almost as good as mine.”

Price snorted, smiling back. “Aye, I’m a Captain, not a medic. That’s your specialty,” he retorted.

“And will this medic ever get a room of her own? Or perhaps a place to work?”

He raised an eyebrow. You mirrored him. “Are the boys not fun to room with?”

Images of Gaz earlier flashed in your mind. You swallowed. “No, they are just fine. But I am a woman, after all. It is not… suitable.”

Price made a noise of acknowledgment, nodding slow. He seemed to be thinking, a hand brushing through his beard and stroking his bottom lip.

“That is… understandable. Forgive me, I have not had a woman on my ship until you. It slipped my mind that you roomin’ with those two may not be entirely appropriate,” he replied thoughtfully.

“You forced me to sleep with you on my first night out of the brig,” you reminded him.

Price paused his stroking, blinking at you. For a moment, you lost him, his mind running astray. You could only stare back patiently.

“Would you prefer to stay here, then?” he asked. “You may find much more peace in here than with them., or if you'd like, you may switch off between quarters.”

You felt your body tense up at the mere thought. You knew no matter who you stayed with, it would be a gamble. Each of them had your heart on lock in an unfamiliar way, and the thought of staying with Price again had your stomach twisting into knots.

Gaz popped up once again, and you wondered if that decision would solidify your act in avoiding him. A pang of guilt hit your chest.

“You would not mind?” you asked wearily.

Price shrugged. “I may prefer it, actually.”

Your expression morphed into confusion, eyebrows pulling together and lips curling into a frown. He’d prefer to spend nights with you, rather than allowing you to cram into a small bed with Soap in the late hours of the night?

You thought the Captain valued his privacy and solitude. Now that he was offering you to stay on his own rather than out of fear of you running off to islands unknown, it felt much more personal.

“You’d prefer it?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

The Captain paused, narrowing his eyes at you. You were curious at to what he could be thinking about.

The door to his quarters opened, silencing your conversation rather quickly. The wind sounded much louder now without barriers between the inside and outside, and when you whipped your head to look at the doorway, Soap stood, drenched in water.

You were so focused on your time with Price and your craft, you hadn’t noticed the uneasy rockiness of the ship that seemed to grow with every second.

“The storm’s brewin’ real fast, Cap,” Soap breathed, lightly heaving. He must’ve climbed down the nest in a haste. “We need to get her steady. It’s comin’ down faster than we thought.”

The Captain stood quickly, giving him a nod. “Go collect Gaz and Ghost,” he ordered. Soap agreed, tossing the door closed and leaving you alone. “Dove, you’re stayin’ here.”

“I must be of help—”

“Here,” he repeated, tapping his finger on the desk. “That’s an order.”

You wanted to protest, but the look on his face was gloomy. You watched him leave his quarters and enter the battlefield of heavy rain that spilled over on to the deck.

Something in your heart tugged, but this time, not out of longing, or envy—it was worry. Sure, you faced many storms in your village, but never on a ship where one wrong move could send you right below the waves and have you never come back up again.

You felt helpless as you sat, thumbs twiddling mindlessly in your lap as you hoped and pray the ship would become steady enough for them to return to safety.

“Dove.”

The crashing sound of cracking thunder had you jolting in your seat. You did as the Captain ordered and stayed put, but you were becoming restless. The longer you stayed, the more your feeling of cold dread grew.

You knew where it was coming from. It was the very thing living inside your head, and you wondered if Ghost could hear it, too.

You couldn’t sit anymore. You got to your feet, quickly throwing open the door to a monsoon.

The ship swayed with the heavy, angry waves that crashed harshly against the sides of the ship. It made you lose balance, and you grabbed on to the doorway to steady.

Gaz and Soap stood under the rainfall, water soaking into their skin and clothes as they heaved the sails closed, holding the ropes to guaranteed they stayed.

Ghost was lifting heavy baggage that had yet to be stored away, thrown over his shoulder as he hurried to transport them to a dry part of the ship.

The Captain stood at the helm, his hair flat against his forehead and dripping water all the way down to his beard. He was mastering the steering of the ship, barking orders at Soap and Gaz while the two attempted to keep the sails at bay.

“Isn’t this fun, dove?” Graves whispered. You wished you could claw out your own eardrums.

You knew he was near. Before, you couldn’t feel his presence—now, it felt stronger than ever.

You frantically looked around, hoping to spot him somewhere out at sea, but the rain was too heavy. The sky had been darkening, giving off an ominous hue covered by storm clouds. You wouldn’t be able to see him from below.

Your eyes landed on the crow’s nest, the net of rope leading up to it swaying in the crazy wind. Soap had been up there mere hours ago, watching the storm and charting its location.

Without a moment of hesitation, you sprinted in the cold rain, heading towards your destination.

“Dove?” Soap called out in confusion, before recognizing you. “Dove! What are ye doin’?”

You began your ascent, just as Gaz had joined in calling for you. With them unable to leave the ropes of the sails behind, they couldn’t chase after you, stopping you from your foolish moment of cleverness.

“What the hell is she doin’ out?” Price growled, his firm voice quieter in the winds chasing it away.

The rope creaked as you planted your feet in the gaps, climbing your way up to the nest. The higher up you got, the more the breeze increased its abuse, whipping along your face in a serious of angry smacks.

The pirate’s voices grew farther away as you approached the crow’s nest. Their tones were ones of concern, fear, and worry as you scrambled your way on to the rugged, old wood platform, hauling yourself up.

You needed to know if your thoughts were true—if Graves truly was here, or if it was another one of his tricks.

You stood on the crow’s nest, holding yourself steady with a firm grip of the sides. You looked out into the void, scanning for anything, any sign—and there it was.

A ship, not too far off in the distance, swaying with the waves with its front nose pointed in the direction of your ship. A large sail flapped in the wind, and it was so misty you nearly couldn’t see it until a familiar white outline of a skull appeared, waving as if saying hello.

Graves was setting sail right towards the ship, and he had every intention of riding out the storm until he reached you.

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fandom · 2 years ago

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Video Games

We combined the console and mobile games lists and two dating sims still came out on top. Go figure.

Genshin Impact

Baldur's Gate 3

The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom

Five Nights at Freddy’s

Splatoon 3

Twisted Wonderland

Undertale

Ace Attorney

Pokémon Violet and Scarlet

Obey Me! Shall We Date?

Disco Elysium

The Sims 4

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2

Deltarune

Team Fortress 2

Hogwarts Legacy

Final Fantasy XIV

Honkai: Star Rail

The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild

Minecraft

Persona 5

Pizza Tower

Rain World

Hollow Knight

Hades

Danganronpa

Arknights

Animal Crossing: New Horizons

Project Sekai

Elden Ring

Touhou

Stardew Valley

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

ULTRAKILL

Pikmin 4

Guilty Gear

Overwatch

Portal

Omori

Flight Rising

Resident Evil 4

God of War

Red Dead Redemption 2

Sonic Frontiers

The Stanley Parable

Fire Emblem: Three Houses

Cyberpunk 2077

Limbus Company

Mortal Kombat

Bendy and the Dark Revival

Destiny 2

Bloodborne

Among Us

Yakuza

Silent Hill

Ensemble Stars

Cookie Run

League of Legends

Bendy And The Ink Machine

Fear & Hunger

Dragon Age: Inquisition

Cult Of The Lamb

Fallout: New Vegas

Half-Life

Resident Evil Village

Pathologic

The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina Of Time

The Murder Of Sonic The Hedgehog

Professor Layton

Dragon Age 2

The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword

Fire Emblem Engage

Devil May Cry

Pokémon Legends: Arceus

The Sims 2

Fallout 4

Cuphead

Persona 3

Metroid

Final Fantasy VII

Dragon Age: Origins

Metal Gear Solid

The Witcher

Psychonauts

Pokémon Mystery Dungeon

Street Fighter

Guild Wars 2

The Sims 3

Dead By Daylight

Horizon Forbidden West

World of Warcraft

Starfield

Umineko

Detroit: Become Human

Yume Nikki

Monster Hunter

Pokémon Black and White

Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective

Night in the Woods

This is a newly-combined list! Yay!

#year in review #video games #tumblr2023

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buttercupblu · 8 months ago

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i wanna fucking tear you apart

Vampire SuguChoso x Reader|Halloween Special Three-Shot

Part 1|Part 2|Part 3

the deets: oh god, where do we begin? let's start in the home of the supernatural, shall we? the great city of New Orleans. and you are absolutely about to shit bricks for having to return here, and not for a reason any sane person would believe. you don't even want to say it out loud and make it real, make them real. but you have to find them, someone's life is at stake if you don't. and the worst part? you reluctantly have to rely on someone, something you've spent years convincing yourself was just a figment of your imagination. be careful reader—or not, you seem to get off on that—because you're about to walk headfirst into something that's going to change your entire world and make you question everything you swore you'd never believe in. w.c: issa surprise. whoever gets the closest, gets a drabble of their choice (restrictions apply. i have to be familiar with the show/story. drop an ask to participate :3) tags: summoning ritual w/ special guest possessive Ghost Gojo who is annoying asf as always but even moreso bc now he can bounce all over the place, ghostly touches, hands up skirts, no bathroom privacy?, taunting and flirting through sexual assault, he's obsessed with your smell and is a panty-sniffer 🧍🏾‍♀️, cunnilingus, fingering, P in V and literally getting the breath knocked out of you, creampie? (you'll understand), coercion for a taste, rutting, and you don't know if you hate him for all of it by the end of the beginning of your journey angel’s note: Satoru...please.. earworm 🐛: tonight you belong to me remix, or the original by Patience and Prudence, it's creepier in my opinion but such a great song

—Believing—

You don't believe in vampires.

So why in the entire fuck are you standing outside of a restaurant hoping you'll be able to talk to a ghost?

You glance up at the sinking sun, the sky bruising with dusk as the nervous tap of your heel against the cobblestone almost syncs with your heart.

Be cool, be cool.

Surely no one's noticed you sitting here for the past 30 minutes, fidgeting with your fingers, mentally pacing back and forth trying to decide if you'll walk through those doors you haven't opened in 6 years.

Those pale green doors that hold centuries worth of secrets that can never escape.

Including...

But what if all of that was just in your head?

You were younger back then, new to New Orleans, and all those stories, legends, and creepy tales could have easily messed with you.

No.

You know what you saw.

What you felt.

What you heard. His voice. That smile...

Your chest feels like a knot tied too tight, yet a strange hope flutters beneath the nerves.

Hope that the past wasn't just some weird trick your mind played on you.

Because you could never forget it.

You just hope he hasn't forgotten you.

You take a breath watching the sun finally slip behind the horizon of the place of your eerie past. The old, chipped sign still hanging crooked above the door, and wrought-iron lanterns cast orange halos on the cracked sidewalk.

Closing time is near, and so is the truth you came here for.

But will this be another bust? Or will you finally get to confirm that all of it was real?

It has to be, he has to be...because he's the only one who can help you find where they are. If they even truly exist.

And the second you finally muster up the strength to face and push through those heavy, creaking doors, there's no turning back.

Walking in feels like you've gone back in time, and everything is just as you left it.

"Hi, welcome to Muriel's." The hostess greets you with a smile that you try to reflect back, hoping that she won't notice your nerves—or worse, that someone from your past will recognize you. "Just to let you know, we will be closing in about 30 to 35 minutes but you are welcome to dine in or takeout." And her eyes drift over your less-than-formal attire, a slight flicker of curiosity in her expression, but her pleasant smile never wavers.

You clear your throat. "Dine in, please," you say, and she nods, tucking a menu and silverware under her arm before leading you through the over-the-top space—each step digging you further into the rabbit hole. The details of what you left behind propels you back into the past, and suddenly you're 19 again, juggling plates and wiping down tables under the watchful gaze of the old regulars. When you last worked here.

The hum of conversation fills the space, but you tune it out, your eyes scanning for familiar things. What the restaurant purposefully lacks on the outside, is equally lacking on the inside.

The tables, dressed in those heavy burgundy cloths. The stuffy velvet chairs, more decoration than comfort. The twinkling glass chandelier that always sparkled a little too brightly for the dark, moody space, and the drapey curtains, still tacky as ever, decorate the walls and clash between the old-world elegance and overdone theatrics.

The bar stools are still worn in the same places, and the corner booth where the kitchen staff would gather to sneaks shots of whiskey after closing still stands strong.

You don't see anyone you recognize—thankfully—but the atmosphere still feels the same. Especially when it seems like the walls are watching you, their quiet judgment as thick and heavy as the air filled with the smell of fried shrimp, garlic, and something bitterly sweet, like old wine left to ferment for too long.

Walking past the table where you used to sit with your tips, counting down the hours until closing and sweet escape, feels heavy, and every step after is like pulling back a curtain on memories you buried deep, unsure if they ever really even happened. But every flicker of light, every clink of glass, makes your heart race just a little—confirming some kind of PTSD because even if your brain doesn't remember, your body does.

The whispers. The rattling. The presence. Always there, but never seen.

Showing up here almost every single day was definitely the bane of your existence, but you couldn't just quit, not back then.

You needed the money to make ends meet, especially when you chose to go to school out of state.

A broke college student struggling to stay afloat in the wild and "haunted" streets of New Orleans where every shadow told a story and every corner whispered a myth.

NOLA, of all places: home of the supernatural you've never believed, and yet here you are, purposely choosing to have a seat at its table. And nervously glancing over at thee table, perfectly set as if waiting for someone special, yet desolate and tucked away from the rest. The phantom feeling of what happened there years ago creeps through your body as you pick at your meal, trying to ignore the urge to bolt on what you think is the stupidest plan you've ever had in your entire life.

By the time you finish up, your heart is pounding, but despite being the worst place you've ever worked in, the food is still as good as you remembered. It always felt like a home you've never visited, soothing your body and making you fight tendrils of sleep.

The restaurant quiets as the final patrons start to leave and you're one of the last stragglers. You pay your tip and stack your dishes out of habit, and now the real waiting begins. "Shut up, shut up," you say to your gut feeling. "I can do this." And you take one last deep breath and yourself before you head towards where everything first went down: the bathroom.

The long, narrow corridor seems darker than ever, the black walls and red carpet only adding to the sense of isolation where you'll be camping out until closing.

You catch a glimpse in the large mirror and pause, barely recognizing yourself—nerves tightening your expression, tension locking your shoulders.

You look like you've already seen the ghost you've come to meet, but give yourself a reassuring head nod, though it feels hollow. Nevertheless, you enter the stall where it all began. Of all the places to meet a ghost...it had to be while you were hovering over a toilet seat. That perv.

Crouching into place, you pull your knees into your chest and try to steady your nerves, listening to the sounds of the restaurant closing—clattering dishes, murmuring voices—all of it mingling with your thumping heartbeat.

This is so stupid, you think, hiding in here like this, feeling so ridiculous you try not to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it all. But the thought of backing out now and being like "Oops, my bad." to the staff feels even crazier. You're officially in too deep to turn back now.

You shift in your spot and try to get comfortable, knowing that closing can take quite a while in a place this large and "fancy". But your anxiety is not having it, and you nearly lose your balance, your feet slipping and almost falling into the bowl. You curse, gripping the sides of the stall for stability when you freeze, swearing that you heard a snicker.

You hold your breath thinking you've been caught, but when a silent moment passes then two, you huff and shake your head like an Etch-a-Sketch. You know must be hearing things but fuck, how long is this going to take?

It's nerve-wracking when the staff do finally come in to do bathroom checks, but after what feels like an eternity, you're sure the coast is finally clear. When you creep out of the stall, the restaurant is eerily still now that it's fully closed, and once you've collected yourself, you make your way out, finally ready to sit at the table you've been staring holes into all evening.

The velvet rope falls to the side as you part the way. Your fingers trail over the cold cutlery on the table—the finest in the restaurant, decked with gold trim and sitting on porcelain platters. A small smile tugs at your lips. He's always been the type to require the finer things, even in death. Though you're surprised he hasn't turned the place upside down at the slight wrinkle you catch in the tablecloth.

You sink into the chair, the soft and barely worn cushion molding beneath you, almost welcoming you to the table amidst the unsettling darkness, urging you to quickly pull out your candle and a pair of lace panties. Doubts swarm your mind, but you begin anyway, preparing to start the ritual you've never tested before and solely banking on what you've come to know and what you've experienced.

But what if he doesn't show up?

He hasn't the last few times you've visited, and this...this is the most extreme measure you've taken so far.

If this doesn't work, then nothing will, and you hold your breath as you give the match a hard look before striking it, watching the flame cast a glow in the shadows before bringing it to the wick and lighting the darkness.

The restaurant seems even more disturbing as you glance around the dark. Watching, waiting for any movement, any indication of a presence, of his presence. He's never been predictable, so good at surprises and keeping you on your toes as you worked your shifts from the sun up until it set late at night. Giving you the biggest of scares the first time you felt a brush of your ankle in the bathroom. Thank God you were already on the toilet.

Now, all you can do is wait. Wait and hope that tonight is diff—

Goosebumps rise on your skin and that PTSD kicks in again, catching a glimmer of light in the corner of your eye as a sudden chill creeps in, slithering over your skin. It's subtle at first, like a draft through an open window, but quickly intensifies, feeling the temperature drop by several degrees. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, and for a second, you swear you can see your breath fog in the dim light of the unnatural cold.

Your arms cross over your chest, instinctively rubbing warmth into your skin, and just when you go to wrap the sweater you brought around your body, it hits you—that smell you could never forget or find anywhere else. Heavy, almost suffocating. Filling your nose and seeping into every breath when you hear his voice echo out of nowhere.

"Panties for dinner?" The voice curls around you, laced with that same mischievous edge you remember from years ago.

"Shit!" Your stomach plummets into your ass when you look up. Across the room, in the dim reflection of a nearby mirror, you see him. White, ghostly hair sitting atop a tall, slim figure, his form hazy around the edges like smoke threatening to dissipate.

You can't make out all of him, but the presence is unmistakable. And standing right behind you.

You can't even breathe, frozen, staring at the mirror and his sly grin. But when your fight kicks in and you whip around, there's nothing, just empty air and your hot breath floating in it, and you nearly pee yourself when you turn back and he's sitting right across from you. Calm, composed, and smug as ever, resting in his favorite seat in the house. Reserved just for him.

He leans back, white cotton-clad arms crossing behind his head, his ghostly form flickering in and out of the dim light—almost making him completely translucent save for the reflection in his circular sunglasses. "I know times are changing but—" he tilts them down to eye the lace panties you've laid out. "Even I wouldn't think of adding such a delicacy to the menu."

You release a breath you didn't know you were holding and swallow. "Hello, Gojo."

You never thought you'd say that name again, feeling foreign, yet familiar on your tongue, and though you were just scared out of your wits, relief washes over you. Because at last you know you're not crazy. Not then, and not now.

He's real, and now eyeing you up and down as if you're the next thing on the menu.

Seeing him brings back a flood of memories—memories of late-night shifts, of him toying with you when no one else would be bothered.

Though you've never been the type to believe in anything you can't see, working here taught you differently, and you learned that ghosts are surprisingly easy to find. Or at least, it's easy for them to find you.

He laughs. "Damn, really?" raising a brow, "What's with the formalities?" And he sounds offended for a reason you almost forget why before he has hearts in his eyes.

"Look at you," he says, his voice a soft puff, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. His pale blue eyes gleam with something between amusement and enticement as he takes you in. "All grown up," he pops. "And here after all these years. I didn't think you'd have the guts to come back...and bring such...interesting offerings." His lips curl into a slow smirk.

“Well, Satoru,” your lips purse, “It’s not like I haven’t been trying," you say remembering the frustration of the past few weeks. “I figured something…unconventional might work. Finally.”

He tsks, casually lifting the lace and dangling it on the end of his fingers before wrapping it in his hand. Eyeing you with mischief as he brings the offering to his face and drowns his nose.

“You know…” he breathes deeply, “I’ve yet to find anyone else who smells as sweet as you.” His eyes flutter shut a moment as if savoring the scent, his grip tightening. Then, as quickly as the moment came, his expression darkens, his tone going low and sharp eyes snapping open before they narrow. “You can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to have something like that stripped away from you.”

The words hang in the air, thick and cutting. And you know exactly what he means.

“Is that why you’ve been ignoring me?” The question that's been gnawing at you spills out, weighed with weeks of trying and failing to reach him since you first came back, wondering why he wouldn’t show. “Because I left?”

Gojo scoffs, smacking his teeth, and looks away, still holding the lace before dismissively letting them fall to the table. “Is it even worth asking?” His eyes flicker back to yours, dripping with disdain. “You sound so sure. Less of a coward now than you were back then,” he mutters, a bitter edge creeping in that knots your stomach.

“Tell me,” he leans, voice crawling with vice, “…was I too much for you that night?” And your throat tightens, memories of your last shift at Muriel’s rushing back full force.

Most tourists who flock to this charming, haunted restaurant only know the glossy version of its history.

It’s themed, plays up its rumors, is gimmicky, and serves great food all in one curated pot.

But what most don’t know, is that back in the day, it actually used to be a house—a grand, extravagant mansion that was a symbol of wealth and power, drawing in the city’s elite. But all of that splendor needed someone just as luxurious to maintain it and its reputation for being the place to be if there ever was one.

And that someone was Gojo.

A filthy rich owner with an exorbitantly large bank account and an even larger love for hosting extravagant parties. He didn’t throw these gatherings just for fun—no, they were about keeping the eyes of the elite on him and his sprawling mansion. His house wasn’t just a home—it was a glittering symbol of his status.

And as famous as Gojo was for his parties, he was just as infamous for his way with women. A relentless womanizer, he cycled through lovers like the seasons, keeping them rotating out of his door like clockwork and was quick to turn down anyone tried to trap him with promises of children or love.

Gojo very much valued his freedom, up until he took his very last breath.

With no one to pass along his estate to, he left no heirs and no family to carry on his legacy, and everything he possessed was auctioned to the public. Being sold to someone just as wealthy and lucky enough to be able to continue the home’s reputation.

But even in death, Gojo didn’t care for sharing the spotlight, or his house.

Through the years, the infamous home was passed from hand to hand, and with each new arrival, Gojo made sure they knew he was still a guest with the same appetite for attention he’d always had.

His tricks started small, mere nuisances at first—footsteps in empty hallways, doors that wouldn’t stay shut, flickers of lights just as someone reached for the switch. But anyone who dared to claim the house as their own quickly realized that Gojo wasn’t the type to share his space. Years passed, and the mansion’s reputation grew darker. Haunted, they said.

No one could live there without being tormented by the mischievous, jealous ghost of its original owner, making no one want to touch it with a 10-foot pole. For quite some time, the formerly luxurious home sat on the market, a ghost of itself collecting dust and weary stares from passersby familiar and foreign. But it wasn't until someone got the brilliant idea to say fuck it and try to bank on the legends that it was finally opened to the public, done in a way that was guaranteed to attract people from around the world—by turning it into a restaurant. And consequently making Gojo’s antics truly infamous.

At first, the new owners didn’t believe the stories. It’s just old pipes and drafty halls, they said. But that excuse wore thin. Quickly.

They would return to tables flipped overnight, chairs scattered around the space like a storm had blown through. Champagne glasses, polished and neatly stacked at closing, would go flying across the bar and shatter against the walls by morning. Whispers could be heard in patrons’ ears during dinner and ruin appetites.

Workers began quitting. Customers stopped coming.

Eventually, enough was enough, and the owners, desperate and undoubtedly true believers now, decided to strike a deal with the restless spirit and finally appeal to his easily bruised ego. And they set up an exquisite V.I.P. table just for him, even going so far as to allow reservations to be made to have dinner with him and appeal to his sense of companionship once every blue moon.

Once again, Gojo was the center of attention, and just like that, the chaos stopped.

For regular diners, at least. But then, you came along.

At first, it was subtle—small things that could easily be dismissed as accidents or coincidence.

A fork slipping from your grasp, a shadow moving out of the corner of your eye.

You’d been warned about Gojo when you were hired but quickly dismissed it as a funny story to tell tourists (like you weren’t borderline new to the city yourself).

You didn’t believe—not in ghosts, not in any of it.

That is, until the antics became too much to ignore, and Gojo grew tired of playing games.

The whispers weren’t vague murmurs anymore—they were in your ear, low and teasing and calling your name.

The pranks weren’t harmless either—pinches of the fat on your thighs almost made you drop dishes, gushes of wind fluttered your skirt, exposing your flesh to customers, cool breaths ghosted your neck while taking orders. And on the more vulgar end of the scale, you learned that Gojo had an infatuation with your panties, ghosting his hand under your skirt to skim the fabric and trap remnants of you on his fingers to smell and taste. And when that wasn’t enough, he would resort to stealing them, almost always running off with a pair before the end of your shift so he could relish your intoxicating scent while you were away.

He wanted your attention and was relentless, loving to see you flustered and squirming. And he wasn’t going to stop until he had it.

Then came that night.

The night everything changed.

It was a quiet evening at Muriel's.

The last of the guests had filtered out, the last of the servers and kitchen staff had gone save for a few, and only a soft clatter of dishes in the back and the low hum of the kitchen being scrubbed down kept your company at the end of your shift.

And it had become the usual for you to be the only one left at the end of the day. Ever since your promotion to shift lead, you were the one expected to close up most days. It was a small step-up—more responsibility, slightly more money—but it almost meant longer hours, on top of still being a full-time student. The bags under your eyes couldn't be darker, but someone had to make sure everything was in order before locking up. You were happy to take the extra cash and kill some debt, but nights like that one—when the restaurant was eerily still, and you were the only one walking its halls—made you question if the raise was really worth it.

You were wiping down and fixing the last of tables, mind drifting, tired, and very, very ready to go home and start your second shift on your school assignments.

You felt your muscles slowly tensing, your movements growing slow and stiff. The air was growing cold as fuck, colder than it'd ever been in the restaurant making hairs stand on your arms and your brows furrow. You wondered if the heat had finally kicked out in the old place when a familiar scent hit you. A thick, heady fragrance that'd been haunting you for weeks—opulent, like aged leather, tobacco, and something sweet like an overripe plum. You'd smell it before, but it was stronger than ever that night, filling the air like a thick perfume that almost made you choke and your heart quicken. Because you were the only one in the restaurant.

A whisper right in your ear almost sent you to glory. "Leaving so soon, beautiful?"

You jolted, a rush of heat and cold spiraling through you as you whipped around expecting to find an empty room as usual, but your rag slipped from your fingers.

Because this time, there it was.

Not just a flicker of light, not just a trick of the shadows—but standing there, casually leaning against the bar as if it'd been waiting for you. Its hair white and ghostly, catching the low light and loosely floating around its sharp, pale face. A man, unworldly and almost hypnotically angelic.

God, he was a vision of the past, looking like he'd stepped straight out of the 18th century. Dressed in a loose, long-sleeved cotton shirt that wasn't buttoned all the way, revealing his chest and looking impossibly soft as it bobbed around him with every subtle move. Untouched by the laws of physics like it had a life of its own along with his baggy, almost billowing pants that seemed more of an accessory to his form than a garment.

He looked like he was floating in water.

But it wasn't just the look of him that struck you—it was his presence.

You'd been receiving little snippets of the supposed guilty party for months, but now he was revealing his full form and moving around the room with an ease that was unnerving. Graceful in a way that made him seem more like a dream than a ghost, his feet barely touching the ground as he circled you—a predator accessing its prey.

He wore circular sunglasses, perched right on the bridge of his nose. The modern touch starkly contrasted the vintage quality of his existence and made him all the more haunting. They reflected the dim light and hid his eyes, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze piercing right through you.

He smiled—lazy, dangerous, and knowing—like he could see every one of your thoughts. "Like what you see?" And your stomach twisted. Because whether you wanted to admit it or not, you couldn't deny that you had been waiting for him.

For months, Gojo had been playing with you, pushing and teasing to the brink of borderline insanity. But never in your wildest thoughts did you expect this. Not for him to ever fully reveal himself. Or for him to be so...ethereally gorgeous in a way that made your mouth dry.

You couldn't help but to stare, captivated by his strange, almost unsettling beauty. You'd been told about his promiscuity, his natural ability to captivate women and now you could see how.

He was an enigma, an impossible class of time periods—both out of place and yet perfectly at home in this old, creaky restaurant.

And despite every instinct screaming at you to get the hell out of Dodge, you were drawn to him, just as you had been since that very first whisper in your ear that made you second-guess reality.

"Well, say something." He laid his cheek on his palm. "Or am I just that handsome?"

And there it was—that egregious arrogance you'd heard so much about dripping from every word, as if he hadn't been terrorizing you from the moment you stepped foot in the place or just given you the jumpscare of your life. Though, what threw you off the most was the way he didn't sound like you expected; his voice didn’t match the way he dressed or the era period he seemed to belong to. It was subtly modern, as if he'd been changing his speech as the years went on.

"Cat got your tongue?" He teased, and you swallowed hard, struggling to find your own voice, but the sight of him, his sheer presence, made it almost impossible.

“I’m not scared,” you finally croaked out, lifting your chin, though your voice betrayed you. And the second the words left your mouth, you regretted them, his brows raising and grin widening as he sensed the challenge in your words.

"Not scared, huh?" He stepped closer until the distance between you was almost nonexistent, calling your obvious bullshit by the way you could barely handle his taunts during your day shifts. He paused.

"Boo!"

You jumped, then immediately felt like a little bitch for falling for the oldest trick in the book. You didn't find anything funny but Gojo roared and slapped his knee. "Awww, you're so cute when you're pissed," he remarked, wiping a fake tear at your scowling face. But then his sensual smile returned, reaching out to tilt your chin. "So what'll get you riled up then, brave little waitress?" And he's behind you before you could turn away, running your blood cold as his nose grazed your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair.

You swatted at him, more out of instinct than logic and quickly spun around—only to find nothing. Just empty space and the faint scent of him still hanging in the air like a ghost.

Fuck, where is he?

Your heart thundered in your ears, each breath coming quicker and quicker as your wide eyes scanned the room.

Panic surged through you, fighting to steady your nerves when you turned back and there he was, inches away from your face.

"Fu—!" You flinched and he snickered. "Still not scared?" And he took another step forward.

Your shaky breaths said yes but your head shook no, trying to stand your ground even as your feet moved backwards.

"No?" he grinned, closing the distance between you with every step. "Good. I don't want you to be." Still, his eyes glinted behind those ridiculous shades that hid too much and made it impossible to think straight. Your body moved on autopilot, flight instead of fight kicking in, until the small of your back collided with something solid.

Your breath hitched, aimlessly reaching behind to steady yourself when the soft, velvety fabric sent pins and needles through your body, slowly realizing that you had bumped into the table you just spent too much time painstakingly freshening up earlier—his table.

His grin was positively wicked now and he watched it dawn on your face, registering the fact that you had bumped into the very thing you unironically set up for him. The cool surface pressed into your lower back, cutlery clinking and shifting beneath your fingers as you pondered escape, but you were trapped.

Gojo leaned over you. "Funny," his cool breath brushed your cheek. "I've been watching you for a while now, you know," he mused, his hand slowly creeping up your thigh. His fingers barely brushed beneath your fluffy work skirt but jolts still rocked through you, and you stiffened as you looked up at him with wide eyes.

"I can detect heart rates," he continued, voice a low purr. "And yours? I've been listening to it for months since I first started...playing with you." He smirked. "How it slows down when you think it's all in your head. How it spikes every time something moves that isn't supposed to. How scared you look when you can't figure out what's happening."

He practically towered over you now, and he down to brush the shell of your ear with his lips as he added, "But it's never beat this fast before." And a breath caught in your throat when his hand slid higher, his fingers curling around the divet of your hip.

"You take such good care of my table, doll. No one has done it better since it's been here." Your knees went weak feeling him knead and trace patterns over your hip with his thumb. "Sooo," he smiled against your ear, "It's only fair I put all that hard work to good use right?"

You tried to twist away, you really did, but it was a fruitless attempt to put some distance between you and the ghost. His grip was ironclad and anchoring you to the table, even in his spectral form, and it reminded you that though he was just a spirit, his strength was all too real, and the cool burn seeped through you, yet contrasted the involuntary warmth pooling between your legs.

You swore under your breath as your body betrayed you with each ghostly touch, shivers cascading down your spine. Your jaw clenched as you tried to ignore the arousal gathering in your panties, but Gojo was no amateur. He had done this dance for far too long and far too many times, and he knew the signs better than anyone.

He pulled back just enough to really get a good look at you, the smirk never leaving his face as he took in the blush creeping up your face. The rapid rise and fall of your swelling chest, the way you tugged on your lower lip in a poor attempt to maintain some semblance of control.

"I'll stop if you tell me to," he murmured so sincerely, but it felt like a trick as his other thumb now traced slow, maddening circles up your inner thigh, inching ever closer to the heat radiating from your core. You started to protest, but the words died in your throat when he finally brushed the damp fabric of your panties.

Your mouths fell open, both of you caught entirely off guard at how surprisingly wet you were.

Gojo let out a breathless chuckle, eyes darkening beneath his glasses at the feel of your warm slick. "Just say the word, beautiful," a silken whisper that seemed to wrap around you along with the continuously languid strokes of your puckering clit.

"Hah," you reluctantly moaned, panic mingling with helplessness in a battle between your mind and body.

Because there was no denying the effect he was having on you.

The gradual build-up of unhinged chemistry had unknowingly begun even when he was just an easily dismissive taunt—no matter how much you wanted to resist.

And the bastard knew it.

Reveled in it even, his ghostly fingers toying with the elastic edge of your panties and teasing you with the promise of something more. You just had to say yes.

No.

You squeezed your eyes shut, the fabric of the table bunching under your fingers as you tried to reason with yourself, to not drink the stupid bitch juice, but with each stroke, each tormenting touch, your resolve crumbled more and more.

"Look at me." His tone left no illusion of choice, and your eyes fluttered open to meet the reflection of your pathetic face in his sunglasses. The distorted image mocked you before he pulled them down the bridge of his nose. "Good girl." The corner of his lip tucked under his teeth and he rewarded you with a firmer touch that made your hips involuntary buck towards him with a mewing "Ah!"

His ghostly laugh filled the room and vibrated through his hand resting between your legs. "I wonder," his brow quirked, eyes wandering over your body. "What other sounds I can draw out of you?"

You tried to respond, lips hot and ready to tell him to go to hell, but the only sound that escaped you was a strangled whimper feeling his fingers hook under your panties and pull them aside, exposing you to the cool air as you looked into his intense gaze. He didn't even have to look to know that you were absolutely dripping, and heat bloomed in your face, your thighs rushing to clamp shut but his other hand firmly held you open.

"So stubborn," he smiled, feeling so lucky he was already dead by the way your eyes shoot daggers, and he got an idea looking at your cute tight-lipped face. "Let's see how long you can keep up that fight of yours, hmm?" And he continued his dizzying but purposely feather-light strokes, determined to bring you to the precipice of shattering into pieces.

If you thought you were crazy before, you felt absolutely insane now the way you had two voices on your shoulder, an Angel and a Devil.

This is a ghost, for God's sake, the angel panicked, screaming about the sheer insanity of the situation.

That dick might hit different though, the Devil argued, voice husky and persuasive, reminding you of endlessly late nights spent studying and the dry spells that came with it. Typical of an obnoxiously busy youth battling between college and work.

It'll literally be out of this world sis, the Devil purred, and though you wanted to cringe at your conscious's bad joke, you couldn't help but acknowledge it as something that just might be true. Because despite the disbelief you were in about the reality of your situation, Gojo's very real, very rock-hard, and solid dick pressing against your knee was undeniable. And the idea of it sinking between your walls snuck into your head all on its own.

Your hand trembled, reaching out, wanting—no, needing to feel the subtly thumping temptation that promised a release you hadn't experienced in far too long. The outline wasn't enough, you needed to feel its girth, its length, and your shaky fingers ghosted right through him.

"Ah ah ah," he chided, caressing your cheek. "Not until you say yes." And you felt physically ill as you took a second to even hesitate. To consider. Absolutely mad. Insane. And disgustingly aching with a need so strong it made your head hurt until both of your bickering voices fell silent when you blurted, "Yes!"

And the world itself held its breath.

But it was all Gojo needed, his eyes flashing in triumph with a devious smirk. And in a movement too fast for your eyes to see, he hoisted you up and turned you over, a gasp escaping your lips and he pushed you into a sinful arch until your chest planted on the table.

The heat of his gaze was blazing, taking in such a lewd display that was begging to be touch, and who was he to resist? Allowing his hands to roam your body with an urgency that left you breathless, his touch cold yet exhilarating and racing your beating heart.

Nudging your legs apart, he crouched down, cooing.

"Even prettier than I imagine." Pushing a huff out of you as his thumb slid in, slowly stretching you and coating his finger in your fluids that made his already translucent finger glisten.

His lips curled into a devilish grin at the sight of you, sprawled out of the table, your face flushed with desire and breaths short and needy. He brought his thumb to his lips, tasting you and almost dying all over again, the mix of savory sweetness and tangy heat making his already painfully hard cock twitch with anticipation.

"Delicious," he purred, "But I need more," and you couldn't even process his words before his hands were on your thighs and spreading you wide, his breath cool against your heated flesh. Then his mouth was on you, tongue tracing circles around your sugary clit, lazy but heavy when your head shot up, feeling him suck it into his mouth with an expertise that made your hand shoot out and try to tangle your fingers in his hair. Helplessly whining and squirming, yet failing to pull him closer to grind down on his face to chase his tongue because he was a ghost after all.

But he was in bliss with your taste and obliged your silent wish, dipping in and out of your core and bringing you to the brink of shattering into a million pieces if it hadn't been for the dick in his pants that was so impatient, and you groaned feeling him pull away with a huff.

"Sweet girl," he murmured, lips glistening with your watery mess as he rose to his feet. "Like a sweet, delectable dish." His thumb rolled over your slit. "But I want to feel you come undone on my cock." And you jumped when you felt his thick, hard length teasing your entrance. Sending a jolt through your body at the sensation of his cool, ghostly flesh against your warm pussy before his hands dug into your hips and he slammed into you with a force so strong it knocked the breath from your lungs.

In an instant, you both froze, him buried to the hilt inside you and feeling your unprepared pussy squeeze and struggle to adjust to being so unbelievably full. Feeling every ridge, every vein of his cock throbbing inside of your tight, little walls.

He groaned, "Fuck," hissing and fingers digging into your flesh as he fought for control. "You feel so..." Losing his words, his hips began to move, thrusts slow and deliberate as he started fucking you and fucking you good after months of build-up and playing with you. Shaking the table until it creaked and groaned, the cutlery clinked and dishes fell to the ground as he drove into you again and again and again making your hands scramble to find purchase on the table and hang on.

It was too much. It was heaven on a very big, very thick, drool-inducing stick. It was so delicious that the intense ache bordered pain and made you want to get away yet run towards it at the same time. But he wasn't about to let you go anywhere.

"I don't know who you've been holding out on me for," he gruffed, eyeing screwing shut at your tight, fluttering pussy, "But tonight, you belong to me." And he punctuated his point with deep, harsh, thrusts.

"Go-Go-GoJO." You stammered over his name wanting to beg for relief, but he just wrapped a hand under your neck and pulled you back against him.

"Call me, Satoru, doll," and he kissed your cheek, still bullying your pussy until your walls caved and hungrily sucked him in.

"Sa-Satoru," you managed, almost breathless, "I'm going to..hah, I'm about to..."

You couldn't even get them out, damn near blacking out when you came and came hard, a powerful, unexpectantly early orgasm ripping through your convulsing body. Wave after wave after of white-hot pleasure washed over you until your body went limp against him and your legs crumbled as he let you collapse against the table.

But he wasn't finished yet and he bit his lips, still deeply pushing through your sore and fluttering walls, his mind a heady mix of egotistical pride and unyielding desire as he felt you shudder and unravel beneath him. He marveled at the sight of you utterly defeated yet still clinging to the table, the way your sweet voice called out his name in ecstasy, and every shaky breath and tremble as he pushed you into overstimulation until his own breath grew uneven.

His release was coming and coming fast, the telltale sign tightening in his core as he watched your ass ricochet off his snapping hips, teetering on the edge of release.

His fingers dug into your nearly limp body and held you in place, each thrust becoming more desperate and erratic because even though his dick was a punisher and you were practically lifeless, your pussy was still whooping his ass. Coaxing him to dig deeper and deeper and look Nirvana right in the face until with a hoarse groan, he finally shattered and moaned your name, knocking your hips into the table and stilling right against your cervix until he spilled into you with a fierce, unrestrained release that left him trembling and breathless and you heady and wondering if you could get pregnant by a ghost.

Huffing, he folded over you, feeling like life had been pulled out of him once again, needing to be as close to you as possible as he grasped the fat of your ass between his fingers. "Fuck, love," he said, damn-near delirious, and the words slipped out before he knew what he was saying. "I would've made you a wife in my first life." But you didn't even have enough consciousness to process the never-before-said words that many before you would've given their very soul to hear.

As the world around you faded to black, the only thing you were aware of was the feeling of Gojo's body pressed against yours and him murmuring your name in your ear like a promise, and to this day you still don't know what he meant by putting your hard work to good use because after allowing him to have his way, his table was left in absolute shambles.

Those few minutes of pure, carnal delirium had burned into you, leaving you shook, figuratively and literally for weeks, even after the semester ended and you returned home for the summer.

And while most would think that would have been the best night in your entire existence and left you begging for more, it actually left you rattled to your core and questioning your sanity. Seeing him, feeling him, almost every night after in your dreams.

Convinced that the pressure of academics, a new city, and your overworked imagination had become too much, you made a choice—one that resulted in you transferring schools and never returning to New Orleans. You left behind your job and all the friends you made and told yourself that the encounter with Gojo had to be nothing more than a full mental breakdown. And yet...

The feeling of him lingered with you for years. So real, so vivid like he was somehow watching, somehow waiting for you to—

"Earth to beautiful." His voice sliced through your trip down memory lane, dragging you back to the present. You blink, realizing with a start that he was no longer sitting across from you.

Following his voice, your gaze darted to the left, and there he was again, lounging on one of the plush chairs in the corner of the restaurant.

You shift in your seat, hesitating as the memories collide with the present. "No," you start, remembering his question. "It wasn't that..."

Gojo's playful smile dims just a little but enough to notice. "Then enlighten me, doll, because last I remember, you just up and left without so much as a goodbye."

You swallow, the knot of guilt building in your stomach. "It wasn't because of you—"

His laugh cut through your words, sharp and bitter, echoing off the walls when he vanishes only to reappear behind you. "Sure didn't feel that way to me, sweetheart."

You whip around to face him, but he's already gone, reappearing across the room, his shoulder leaning against the wall. "You thought I wouldn't notice?" His arms cross. "Didn't even come back for a single shift, just left me hanging like I had done something wrong...no one's ever done that before." And the way he's trying to suppress the sadness in his voice lets you know that he's obviously still salty about it.

For once, the entertainer had his own entertainment—genuine, proper, and unlike anything he ever experienced in the life he knew before and even after death. And it had been stripped away from him just like that.

"I didn't—" And he's gone again, this time materializing at the bar, resting his elbows on it like this whole conversation is nothing but a joke because truthfully, "I've missed playing with you," he confesses.

Heat rises in your cheeks, a mixture of flustered embarrassment and lingering guilt, and you don't know how to feel anymore. "I didn't leave because of you," you insist, but even to you, it sounds weak.

"Then what was it?" Gojo taunts, appearing at a table closer to you, leaning forward in that all-too-familiar lazy, arrogant pose. "Got spooked? Couldn't handle me?" His defensiveness makes it clear he' isn't really listening. "Or maybe..." his voice drops low, "You liked it too much." And your pulse instantly spikes, his teasing combined with what may be a sliver of truth, making your skin prickle.

He watches you with a wolfish grin, knowing exactly what he's doing, how he's affecting you. And when the obvious look of frustration appears on your face before you start to chew him out, he's gone. And you've officially had it.

"Dammit, Gojo!" you snap, pushing up from his table. "Would you stop already?" Your eyes dart around for the source of your anger, trying to follow his shifting presence as he flickers in and out of view. "I came back to talk, not to play your stupid ass games again!" you shout, hoping that'll trigger him, but the room falls silent, the only sound being your own soft breath. You call for him but when he doesn't answer, for a moment, you feel regret, thinking maybe he's finally let his emotions get the best of him and he's disappeared forever.

"Tell me..." and in a sudden flicker, he's in front of you, his touch cold and electric as he softly brushes your cheek. "After all these years..." His fingers draw a slow line from your neck to your tummy. "Can you still feel me...down there?"

And your jaw slacks open,

You let out a short exhale, instinctively taking a step back, but Gojo is already pressing forward, making you stumble back until the cool wood of the bag digs into your lower back like déjà vu. You try to move but his hand is already on your waist, fingers possessively curling around you, and with a casual, effortless push, he hoists you onto the bar and parts your legs with ease before slotting himself between them as if he's always belonged there. And fuck it stirs something deep inside you.

You should be scrambling to get down, but you hate how easily your body reacts to him instead, how the pull between you feels just as strong as it did back then, as if the years apart meant nothing. But Gojo isn't afraid to throw away his ego to show you he misses you, even after all this time. And damn it, you feel absolutely insane realizing that part of you misses him too, even if it was just a few months of build-up and one explosive night.

But you're older now. You're not the same naïve girl he could easily swoon with a smirk and a whisper of words.

No, you were here for a reason and didn't hesitate to swallow down your confusing desire to stick to the mission. Even if it meant breaking his heart.

“Stop,” you say more to yourself than him, but the firmness in your voice surprises both of you. Pulling away from his lingering hands, you shake your head. “I’m not here for that.”

His hands freeze in place, and he leans back just enough to meet your eyes. “No?” He mocks surprise. “Then what are you here for, sweetheart? Because I’m having a hard time believing this isn’t it.”

You lift your chin, forcing out the words before you lose your nerve. “I need your help, Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he corrects you, but his smile slightly falters when he sees you’re serious.

“Help?” He tilts his head. “And here I thought you just missed me.” His smile widens, but there’s something dangerous in it now. Something that makes you remember just how unpredictable Gojo can be. And just you think he’s got the wrong idea and is going in for a kiss, he leans back and gives you space. He sighs, his arms crossing over his chest and gaze flickering over your face. “What could I possibly help you with?” And his willingness to listen is what surprises you the most, but you still can’t believe what you’re about to say, and you draw a steady breath to help get the words out.

“I need to find them.”

His brow quirks. “Them?”

“...the vampires.” And the second the word leaves your mouth, his grin falters.

For the first time since he appeared, the amusement completely drops from his face and suddenly, he's very careful with his words. “I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

“I—” You hesitate, wanting to say that you don’t know what you believe in anymore. Never in your entire life did you expect to have a full-fledged conversation with a ghost, let alone be fucked into oblivion by one, but here you were, living reality as it was and anything was possible at this point, but instead, you just say what’s true. “Things have changed.”

“I see,” his eyes narrow as if weighing your words and he shrugs, walking off a bit. “Quite the 180,” he muses, “But who knows, maybe they’re real, maybe they’re not. Maybe I know,” and he turns back, leaning in. “Maybe I don’t,” he whispers.

His words taunt you, but it’s the look in his eyes that hold you captive, as if he’s trying to pull the truth right out of your skull. “Why? Why are you so eager to find them?” And you’re taken aback by his suddenly jealous tone.

“It’s my friend…” you start, and you feel pathetic for wanting to cry. “She’s missing.”

Gojo’s face slightly softens, but he doesn’t speak. You just know that he’s listening, truly listening now.

“She started acting all…weird before she disappeared,” you continue, your throat tightening as the memories of you meeting in college race through your mind. You stayed friends after you left, but she never did. “She mentioned vampires once, but I just thought she was messing around. NOLA, y’know?” You shrug. “I blew it off,” you confess, “But now…she’s gone and I—now I don’t know what else to think.” And all of the despair you’ve been suppressing finds its way to your chest.

But all Gojo cared about was getting an answer that satisfied him, and in an instant, he’s behind the bar, his fingers ghosting under your chin and tilting your head back until you’re forced to look at him.

“So this is about your friend then? Not the vampires?”

Your face twists. “Yeah, of course, what else?”

He looks off to the side, muttering something under his breath. Then his eyes narrow, glinting with something unreadable as they snap back to yours. “And why do you think I’m just going to hand you that kind of information? That I would even have it?” And the temperature around you drops so sharply you can see your breath hanging in the air.

The weight of what you're asking for sinks in when you see just how serious he is, even more so than the power Gojo holds, even if it is just secrets. And yet, here you are, asking him to hand it over like it was nothing. Your throat tightens, lips cold as you swallow hard, but you want him to know you're serious too. “Because I know you can help me, Satoru,” you say with deliberate emphasis. “I remember what you said once…about knowing things.”

If there was anyone in New Orleans who could provide the answers you needed, it was Gojo. He'd been around for centuries, passing through time and history and collecting secrets like currency with effortless charisma and casual conversation. He could easily draw out the most guarded truths from anyone he deemed important or anyone who fell for his seductive charm, always knowing which strings to pull. In this city where the supernatural runs deep, Gojo is a bank of information and the gatekeeper of everything hidden beneath the surface. And just from what you'd told him, he knew this situation was dire.

The silence that follows stretches too long for comfort, weighty as he just watches you with an unreadable expression. For a moment, panic flutters in your stomach.

Have you pushed him too far? Was this plan to reconnect with him for answers nothing more than a foolish misjudgment? What if Gojo chooses revenge and leaves you with nothing—all of this…for nothing?

But then, ever so slowly, that unmistakable smirk returns as he leans close enough to almost brush your cool lips. “Vampires, huh?” His mouth curls into a full, dangerous smile now. “You must be desperate, coming to me for that.”

Your gaze doesn’t waver, and you nod though you hate that it's true. “I am.” And Gojo chuckles, the sound both chilling and thrilling as he traces your jawline. “Then I suppose we’d better make this…interesting.” But you aren’t even surprised because if there was one thing you didn’t need to be told, it’s that Gojo never makes anything easy. Never has. But at least he’s willing to strike up a deal.

Gojo only agrees to tell you what you need to know on one condition: “I want to taste you,” he says simply, like it’s nothing. “That’s it.” And you can’t even fully process the words as his arm slips around your waist, gently pulling your back against his chest, his hand snaking down to find home between your legs. “I didn’t get to properly the first time,” he muses, his breath cool against your neck. Sharing the sentiment as if he knows you may never come back.

Your pulse quickens, the gravity of what he’s asking settling in. Memories of that night—the sheer intensity of it—clouding your judgment and flooding your mind like the heat building between your legs. The request hangs between you like a blade. Giving you a choice, but you know there’s no real option here. If you refuse, he might not give you what you need. But if you agree…

“That’s it?” you whisper. He nods. And after a moment’s ponder as his fingers tease against your skin and spur your decision, history repeats itself when you once again say yes.

In an instant, he’s on his knees in front of you, eliciting a gasp from you when he swiftly pulls you to the edge of the bar. He blissfully hums, his hands gliding up and down your thighs like silk before parting them like the Red Sea. He ogles you, the blue of his eyes flaring at the sight of your unclothed and oh-so-pretty, glistening cunt confirming what he already knew, that the lace panties you used to summon him had come freshly off your body.

His eyes darken with desire, never leaving yours as he leans in. "This. This is all I want," he murmurs, and his lips brush the inside of your thigh with a featherlight touch.

“Mmph.” Your fingers curl into fists as you fight the urge to grab his hair and guide him to where you’ve been throbbing the most. Because despite your words earlier, the way your body responds to his touch, every tremble, every subtle sigh, doesn't lie.

You wanted this as badly as he did.

But Gojo is in control; his movements deliberate, slow, and savoring every inch of your exposed skin.

And he’s determined to show you exactly what you’ve been missing.

His cool breath fans against your skin, his lips soft, teasing, and leaving a trail of icy fire as they move closer and closer to your center, to the source of your intoxicating scent that hooked him like an addict from the moment you first entered the restaurant six years ago.

Your fingers clench the bar's edge, the cool wood a poor substitute for the touch you crave.

God, you wish he’d stop toying with you. Even when you give in and give him exactly what he wants, he still finds a way to make everything a game.

And just when you’re ready to huff and puff, you draw a sharp breath, the first flick of his tongue against your sensitive flesh almost making you fall to pieces. Your back arches as if struck by lightning, unable to help the moan that echoes in the deserted restaurant.

His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he delves deeper, circling his tongue around your puffy clit and puckering hole. And he’s true to his word, taking his time to explore and properly savor you with long, languid strokes that have you gripping the bar until your knuckles turn white.

Like a man possessed, his hands claim your thighs, devouring you with a maddening intensity and leaving you breathless. A sinful blend of pleasure and arousal as he navigates your most sensitive spots as if he’s done so a hundred times. Cooing into your folds, slurping your juices like a refreshment, making you completely surrender and his name slip from your lips in a desperate, needy whisper.

He smiles against your bud he sucks like a popsicle, your brows furrowing and body arching as he expertly brings you to the brink of desperate release. “Patience, sweetheart.” Gojo looks up at you, eyes gleaming with mischief as his tongue swipes at the taste of you on his lips. “Good things come to those who wait.”

But waiting is the last thing on your mind as you stare at him, your body aching for more before his lips hover just above your throbbing core. You’re holding your breath without realizing it, every nerve in your body attuned to his every move before he’s on you again, his fingers digging into your flesh and the slight sting only heightens the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Fuck baby,” he laps, a digit slipping into your tight walls, “I’ve missed this.” Adding a second that hooks right onto your G-spot and shoots stars into your eyes—making it worse by slurping your clit into his mouth in a nasty combination while pushing in and out.

The pressure inside you mounts and your eyes roll uncontrollably as you teeter on the edge. Your breaths come in sharp, ragged gasps as your body winds up so tightly it feels like you might shatter as you chase the sensation, hips bucking into Gojo’s face.

His hands clamp down on your thighs. “Stay still,” he commands, his low growl vibrating through you. But his words only fan the flames of your desperation, whimpers escaping you before he’s back at it, his tongue dancing over your clit with fiery precision.

You’re about to beg, to plead for release, hands scrambling to grasp him when you know you can’t when he slightly pulls back.

His gaze locks onto yours. “Now,” he says, “Now you can touch me.” And for a moment, you’re not sure you’ve heard him correctly.

But then you feel it—the change like a switch has been flipped—a newfound solidity where there has been none before that your body instinctively responds to.

You reach out, tentative at first, and find yourself shocked when your fingers graze the top of his head. His hair is unexpectedly soft; threading your fingers through the silky strands and gripping them lightly as your legs wrap around his shoulders to pull him closer to chase ecstasy.

Years have gone by, lovers have come and go, but nobody, nobody has been able to slurp, suck, or devour you anywhere near as close as Gojo. He eats you with a passion, with a determination to make you fall apart and come undone like the pleasure is more his than yours. If you could say there was ever a true eater who ever walked this earth, the first person you think of is him. And if you were around in the 1800s, you probably would have tried to trap him and ride his face into the sunset too.

You pull him flush into your cunt and grind your clit against his tongue without remorse. And it’s that low, guttural hum, his nose nuzzling deep against your folds like a madman and fingers harshly curling right against that perfect, gummy spot in you that finally sends you toppling right over. With a final, drawn-out moan, you shatter beneath his touch and the world explodes into a kaleidoscope of color and light.

Your legs tighten around him, holding him in place as you ride out the storm of pleasure, grasping his platinum locks with both hands and drenching his face with your sweet release as you cum harder than you have in 6 years.

Your mouth falls open in shock, embarrassment flushing your body from both squirting for the first time and expecting Gojo to release you in disgust, but his only response is a low hum of approval, and his hands slide up your body to pin your writhing hips down and drink as he pleases. Not missing a single drop.

Your body pulses with aftershocks on his tongue, each wave weaker than the last but he doesn’t stop. And when your eyes cross from the overstimulation, you beg and blubber until you can’t anymore and finally collapse on the bar, panting and covered in a sheen of sweat as you come down from the high.

Full and satisfied, Gojo slowly pulls away, a smug slip playing on his lips as he licks them. Gazing up at you, his eyes—bluer than ever—roam over your flushed form. “Delicious as ever,” and his praise is almost as sweet as the sight of you. “Now,” he says, rising to his feet, “About those vampires…”

You take a second. “Right…,” and huff, “the vampires.” You’re so spent you almost forgot what you came here for, your core feeling tight and sore as you attempt to sit up. Little groans slip out before Gojo catches you off-guard, smashing his lips against yours in the first kiss you two have ever had—letting you taste yourself on his cool tongue and making your head swim. You could lose yourself it in, seeming to go on forever as his possessive hands roam all over your body.

You moan into his mouth. “Go-Satoru.” Trying to fight the heady feeling, but you should’ve known better. An indulgent man like Gojo would never stop at just one taste.

He can feel you slowly cracking, and when he finally breaks the kiss, your lips are left swollen and tingling before he steals your breath again when he begins rutting against you.

“I want to fuck you down on my cock so bad.” His face is buried in the crook of your neck, breaths coming in short, ragged pants—sick off of the scent of your hair. “Would that be so bad?”

“Satoru,” you breathe out, a plea, a warning? You’re not sure which. “We had a deal, Satoru,” you remind him, struggling to hold onto any semblance of control. The sensation of his length rubbing against your sensitive and still-soaking core is almost too much and a solid reminder how full you were that night, and how full you could be again.

For a moment, it feels like he won't stop—and maybe you don’t want him to. But your resolve, silent yet firm, cuts through Gojo’s haze of desire, even if your body isn’t strong enough to resist and push him away yourself. And with a soft, almost reluctant sigh, Gojo huffs, and swears to himself as he's the one to pull away.

You swipe your bottom lip, for a second missing his on yours, and it takes a moment for you to clear your head, your hands unsteady as they fumble to straighten your clothes and fix yourself up as you slide off the bar. It's only after several deep breaths that your pulse begins to steady, and you can meet his eyes and that same infuriating smirk as he crosses his arms.

“Tsh, you’re no fun,” he teases, but there’s a note of respect in his voice.

Ignoring his comment, you square your shoulders. “I need to know how to find them, Gojo.”

His hand flies to his chest. “Ouch.” You roll your eyes. “Alright, alright,” he relents, running a hand through his hair. “A deal’s a deal.” He casually leans back against the bar, his tone turning back to business. “You want to find the vampires? The best way is to start with the hunters.”

You frown in confusion. “Hunters? …Vampire hunters?”

He nods, looking at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You find the hunters, you find the vampires.” His voice is calm, but the words hit you like a train.

Oh, this is real.

Very, very real.

And your blood runs cold at the weight of your situation, of what you’re getting into.

Your friend wasn’t just caught up in some strange myth or superstition.

You’re not just playing detective anymore.

It was one thing to try to be brave and find out what happened, but it was another to step into the world of those who hunted them, those who lived every moment of their existence on the edge of life and death—purposely seeking out something so dangerous that they have to be exterminated.

“What? You scared now?” His head tilts, noticing your hesitation. “It’s simple,” he laughs, “You get in with them, you’re as good as gold.” And though his words offer the solution you’ve been searching for, they also bring a chilling new reality. And you have to decide if you’re really ready cross a line you can never uncross.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “And how do I find them?”

Gojo grins. “You don’t find them, sweetheart.” He pushes off the bar. “They find you.” He takes a few slow steps towards you. “Especially someone like you. They’ll practically smell the desperation.”

Your eyes narrow at his comment. Desperation? You’ve been called worse.

Nevertheless, your heart hammers in your chest, each beat trying to signal your impending doom.

“So, what? I just wait around for them to find me?” Frustration creeps into your tone.

Gojo waves his hand. “No, no, no,” he laughs. “You need to be smarter than that.” And he becomes more serious. “Make yourself known in the right circles. Go to the places they frequent. Show them you’re not someone they can just ignore. Play the part.” And you’re quick to pull out your phone and jot down the few places he rattles off.

As you type, a heaviness creeps in—a strange air shifting between you and Gojo. He watches you carefully, noticing how tired you look, the subtle sag of your shoulders, how your sigh carries the weight of exhaustion. This whole ordeal has felt like one long rollercoaster, but this is just the beginning of your even more difficult journey. And even though he knows what you’re in for, he can’t help but admire your determination.

"You know...I meant what I said before."

You don't look up, finishing up your notes. "About what?"

"About making you…" he hesitates, but doesn't finish.

But something feels off, and when you glance up from your phone, you catch Gojo’s eyes.

There’s no more teasing. No more smirking. He’s watching you with something else, something that feels heavy yet unreadable. And it clicks weird when a vibe passes through the both of you, simultaneously realizing that the time to part ways has once again come.

And you’re just as lost now as you were then about how to say goodbye.

There’s a strange, bittersweet feeling in the pit of your stomach as you watch him casually stroll back to the table where this all started.

“Don’t.” He plops down, sensing what you’re about to say. “I’ve never been good at those.” And though it flashes through your mind that he’s been bitter for six years because you never did the first time, you respect his wish and don’t say it this time either, only pursing your lips and offering a slight nod.

As you turn to leave, Gojo calls after you, softer now, almost…concerned.

“Be careful.”

And it’s enough to make you stop and glance back at him, caught off-guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He pushes his glasses up with a small smile, a little sparking reflecting off the lenses.

“But I don’t have to tell you that.”

And just like that, the moment hangs between you—unspoken thoughts and unfinished sentences floating heavy in the space.

You softly laugh, glancing down at your hands to fiddle with your fingers, trying to swallow the thanks welling up in your throat. The last thing you want is to make this moment any more awkward than it already is—as if this entire night hasn’t been batshit crazy.

Gojo may have made your life a living hell during one of the most pivotal times of your youth, but he’s also one of the most unforgettable things that’s ever happened to you. And it’s in this moment that you finally decide that maybe…that wasn’t so bad.

…Fuck it.

You decide to say something anyway.

But when you turn back to look at him, he’s gone. His scent, his aura, vanished, like he was never there at all. Only leaving the restaurant which sits still and lifeless. Chilling…because it’s never felt so…warm.

“...Thank you,” you whisper to the empty space he left behind, the words feeling almost weightless as you slowly exit the space for what may actually be the last time. It feels strangely freeing, the weight of the night finally easing as you take one last look before the doors close behind you with a quiet click.

Stepping outside into the warm New Orleans air feels so different now like you’ve left something behind in that old restaurant.

Maybe it’s Satoru.

Maybe it’s a part of yourself that knows things will never quite be the same after this.

It feels like you’ve just spent eternity trapped behind those vintage green doors, and now the world outside looks both familiar and frightening, but the night air hits you like a fresh start.

You're really going to do this. You're going to find the hunters, and through them, the vampires. And then... well, you’ll deal with that when the time comes.

After all, you've already faced a devil, and you're still standing.

What's a few vampires compared to that?

angel's note: bwahahaha, why do i even bother trying to condense things? ghost gojo was not supposed to have his own part, let alone (blank)K WORDS, he enjoyed reader waaaaay more than intended but obviously, i am not in control of my own stories. but yoooo, first and foremost, the BIGGEST of fucking s/o to @blkkizzat for helping me bring this story to fruition. i told her that i wanted to do a sugucho vampire fic and she said "bitch, where's ghost gojo??" so you have her to thank for this absolutely delectable first part

no worries tho, it's nothing but vampires and blood-sucking 🩸 from here on out, so drop ya name below if you want to be added to the tag list|sidenote: this post lining up with the full moon was not on purpose 😶 graphic credits: fangs banner (anitalenia)|glitter blood divider (violentbudd)|halloween MDNI divider (meeeee :3)|animated red divider (cafekitsune)

art credits: Sugu: 1 (hidouuc) 2 (blobfishswims) 3 (rice5x)|Cho: 1 (yappdoll) 2 (n/a) 3 (koshinomli) 4 (zeilorene)| Toru: 1 (_3aem) 2 (jjk_myaa) 3 (nala_bert) 4 (yurriima)

#bluuharem #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #gojo smut #halloween gojo #ghost gojo #satoru x reader #satoru x y/n #satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x y/n #jjk smut #jjk imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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thegothicalice · 9 months ago

Note

I absolutely love your style and was wondering as a cinemaphile what obscure, off the wall horror movies would you suggest for the spooky season?

Uhhhh how about various levels of obscure from the 80s and 90s? (Not a complete lists because I’ve seen literally thousands of films and forget half of what I watch and use Letterboxd to keep track)

1999– Idle Hands, Don’t Look Under the Bed, Bats, Ravenous, In Dreams, Lighthouse, Stir of Echos, Audition, Kolobos

1998—The Last Broadcast, Devil in the Flesh, Whispering Corridors, Urban Legend, Shadowbuilder, The Eternal, The Quiet Family, Strangeland, Deep Rising, The Wisdom of Crocodiles, Tomie

1997– The Relic, The Ugly, Event Horizon, Cure, Wax Mask, Snow White: A Tale of Terror, Quicksilver Highway, Office Killer, The Night Flier

1996– From Dusk til Dawn, Little Witches, Uncle Sam, The Frighteners, The Dentist, Karmina, Thesis, Tromeo & Juliet,

1995– Blood & Donuts, Screamers, Tales from the Hood, The Demolitionist, Mushrooms, The Girl With the Hungry Eyes, The Day of the Beast, Serpent’s Lair, Rumpelstiltskin, Mute Witness, Evil Ed, Project: Metalbeast, Habit, The Addiction, Tales From the Crypt: Demon Knight, Lord of Illusions

1994– Tammy & the T Rex, In the Mouth of Madness, Lurking Fear, Cemetery Man, Death Machine, Brainscan, Nadja

1993– Love Bites, Doppelgänger, Necronomicon, Body Bags, Ed & His Dead Mother, Dark Waters, Skinner, Jack Be Nimble, Ticks, Carnosaur, The Temp

1992– Death Becomes Her, The Vagrant, Tale of a Vampire, The Unnameable II, Innocent Blood, Dr Giggles, Auntie Lee’s Meat Pies, Aswang, Sleepwalkers, Netherworld, Split Second

1991– The Resurrected, The Boneyard, Body Parts, Popcorn, Subspecies, There’s Nothing Out There, Highway to Hell, The Runestone, Cast a Deadly Spell, Children of the Night

1990– Frankenhooker, Fear, Nightbreed, Lisa, Mom, Grim Prairie Tales, Shakma, Pale Blood, Baby Blood, Mirror Mirror, Hardware, Meridian, Def by Temptation, The Vampire Family, Reflecting Skin, Demonia

1989– Sundown: The Vampire in Retreat, Nightlife, I Madman, Dr. Caligari, The Black Cat, Paganini Horror, Phantom of the Mall: Eric’s Revenge, The Dead Pit, The Phantom of the Opera, Dead Calm, Intruder, The House of Usher

1988– Paperhouse, Spider Labyrinth, Spell Caster, Sorority Babes in the Slime-Bowl-O-Rama, Cellar Dweller, Pin, 976-EVIL, Brain Damage, Rejuvenatrix, Blood Relations, Party Line, The Unnamable, The Wicked

1987– Psychos in Love, Blood Rage, The Caller, Stagefright, Graveyard Shift, American Gothic, Street Trash, From a Whisper to a Scream, Blood Diner

1986– Spookies, Poison for the Fairies, Vamp, Gothic, Deadtime Stories, TerrorVision, Witchboard, Trick or Treat

1985– The Doctor and the Devils, Phenomena, The Stuff

1984– Decoder, The Company of Wolves, Monster Dog, Sole Survivor, Special Effects

1983– The Lift, Wilczyca (She Wolf), Eyes of Fire, House of Long Shadows, The Hunger, Angst, Curtains, Blood Beat, Mortuary, The Keep

1982– Ferat Vampire, Next of Kin, The Sender, Tenebre, One Dark Night, The Living Dead Girl, Superstition, Alone in the Dark, Parasite

1981– The Black Cat, Fear No Evil, Dead & Buried, Possession, Night School, The Monster Club, Allison’s Birthday, Frightmare, Ghost Story, The Funhouse, The Pit, Evilspeak, Strange Behavior, The Nesting

1980– Macabre, Fade to Black, The Ninth Configuration, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

These are all just what I’ve recorded on my personal Letterboxd since I started it in April of 2017, I’ve seen plenty more but tried to just pick possibly less-known stuff, some bad and some good.

#go ask Alice #movie questions #horror movies #movie recs #tried to skip stuff that was too… bad-taste-rapey-squicky and things shot on video

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peggyao3 · 1 year ago

Text

Night Crawler - Pt. 1

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Reader / can be read as OC

SUMMARY: Feyd-Rautha welcomes a nocturnal visitor in his chambers, who is plagued by the symptoms of her artificially induced condition.

WORD COUNT: 3,558

TAGS: 18+, smut, lactation kink 🍼‼️, pseudo pregnancy, breastfeeding (no baby involved only a big sexy egg man), she/her reader, AFAB reader, ambiguous relationship status, non-consenting drug use, dark undertones, implied violence, stockholm syndrome-ish, dubious consent, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Part 1 ↓, Part 2, Part 3

The nights on Giedi Prime are inky black, not midnight blue like on her home world. Inky black are also the sharp-edged pillars that frame the hallway. Jagged polymer giants that intersect the row of windows like alien artifacts. The view outside is not much better. Where one might expect palace gardens are only industrial plants that stretch past the horizon. They are the only source of light.

This corridor is solely occupied by the na-Baron. She has been here many times. But never alone. The corridor where she resides is not far away, yet the path seems to stretch on forever, the Harkonnen palace a hostile monster that pierces her marrow and bone with every barefooted step on cold, black tiles.

She hates this so much. Tonight will be her personal disgrace. That she goes to him willingly, and in the middle of the night no less, is a first.

Though willingly is a farfetched word. No servant has reacted to her request for some pain relief remedy, mumbled then shouted into the transmitter panel in the wall of her chamber. It could be because she had uttered a wrong word in the afternoon or he didn’t like the way she held her fork and knife at dinner. It is hard to tell with Feyd-Rautha.

What is also not under her influence is the chemical cocktail in her veins that tricks her body into believing something has taken root in her womb. The symptoms are manifold, but what torments her most is how her breasts have grown bigger and heavier with milk that no one drinks.

At first glance one might think the fine lines that frame her enlarged breasts are stretch marks, but many of them are scars, placed by an enraptured Feyd-Rautha who loves to lap up the crimson beads, from base to peak. Sometimes his mouth and teeth ghost over her pert nipples.

The na-Baron seems to find sick enjoyment in her condition, fantasizing about the idea without the commitment. It is still better than being forced to carry the his real spawn.

The corridor ends in a dead end and she raises her hand, knocks on the door with cold knuckles. “My Lord?” Her warm breath is a ghost swallowed by the hallway.

There is no sound to be heard, nothing moves aside from the rise and fall of her ribcage. She swallows her pride and knocks again.

A mechanism whirrs and the door slides open. Out comes Feyd with a knife. That much was to be expected, but she still gasps when the icy edge of the blade finds her throat. The na-Baron’s frown dissolves into surprise when he recognizes her. Her throat is one of the few he wouldn’t slit right away for disturbing him.

“Feyd-!” She gasps and flinches away from the blade. Its tip tickles her jaws.

He was asleep, she realizes and is somehow surprised. The slight touch of puffiness around sharp eyes gives him away. She has never seen him sleep and she believes no one has, except for his own mother perhaps, who is now dead by matricide. This pinch of vulnerability on Feyd-Rautha’s face makes her heart stutter, as she hadn’t expected to wrest a triumph from this wretched night.

“What do you want, night crawler?" He sheathes the knife and drags the tip of a finger down her throat instead, to her collarbones, making a shiver roll down her spine. She prefers the knife.

“I am hurting, my Lord.” She stares straight ahead at Feyd's throat while gesturing at her breasts, avoiding his face. Tonight she can't stand to see the sickly joy that lights up his eyes whenever she's in pain. “They are… Too full, or so it feels.” Her bosom sits heavily in the snug night gown, warm and aching.

“Oh. Do they hurt badly?” Feyd wants to hear a yes. Fatigue and ire about being woken are gone now and he stares at her cleavage. The scars he made stare back at him.

“Would I come to you if they weren’t?” She spits. Feyd-Rautha smiles eerily and in the black of the night, his maws look like they possess no teeth.

“Come inside then.” He steps aside, clearing the passage into his chambers. The hairs in the nape of her neck prickle.

“Actually… “ She takes a step back. Even the alien pillars at her back emit more warmth than Feyd's den. “I only need you to call a servant for me. My panel seems to be broken. I’m sorry to have woken you, but I can get no rest like this. And I would…” She cringes. “I would like to be well-rested for whatever my Lord has in store for me tomorrow.” There is always something.

“Is that so?” Something about his voice reminds her of stepping on wet gravel. “You already woke me. No need to wake a servant now.” A hint of a smile creeps over his visage, a threat in one eye, glee in the other as he holds out his hand.

She chooses not to take it, so she can retain some dignity while entering his bed chambers. The door whirrs shut at her back and she knows she won’t be able to exit until he places his hand on a hidden panel. Slowly she walks into the center of the bleak room, walls made of polished stone, steps in the back leading down to a basin that is sunken into the floor. A double bed is at the right hand side and the ruffled sheets are the only sign that something lives in this room.

Feyd-Rautha moves like a beast of the night. She feels his breath on her neck before she hears his footsteps. Wiry arms circle her from behind and pull her against his chest. He is the warmest thing in the room, but as long as she isn’t freezing to death she prefers not to throw herself into an embrace that can warm her one second and scorch her the next. He kisses her neck and softly slides the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders.

Assuming Feyd’s intentions are as they most often are, she shuffles away and pulls the straps back up, trying to sound stern. “F-Feyd-Rautha, I don't know what you think you can do about my predicament, but I-”

“Sit on the bed with me.” His voice cuts the air like a Fremen crysknife. He is going to cut her breasts open to drain the milk, she thinks when she sits on Feyd's bed. The sheets are still warm.

From the corner of her eye, she sees him approaching and notices the wrinkles in his sleep shirt. Such everyday imperfections look bizarre on a man so atrocious. His bare feet pat on the tiles now and fabric rustles when he climbs on the bed. He sits and leans against the sleek headboard, a single pillow in his back and waits.

“Come.” Reluctantly she turns, gathers her nightgown skirt and scoots closer towards him. Too slow for his liking. His pale fingers brush against her throat. “Why aren’t you wearing your collar?”

“I don’t wear it to sleep!” She spits. “You’d know that if you ever-” Slept with me. Cold sweat breaks out under her armpits.

Feyd’s head tilts to the side, disgusting curiosity in his eyes. He pulls her in his lap, thighs on either side of his hips and then pulls down her night gown with one harsh tug so her right breast pops free. Even the soft scrape of fabric over her nipple makes her whimper and she hisses at him to be gentle.

Seated in his lap, her chest is roughly at Feyd’s face level. At first, she thinks he is only going to ogle the plump shape of her, taking sick pleasure in her visible pain as a reimbursement for disturbing him at night. But then his mouth starts ghosting over her and a trail of nips and feathery kisses leads him to the apex of her breast. One hand curls under the taut flesh and lifts it carefully.

Oh. Now she understands.

How grotesque. How humiliating. She should have expected nothing less.

With horror she watches his plush lips close around the nub. Dark eyes lift to scrutinize her face and when she utters no complaints (although God knows they’re clawing at her throat, they just can’t make it past the lump inside), Feyd closes his eyes.

Her face is scrunched, nails digging into Feyd's shoulders when he creates suction, hesitant at first but greedier as soon as the first drop of white milk decorates his black tongue. She cringes, thighs flexing around his which encourages him to cling to her hip with his free hand.

The sensation repels her at first, alien and encroaching, as if a parasite was latched onto her teat. She has never nursed anyone before. It takes her fear-conditioned mind several moments to realize no harm comes from Feyd’s mouth this time. He only suckles on her breast and his cock twitches against her core, which she ignores. In the chamber’s nocturnal silence, she hears him quietly gulp and with each moment, the torturous pressure in her breast abates. A tear almost slips down her cheek, that’s how thankful she is, even if Feyd-Rautha only helps her for his own pleasure.

Minutes pass and she almost grows used to the sensation, the pressure of his tongue against the underside of her nipple and the occasional scrape of teeth. The tender flesh however is starting to ache, not used to such a long assault of his mouth.

“That's e-enough, it h-hurts now.”

Feyd growls and his hairless brows twitch over closed eyes. He squeezes her breast, mouth latched over her nipple. Greedily, he suckles, ignoring her wincing. Shivering, she realizes that trying to take away his toy from him will always spark ire, so she gently scrapes her nails over his scalp instead until his ravenous mouth relaxes and strangely, she relaxes too.

“You can have the other one instead, okay?”

That works. His mouth slides over to her left breast, tongue swirling around the nipple before his lips close around it. He suckles more gently now and the relief makes her moan this time, spine arching against his face as milk flows into his mouth.

“Thank you, this is… So good. “

Feyd's hand still cups her right breast, as if scared she or anyone would steal it from him if left unattended. A bead of milk still clings to the nipple. With a spark of hope she wonders if Feyd-Rautha would ever be willing to share her breasts with an heir.

No, she sees him throttling his own spawn, just so he can have everything for himself.

In the dead of night, a sly little smile tugs on her mouth and she encouragingly wraps her arms around Feyd's neck, hugging him close. Willingly, he sinks into her chest, drinking with abandon. “Keep drinking,” she hums.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the na-Baron, the gladiator, is temporarily docile at her bosom.

The silent victory makes heat grow in her belly as pressure is released from her breasts. She shuffles against his lap and the hardness that rests against his belly. Feyd's hand squeezes her hip, nudging her closer. While he drinks, the other pale hand lightly fondles her right breast, catching the drop of milk with an unusually gentle index finger.

Her spine arches and her hips curl against his pelvis, head and hair falling backwards. The cool of the chamber is now pleasant on her heated skin.

“Feyd, please…” A quiet sigh, nearly swallowed by the midnight hour. Her core curiously grinds against his length.

He seems to know better what she pleads for than she does. The hand on her hip sifts through the layers of silky gown to get to where he needs, finding her flesh unobscured by undergarments. Slick essence coats her gown where she had sat and Feyd’s hand stutters when his knuckles brush through the wetness on the silk.

Instantly, her cunt bucks against his fingers and Feyd's eyes snap wide open. His digits glide through her folds, stunned to find them so wet and hot. Her entrance weeps and yields so easily when he prods lightly with two fingers.

“Don't say anything, just-” She shakes her head, realizing Feyd hasn’t said anything at all since he discovered the milk from her breasts for himself. Fascinated, he gazes up at her from coal-black eyes, pouty lips puckered around her nipple still when two calloused fingers sink into her cunt. Languidly, he thrusts, finding her walls willing and soft to the touch. She meets each thrust, sighing as she brings her hips up and down.

Looking down at Feyd’s pale skull latched to her breast, she also looks at the scars that paint them. They taunt her now.

‘Does he make you wet now?’ They seem to ask. ‘Has he finally cut you into submission, into the shape he wants?’

She doesn't feel overly submissive right now, however. The pace of her hips quickens, as does that of his fingers. Her nails dig into his scalp when a third finger eases into her cunt without her request. The stretch makes her moan and her hips needily rut against Feyd’s hand.

Even if she is not truly in power, she can at least pretend she is.

“Take yourself out of your pants!”

Determinedly, she sits up straight and leans back, breasts feeling almost light now, compared to before. Her nipple slips out of Feyd’s mouth and he gives it a parting gift, sharp teeth nipping at the tender bud. Probably the punishment for her bold tone. Still, she grows nearly euphoric when he does as she says, sliding his trousers down to his mid thighs, so his daunting cock comes to rest against his navel. It doesn’t daunt her today.

She shuffles and pulls the silky layers of her nightgown away, so her pelvis can rest on the smooth, milky expanse of Feyd’s hairless thighs. His balls rest hotly against her weeping cunt until she raises her hips and kneels, grabbing Feyd’s cock to line him up with her entrance. The size of him makes the angle awkward and she has to lean forward to try and shuffle the thick head between her folds, one hand wrapped around the shaft.

“You can ask for help, you know.” Feyd chuckles, fingers gliding over her thighs under the gown. She hisses and resists the urge to tell him to shut his mouth, lest he ruins the night. It had been so nice without the talk of his foul tongue. Finally, she has him angled like she needs him and her entrance yields for his head.

Feyd knows she struggles to take him, despite the preparation. Her soft cunt stretches around his obscene length and she tries to be strong, play it tough, so her whines can’t give away the challenge it still is for her to be a fitting sheathe for his cock. Amused, he watches her toil away in his lap, slowly sinking down, then hissing and jerking back up. He gives her the time she needs, curiously watching her face shift into triumph when their pelvises come flush.

Up and down she goes, sighing and moaning and her grimace slowly relaxes as she grows accustomed to his cock. Feyd-Rautha sinks into his pillow, sliding down the headboard as his figure becomes more and more horizontal. Her breasts are out of reach now, but he still marvels at the marks and puffiness left by his mouth. His jaws flex. He already misses the taste of her milk. Tomorrow he will instruct the authorized doctors to tweak the formula of her injections, so she will produce more.

Unbeknownst of his thoughts but well aware of his wolfish gaze on her tits, she rides him as she pleases, hands pushing up his sleepshirt so she can grope his pale torso, leaving angry red marks on his belly and on the small dent between his pectorals.

Her shoulders roll forward and her thighs hurt a little from lifting herself so repeatedly, but she tirelessly grinds against his pelvis, chasing the pleasure sparked by power that kindles in her belly before it’ll inevitably go out by something he says or does. If he had pubic hair, perhaps it would be easier to get some friction against her clit. She is missing that extra stimulation to quite push herself over the edge.

Feyd’s hands on her hips have been docile, but the moment she falters, he strikes. Her weak knees buckle when his thumb finds her clit and her wrists are gathered in his other hand.

“I… No!” She stubbornly pleads, the figment of control wrenched out of her grasp. Not even by his hands that overtake her body, but by the mean midnight-smile that decorates his face.

“That’s alright,” he coos sweetly. No one likes gravel mixed with honey.

Hot tears gather in her eyes when she fights weakly against his grasp but still moans from the pressure of his cock. She wants to tell him that nothing is alright. It’s not alright that she can’t even fuck herself to completion without his help. It’s not alright that her legs give out because of the medication he’s put her on to induce false pregnancy. It’s not alright that her tits hurt and she gets sick in the mornings and It’s definitely not alright that he’s taking her little victory away from her.

She is close to tears but doesn’t start crying. Feyd’s hips dictate the rhythm, driving up into her cunt so she no longer rides him, she only helplessly sits as he fucks her. And to her dismay, it feels better. He just does it better.

The pressure of his thumb on her clit is just right, as are the short, hard thrusts against her cervix.

This whole night still counts as a victory, she reminds herself as her head falls back and a climax rolls through her body, walls fluttering around her tormentor’s cock while he pours sweet, gravelly honey in her ears. It’s the softest he’s ever been with her.

Feyd prolongs her climax, drawing tight little circles on her clit so her walls keep milking him until he has spilled his seed harmlessly against the entrance to her womb. A throaty groan rumbles in his chest and then the chamber falls silent.

His cock twitches and relaxes against her walls while his thumb still lazily plays with her clit. Uneasily, she shifts in his lap and her squirming draws wet noises from their conjoined pelvises.

“Stop smiling,” she demands.

“I can't.” If only his smile was prettier. Feyd releases her wrists and his thumb abandons her overstimulated clit and ghosts over her abdomen, the bunched gown, her plump breasts. A flutter of warmth follows his trace as he presses into the dip between her clavicles and then brushes over her throat, perhaps still mourning the absence of her collar.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom.”

Abruptly, Feyd sits up and swings his legs over the edge, catching her before she can fall backwards off his lap. He turns his head and nips at the hand that had instinctively latched onto his shoulder. “Don't be long.”

She denies him the satisfaction of seeing her sway and buckle when she slips off his cock. It smacks against his abdomen and black seed sullies his pale stomach and shirt. Feyd doesn't mind, but if she insists on getting cleaned up, she shall.

For a moment she fears he will follow her, just to make sure she doesn't flush herself down the drain to escape him, but he remains docilely on the bed.

She just barely makes it to the bathroom before the thick rivulet of cum that rolls down her leg reaches the ankle and stains the floor. Awkwardly, she cleans herself with cold water from the sink and paper towels, then hovers over the toilet and waits until most of Feyd's release has exited her body. Some of it still stubbornly clings to her womb, she's certain.

For a moment, she regards her reflection in the mirror, little more than a shadow in the dark of night, but even now she sees the shape of her hard nipples under the silk. She feels obliged to clean the cum stain on the floor, even though that's a task for the maids.

Once she comes back out, she almost expects a knife against her throat - foreplay for what Feyd-Rautha might consider the real fun, but the na-Baron's breath chimes calmly and steadily from the bed. Could it be?

Almost as silent as a beast of the night, she slinks to the door, knowing it probably won't budge for her but it's worth a try.

“Where are you going, night crawler? Come here.”

He lifts the covers and wordlessly she resigns and climbs underneath, like a bird into an alligator’s open maws, hoping she will be useful long enough and her wings not broken when the maws snap shut.

Feyd-Rautha sleeps on her bosom that night and she cries for a good minute while caressing his scalp. Why does every triumph, no matter if big or small, always come at the cost of feeling dirty?

[If you enjoyed this fanfiction, a comment would mean the world to me! <33]

#feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd #feyd x reader #feyd x you #house harkonnen #feyd smut #dune part 2 #dune part two #dune fanfiction #dune #austin butler #peggysuave fanfics #feyd x oc

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castielscaplan · 3 months ago

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Haunted Passings (vampire!Jefferson)

Summary: You see the monster that haunts the fairy tale castle hidden in the woods.

Warnings: slight angst, vampire jefferson

WC: 540

Read on Ao3!

The townsfolk spoke of a castle deep in the woods, shrouded in mist and shadow. It stood atop a lonely hill, its towering spires silhouetted against the ever-dimming sky. Whispers in the marketplace claimed it was abandoned, haunted by the ghosts of its past, and that none who entered ever returned.

You had never put much stock in such tales, yet as you wandered deeper into the forest, the gnarled trees seemed to lean in, their skeletal branches curling as if to dissuade your passage. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the dim glow of twilight to light your way. A foolish decision, perhaps, to have ventured so far so late. And yet, something in the air—something more than just the crisp scent of damp earth and pine—called to you.

Then, you saw it.

The castle, an imposing figure in the distance, loomed like a relic of another era. It should have been lifeless, yet you swore you saw movement—something flickering past a high, arched window. A trick of the light, surely.

Or so you told yourself.

A rustling in the underbrush to your left made you stop in your tracks. Your breath caught, your heart drumming in your chest. Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

And there he stood.

A man, draped in shadows, his form lean yet powerful. He leaned against a tree, watching you with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine. His dark coat blended into the night, and beneath the brim of his hat, piercing blue eyes glowed with an otherworldly light. He was not merely handsome—no, he was striking, unnerving, his presence almost unreal.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk yet edged with something ancient, something knowing.

Your lips parted, though no words came forth. Every instinct screamed for you to run, but your body remained rooted in place, ensnared by his gaze.

He tilted his head, a slow, deliberate motion, as though amused by your silence. “The people in town tell stories, don’t they? Of this place. Of me.”

His smile revealed a glimpse of something sharp. Something fanged.

Your breath hitched. “You live here,” you whispered, half question, half realization.

He stepped forward, the space between you vanishing in the span of a heartbeat. You hadn’t even seen him move. “Call it that, if you wish.” His gloved fingers brushed against your wrist, light as a feather, but the touch sent a shiver through you. “And you… You are quite brave, wandering so close to the den of a monster.”

Monster. The word echoed in your mind, yet you did not recoil. Instead, you found yourself searching his face, studying the sharp angles, the air of tragic elegance about him. A predator, yes. But not mindless. Not cruel.

“Are you?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended. “A monster?”

Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, perhaps. And then, that knowing smile returned. “That depends on what you consider monstrous.”

The wind howled through the trees, whispering secrets only the night could understand. And still, you stood before him, drawn to the shadows, drawn to him.

Somewhere deep inside, you knew you should flee.

And yet, you did not.

//\\

reblogging this would make my day!

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#jefferson ouat #sebastian stan x reader #sebstan x reader #jefferson x reader #jefferson ouat x reader #the mad hatter x reader

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flaneur001 · 7 months ago

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Home

Pairings- Leon x GN reader x Redacted (Leon and Redacted belong to @14dayswithyou)

Tags- Fluff and Angst

Summary- Tis the spooky season and you're away from home.Your spirits are as low as the cold and crisp fall weather, good thing your friend is coming in clutch with his own set of tricks and treats.

You swung open the building door, breathing a grateful gulp of fresh air after being holed up all day in the office. Fresh being an overstatement, because the air was mediocre, and on good days. Stretching your limbs, you lingered, taking in your surroundings with tired eyes.

A forest of concrete, as far as your vision reached. Rows after rows of buildings, small houses, and shops sat clustered on this street. The car horns, and the general cacophony of a busy neighborhood had become white noise to you. Begrudgingly acquainted with city life now. A far cry from Corland Bay. Your hometown felt so distant, wrapped in the salty breeze and cozy charm of its memories.

The beach, the library, the playground, the lake, your old haunts, and…and…what else

You closed your eyes, heaving in a deep sigh and exhaled. Not today. You wouldn’t go down that road.

The evening sun had already slipped past the horizon, letting its final wisps linger like flickering embers in the sky.

Its crimson, golden, orange hues, shone like faint, still wet brush strokes on the edges of a black canvas. You had a feeling that it was going to be a dark night. The kind with no stars in sight. Perfect for the Halloween enthusiasts, who had littered the pathway of your neighborhood with various kinds of carved pumpkins sporting jarring, lopsided mocking smiles.

It was late. You were late. Or maybe you had miscalculated. Maybe you should’ve left your office earlier—made some excuse, should’ve faked sickness. Anything really, just to avoid this crowd of people that were already out and about. Donning costumes, gnarly makeup, laughing and hollering. The kids, high on sugar, little demons slipped past the grasp of exhausted parents; who flailed behind them zombie-like, carrying fluorescent orange pumpkin baskets, overflowing with an array of candies.

You stood out, in your disheveled clothes and messy hair, walking amongst the dead and undead. Or perhaps you fit right in, with the way people walked past you, without a sparing glance. A ghost. An invisible specter. Didn’t really need a costume for that.

You looked down, suddenly overcome with this unnamed feeling at the pit of your stomach. You pulled at the ends of your sleeves and hastened your pace. Eyes stinging with a slow pressure that built somewhere deep inside your chest. A dull persistent ache.

You turned a corner striding blindly—relying more on muscle memory than your sense of direction—towards your apartment building.

Reaching inside, you mashed the elevator button, repeatedly abusing it, as if willing the old elevator to appear by force. The tacky music grated more on your nerves today.

With a ding, you stepped out. Feet trudging up to your door and stopping in front of it. Yours was the only one to not have a candy basket placed outside. The corridor was deserted too. Silent in the face of the festivities.

For all your fervor to get home, here you were, in a weird stare down with your apartment door. Clutching the key tightly between your thumb and forefinger, you found yourself hesitant, almost appalled by the idea to go inside.

With a weary sigh you rested your back against the door and slid down it. Sitting in a huddle on the floor.

What was it really?

Yet you knew the answer to it already.

Fear. It was fear of what you’ll see when you unlock your apartment and walk in. Or more so, how you’ll feel. Dark room, a small dining table with a single chair, pushed into a cramped corner of your compact kitchen. And a withered bouquet of red chrysanthemums—sent by him, weeks ago— that you didn’t have the heart to discard. It sat wilted and droopy, placed in a cut off plastic bottle for lack of a glass vase. Scattered, sparse furniture and blank gray walls. A visual representation of your own emotions really. Cold. Lonely.

You had never bothered to decorate your studio, afraid that if you let this place feel like a home, it’ll be permanent. So you lived like this. Split in halves. With the other dwelling happily somewhere, in that time, frozen and framed in a cute picture that sat on your nightstand. You and Leon. On a summer-y afternoon, running barefoot across the sandy stretches of the beach.

You closed your eyes, picturing his topaz ones twinkling at you in mischief as he chased after you, amidst playful shrieks and raucous laughter. Hands coming to wrap around your waist as he spun you and dragged you into the embrace of the tides.

You scoffed, tasting the salt of that balmy ocean on your lips, brushing the traitorous tear that rolled down your cheek, with the back of your hand. At last you had lost to the wave of nostalgia that had been threatening to consume you all day. Holidays made you particularly homesick. And it didn’t help that you were miles apart. That you missed his stupid smile, when he called you by that goofy nickname.

You chewed at your bottom lip, contemplating, debating. When your phone screen lit up catching you off guard, making you almost drop it in surprise.

You stared at the caller ID, dumbfounded.

‘Oarfish’ it read.

“Leon? What are the odds…” You mumbled, clearing your throat and forcing on a smile, hoping that some cheeriness masks your heavy voice.

Your fingers toyed with the white beads of your bracelet, thumbing the little fish charm dangling from it. A nervous tic, a comforting fidget. Matching with your childhood friend.

“Heyyy Darl! Miss me?” Leon chirped, voice a bright ray of sunshine splitting through the stormy gray cloud that lingered over your head.

“You know, I’ve got better things to do.” You replied, teasing, imagining the smile etched on the brunet’s face.

“Oh yeah? Better things to do, you say,” Leon intoned. “More important than missing your best mate? Or wishing him a happy Halloween? I’m hurt, Sunfish.” He let out an exaggerated huff, and you could picture the pout he was sporting.

You closed your eyes, chewing the inside of your cheek, feeling that gnatty bit of guilt prick at your heart. It was true. You had been avoiding talking to him. Lying to yourself. Blaming it on your busy work hours, or the timezones. But in reality you knew why. You know why.

“I’m here now aren’t I?”

“Let’s not forget who called whom first, alright?” He retorted, playful banter masking the tinges of accusation and hurt in his voice.

“Fine,” you relented, apologetic and awkward,”Happy Halloween Oarfish”

“See, it’s that easy.” Leon chuckled, “Happy Halloween to you too, Darl.”

You could hear his breaths, soft and steady. The occasional rustle of sheets told you he was in bed.

A beat passed, and he mumbled, “Wish you were here”

You opened your eyes again, head lulling back to rest at the door of your apartment. Your fingers tightened around the fish charm, tugging at it, just like his words tugged at the tangled mess of your emotions.

Me too

“I—How have you been?” You exhaled, skirting past the topics that would make you throw every caution to the wind and pack your bags and buy the tickets to the next flight, just so you can see his stupid face and—

Leon smiled, catching onto your miserable attempt at deflecting. No heart to hearts happening tonight. Got it.

“Same old me” he swallowed, shifting to sit in a more relaxed position, fingers drawing abstract patterns on the sheets.

“What about you? Got any plans for tonight? Any wild Halloween bashes to attend?” He joked.

It was your turn to smile now. Sensing the protectiveness and helplessness that he tried to hide behind callous quips.

“Pfft! Oh you know me! A wild party animal, having orgies left and right—“

“Hang on, wait, did I accidentally ring Teo?” He snorted.

“What, so is he the only one who can be wild?” You grumbled in faux indignation.

“Wild? My little sunfish?” he giggled, “Please, the wildest thing you ever did was winning that Christmas bingo, by nicking my grandma’s winning card. And let’s not forget, you swiped it while she was out cold after three glasses of cheap wine”

“Let’s not forget who goaded me into it—“

“And I felt like such a proud dad doing it—but then, let’s not forget who cried all night after, thinking they’d landed on Santa’s naughty list, and would never get another pressie in their life” He laughed now. A full bellied joyful laugh that made something flutter in your stomach. Making you feel weirdly proud that you were the reason behind it.

“Geez, alright! You win; Teo can be the wild one in the group. I guess I don’t mind being the goody-two-shoes.” You grinned, then added, “the only voice of reason.”

“Uh huh, but you’ve always been the cute one in the group, haven’t you?” he hummed, casually and carelessly.

Recklessly you’d say. Frowning at the rapid thump of your heart.

You let out a dismissive snort and brought your knees to your chest, hugging them. The cold marble of the lobby floor, making you shiver a little.

“And you, the nagging parent”

“Tut tut, is this how you’re gonna talk to your daddy?” He snickered

“You did not just say that.”

***

Hours passed. The conversation hopping from light hearted banter, to reminiscing, to talking about the mundane.

You were stiff and achy all over from sitting on the floor for so long, yet you didn’t want to end this conversation here. Didn’t want to go back to the silence and the voice of your own thoughts.

“So then, I told my mate to stop being such an arse, and suck it up. I mean who doesn’t get a few sprains during a tough game of volley, right?” Leon continued.

“Mmhm” You mumbled in response, forcing your eyes to stay open.

A pause, and you heard a soft ‘pfft’ of an amused laugh on the other end.

“You sleeping on me, Darl?” Leon whispered, “Am I boring you?”

“Huh? No, no no” you sat up straighter, rubbing your eyes, “I’m here, I’m listening”

Leon smiled gently, as if you could see him. His hand was cramping now, holding up the phone for the last few hours. He knew you were enjoying this conversation. It hadn’t slipped his notice how you’ve been avoiding him. And perhaps, he had let you.

You have always been like this. Guarded. And Leon wasn’t one to barge. If you were the kind to build up walls, he was the kind to set up a camp on the other side and wait. Wait through all the seasons of your emotions. Wait until you open up and let him in.

“Sunfish?” He hummed, a soft breath in your ear. A hesitant tap on your walls.

“Leon?” You exhaled, holding up your hand in front of you, as if reaching out to him. The bracelet tinkled, catching the light on its beads and shining like seashells in the sun.

Another pause. You listened. To his breathing, to the susurrus of his sheets, straining your ear to hear the million unspoken things he was too considerate to say. And you, too oblivious to figure out.

“I wanted to say *chrrk* want to *chrrk* meet *chrrk* miss you” His voice broke and garbled as the connection waxed and waned.

You lifted the phone off your ear and checked the signal.

Full bars. Huh, strange.

“Leon, can you repeat that? Your voice keeps cutting out” you asked, standing up to get a better signal.

“Huh? I was saying *chrrk* see you *chrrk* Sunfish—”

Before you could say anything else, the call ended abruptly with a sharp beep.

Your fingers hovered over the redial button, but you were interrupted by a slew of messages that dinged on your phone.

Oarfish- “I was saying, it’s pretty late. You should catch some Zs Darl. We can chat plenty tomorrow.”

Oarfish- “Sweet dreams!”

Oarfish- “PS- I might’ve sent something your way, and no I won’t take it back. Enjoy! xoxo”

Just as you began to type out a response, the elevator at the end of the lobby dinged. You heard footsteps approach your door. You checked the time

1:00 am

Puzzled, you saw a delivery boy look at the receipt in his hand and then scan the numbers on the apartment doors. With a flourish he stopped before you and held out a package along with a clipboard for you to sign.

You quickly signed, took the rather heavy box, and walked into your apartment, closing the door behind you with a light kick.

Impatient like a kid on Christmas, you tossed your bag and coat on the couch, flung the keys on the table, and grabbed a knife from the kitchen to open the mysterious box sent by Leon.

Brushing aside the protective wrapping, you let out a surprised laugh.

“Oh Leon, you little goofball.” You murmured in fond appreciation as you studied the contents inside.

There were candies— all your favorite kinds—that expensive bottle of perfume you’d raved about to Leon once, a small string bag full of seashells, and Polaroids. Stacks and stacks of them. Different pictures of you, through the years. Your life, captured in perfect squares.

But that wasn’t all. As you rifled through the box, you realized the Polaroids were part of a display set: Fairy lights, clips, and a small tool box with an instruction manual.

Yet what made you emotional, was the printed card that lay underneath it all. You smiled, reading the words through tear blurred eyes—

“Since you can’t be home this year, I brought the home to you”

And it was true. The seashells, the pictures, and the candies, from that old store near the beach, were like bits of Corland bay packed in a box.

Giddy you fished out the manual and began reading through the instructions, fingers already untangling the fairly lights. With a gleam in your eye, you approached the blank gray wall in your living room.

Maybe, just maybe, this can be your home away from home.

***

The dull noise of the metal guitar leaked through the pair of headphones buried somewhere under the mess of clothes on the bed. The chair creaked as they rocked, back and forth, back and forth. Long legs crossed and propped against the table in front of them.

It was pitch dark. Yet their azure eyes seemed sharp; staring raptly, unblinking, at the bright glare of the large computer screen before them.

“A little to the left”

“No, it’s still uneven”

They occasionally mumbled, amusedly speaking to the person flitting about on the screen. Slender fingers with black painted nails, twitched as if they wanted to reach out and take the task from your hands, and do it for you.

Later, then. When you’re asleep.

He watched, until you stretched and yawned. Tired feet taking you to your bedroom.

They rose then too. Unconsciously mimicking your movements. He slipped under the covers, in sync with you. Eyes flitting up to the Polaroids adorning their wall. Similar to the ones you put up, moments ago.

They smiled conspiratorially; pleased at the treats he had shared with you. Pleased at his neat trickery.

They didn’t even need to look at the screen anymore, to know your nightly habits.

Changing, Brushing your teeth, hair, fluffing your pillows, lifting the end of your duvet and snuggling up all the way to the left side of your bed. The one lined up against the wall.

He hummed, husky and low. A dulcet timbre, singing the beginnings of an old lullaby. His hand came to rest at the wall separating you. A soft tap. A yearning caress.

Redacted sighed, letting the sleep take him over. They didn’t care, so long as you were near. They were content. They were home.

#flâneur✨#ashewrites📝#my words💜#14 days with you #14dwy #14dwy ren #14dwy redacted #angst #fluff #14dwy Leon #14 days with you Leon #Yandere male #14dwy redacted x reader

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echantedtoon · 5 months ago

Text

Savior

You're saved by a very handsome prince only it wasn't the gallont night on a noble steed you were expecting.

You hadn't really expected anything like this to happen. Really you hadn't. You were just traveling on your way through Zora's Domains's outskirts towards the middle of the territory. You weren't really anyone important. Just a traveling hylian who occasionally sold a few wares. Noone important enough to start a fight with yet normal enough to get some attention. Perhaps that's why you found yourself in the predicament of being chased by a bokoblin hoard-

The moon shined red as blood tonight as shadows moved.

Quiet night. Unholy night of beasts. Feasting their sights upon the stray women who dare stay out at night when the full moon rises, lighting the pathway for the beasts to claim their prey. Gnashing teeth, snarling fangs waiting to take a bite into innocent flesh where the terrible claws miss. Waiting to snatch you away down into their dark abyss never to return. She was none what so ever concerned about traveling alone tonight. She had better places to be and anyone who dared be foolish enough to tangle with the night would never be heard from again. One look at it would deter most creatures away. But hier business was not with them.

You shivered in the wind that picked up clutching your phone and the small bouquet of flowers closer as you rubbed your shoulders in a vain attempt to bring what limited warmth you had back to your body.

Partially through what was left of the limited moonlight, you passed by some wild trees that made your stomach flip but it came a different feeling.

The feeling of being watched.

It didn't start out that way. At first it was just an aspect in the back of your mind you brushed of as paranoia of the manor's old ghost stories echoing in your mind. The feeling first came around when the sun had just started to set and it wasn't strong enough to warrant anything more than a two second thought and hand waving them off. However thing's changed. The sun soon disappeared over the horizon to be kissed good night by it's counterpart, the moon, and the walking woman was glad that it was a full moon, for it brought moonlight strong enough for you to see the pathway as your feet continued to walk. With it came the feeling but tenfold. You've only felt this way before back at Zephyr University whenever someone wanted to get your attention, that same feeling also returned with the feeling of being followed, but every time your head snapped over your shoulder towards the Darkness behind you....

There would be nothing.

Literally nothing. Nothing but the cold wind starting to pick up. You brushed it off as just your paranoia getting the better of you and you set your jaw against the wind. There was nothing there anyways so what did you have to worry about?

You shivered letting shaking your head. It's just shadows in the dark and your mind playing tricks on you. It urged you to walk faster and faster.

"Come on, Y/n." You thought to yourself with a shake of your head and a deep inhale. "You're just being irrational is all. You need to get your barrings and figure out what to do with a clear head."

It was probably just an animal. Yeah. The world was full of animals so they must've been a deer. Footsteps fast approached you from behind as you walk. Just a deer. A very BIG deer! You picked up the pace walking and walking soon turning to sprinting with the fast footsteps right behind you following you through the dark forest until you got to a clearing. You ran until you made to the middle of it before sharply stopping and snapping around-

Only to be met with nothing.

Your lungs heaved as you stared at the dark trees behind you with nothing but limited moonlight and shadows. You heaved at the silence other than the rustling of wind through the leaves. Nothing was behind you. No footsteps. Nothing was chasing you. Just..Nothing was there. You inhaled before giving a large sigh of relief before turning around.

And your shriek echoed throughout the night as you were met with five pairs of eyes.

A. GIANT. BOKOBLIN. HOARD. WAS. STARING. AT. YOU!!!

Instantly whom seemed to be the leader wielding a spear screeched out like a pig being murdered and pointed it's spear at you.

She didn't hesitate for a moment. Not even a second. Not when the woman turned around and RAN.

Every runner knows that the first warning sign of danger is a sense of dread, a feeling of impending doom. You are about to run away from a monster. But how do you prepare for this? Y/n had always hated dark forests with its lumbering tall trees. It was a place where she felt fear. The dark teased like taunting bullies, each sway of a branch creaking it's maniacal glee and every whistle the wind whipped by your ears whistled their sick pleasure in watching her panicked state of mind. THUD, THUD, THUD!! Went the sounds of her feet against the GROUND ground and curling tree roots, like spiderwebs under her feet, ready to snag her and make her join the abyss any moment. The darkness caged you in with the mockery of noises, a canopy of night shrouding the way out. But for now you only knew one thing.

RUN.

Your body felt light, only being able to feel every time your feet slapped against the ground which would surely be sore later, but you didn't care. You could be hurting for the next ten years for all you cared! Please gods just let you get away! Your eyes darted around for any signs of escape only being shown endless darkness instead. Your only hope was to get back to Taylor! Or to get back to the manor! A place you could at least take refuge. Your arm were partially extended in front of you, to push and swipe down any bush, branches, and other plants in your way as you ran, other hand holding up your dress in a vain attempt to keep from tripping. Stumbling and half tripping over large tree roots and clumps of grass in your wake, but still making good distance. Until the burning in your lungs threatened to make you drop, and you were forced to start slowly down step by step until you were hugging the side of a tree for life, your arms desperately gripping the rough bark until the imprints were deep in your palm and your knuckles were deep white, forcing your body to step around the tree until you reached it's front and you hid yourself behind it from the direction you just ran from. Your back hit the hard tree and your head tilted towards the heavens, hands clutching your pounding heart. And there was silence other than the mockery of wind and branch creaks. Your throat and lungs were on fire. Your heart pounded almost painfully in your chest. And you did not dare move in fear of seeing those MONSTERS somewhere behind you.

You stood there, shaking harder than a tree in a tsunami in dead of winter. Other than the gasps of air your body forced you to make, you dared not make a sound. Not a noise. The whole time you stayed perfectly still as ever so slowly your heart rate decreased the longer the silence went on and the longer nothing appeared. Slowly your lungs and throat's fire extinguished with the help of the cold wind you swallowed, and what was left behind was just a dull soreness. The rapid beating of your heart calmed slowly until it was just a little above what it would normally be beating. Your eyes slowly regained focus from the sheer panic. And your body calmed down but not your mind. Your mind still raced in fear from what you just saw and you stared straight up at the creaking branches of the tree you hid behind. The panic still clear and making you do nothing but listen in anticipation, like a rabbit hiding from a pursuing fox. But still...nothing but silence. And when your eyes slowly looked to the right and your face followed until your cheek and side of the face was pressed against the rough tree bark awaiting for any sounds, but nothing still came.

It was a stupid decision...A bad one really but-..

You slowly scraped your back against the back of the tree slowly inching your way to the side of the tree, and ever so slowly, poked your head out. Not all the way. Just enough to look out at the direction you ran from and saw...nothing. Nothing but darkness and trees. And that made you pause. There was...nothing? Nothing at all? Slowly you pushed your head fully out to see better, and took your time grazing your eyesight around the darkness, straining your eyes in the limited light that seeped between the leaves and branches. Quietly listening for anything running after you, but still nothing came. ...You-..You must've lost whatever that was. You exhaled a shaky sigh of relief and slumped back against the tree. Eyes closing as a wave of relief washed over your tired body.

But that relief was shattered when another pig like shriek cried out and footsteps thudded out through the brush towards your location.

''What am I doing!? Don't just stand there like an idiot!! RUN!!''

You listened to your inner voice, you turned on your heels and began running again taking the opportunity given to you by the gods. You didn't care if you got lost this time, you only cared about living. And so through the darkness the abyss had to offer, you again ran. Not which direction you were heading. Not sure who you'd run into or if you got more lost, but you were darned determined to not be killed by bokoblins. Your feet clicked against the ground which would surely be sore later, but you didn't care. Your f/c eyes darted around for any signs of escape only being shown endless darkness instead. Your arms were partially extended in front of you, to push and swipe down any bush, branches, and other plants in your way as you ran. Stumbling and half tripping over large tree roots and clumps of grass in your wake, but still making good distance. Until the burning in your lungs threatened to make you drop, and this time the roots claiming your feet snagged onto a particularly large root, and a few feet you went tumbling.

Your screams of tumbling over a few feet were cut short as it felt like you hit every single root, rock, and hard spot on your way down. Pain exploded everywhere your body made contact with the ground until finally with a final thud, your body fell hard onto soft grass. Knocking the air out of your lungs and you gasping for air on your side. Your body was in pain from everywhere your body hit the ground and you were sure it would leave bruises and scratches later. You coughed and gasped for air, lungs burning but you nearly stopped breathing again when load crashes came from above you.

Not again! Adrenaline kicked in now as your body wobbled and felt so light, not to mention hurt, as you forced yourself to stand and start walk-running away, swaying as you still gasped for air but your panicked state didn't care about the pain or anything as you somehow quickly got your balance back and started running through the dark. The sounds and darkness of the forest blocked almost all moonlight as you blindly ran to try and get away from the giant pig beasts, to keep from being eaten. You ran...and ran...and ran blindly in the dark with your hands in front of you. Branches and other plants hitting your legs and face as you did, the sounds of the things behind you disappearing as you kept running. At one point you had the brilliant idea to look behind you to see if anything was following you-

"AH!"

Your foot once again got caught on something. You screamed as your body went tumbling head over heels down a hill in the dark. Your already sore and hurt body becoming even more so as you rolled and rolled and rolled until you finally came to a stop at the bottom of it onto your back, with your body facing the sky. Your vision swam and your head spun as you stared up dizzily at the sky as your vision slowly went around and around and around until it focused. And you gave a cough as your burning lungs heaved against your chest. Your heart feeling as if it'll explode any moment it was beating so fast, you couldn't stop it! You just sat there gasping and panting and clutching your chest. Your brain felt foggy. No...No. Don't black out now! Get up! COME ON GET UP!! Muscles burnt. Barely able to breath. The dirt and grass felt stinging cold and burnt your skin as you turned on your side to weakly lay on your stomach, your face gasping the sweet scent of grasses for a moment as you laid there for a sweet few silent seconds, before you allowed yourself to look up and you stopped..gasping heavily and staring at what was before you.

The sight of at least five red bokoblins crashing their way towards you. You shot up to sore feet backing away from their fastly approaching. Backing up and up until there was no more ground beneath you.

And then there was a splash.

You weren't too sure what happened at first. You remembered a bokoblin's angry scream and then the ground gave way beneath your feet leaving you to yell- A yell which ended when a even more terrible sound replaced it.

A splash.

You were expecting a hard solid ground, probably cold too considering the weather. It was still cold, a freezing cold that sent your body frozen in shock for a moment. All at once, freezing cold enveloped you. Not from the hot water but the shock and dread. And there was silence. Numb, peaceful silence. No sounds to be heard. Just zapping cold the further and further you went under the water, looking up and seeing the sun above the moving surface. It was then your brain FINALLY snapped to attention and took noticed of what happened. OH SHI- YOU WERE UNDER WATER!! On instinct your panicked mind made your panicked body kick and thrash your arms and legs wildly. Current of water and bubbles bathed in red made way through the water and you managed to push your head up towards the light breaking the steaming water's surface to garble out a word-

"HELP!!"

Before the heavy weight of the wet dress dragged you back under leaving ripples where you surfaced for a moment. Red dancing in your vision as you reached out towards the sun rippling on the surface. Silence slipped by as the darkness started to seep in-

And then there was another splash.

You barely registered the sudden hands on you until you were suddenly finding yourself being pushed out of the water until you breached the surface a second time. The first thing you did was instinctively cough out the water from your mouth and gasp for breath from whatever force was pulling you out. Arms desperately clawing against the rushing river's water to try and get to safely. Instead Your hands reached to grab at the thing that pulled you out and when you opened your eyes, you were SHOCKED to see not what but WHO had done the heroic deed.

"Goodness me! Are you quite alright? That was quite a tumble you took off that cliff."

You looked up at figure you were holding on to and nearly died from the sight of red clouding your vision. Holding you bridal style was a zora. A zora that was ruby red all over except for the white coloring on his face and chest. Golden eyes looked over you in concern with a small frown as you stared wide eyed up at him still. Until with a hum he looked up at something.

A few screeched had you jumping in his hold and looking up at the cliff side. Five angry bokoblins were screeching and stomping their feet angry that their prey had gotten away from them.

"Rather dreadful creatures are they not?"

"W-What happened?"

"It would seem that you had tumbled off that cliff side and fell into the river." He answered before looking you over again. "Let's get you on dry land."

You said nothing but hung on tightly to his shoulders as he easily held you with one arm and swam on over to the nearest shore, heaving you up and setting you down on the wet bank of mud and grass carefully, your body giving a wet sound as you were set down. You were absolutely soaked through from your hair to your feet. You took a moment to cough and wipe at your face.

"Are you quite alright? That was a long tumble you took."

"Im fine." You looked back up towards the cliff side. It seemed the monster's were tired of their temper tantrum and had started to skulk off back where they came from. That was a relief. "I was just lucky those MONSTERS didn't catch up with me."

"Yes. Bokoblins are rather vile, but you must've been very fast on your feet if you able to outrun them all."

Shakily you slowly began to stand up. "N-Not really. I think i was just lucky to be able to get away. Speaking of lucky, thank you for saving me from the river. I'm afraid I'm not a very good swimmer. What are you doing out here anyways?"

"It was no trouble at all!" His sharp teeth flashed upon you in a bright smile. "I was simply doing what any good samaritan would've done if they were in my position! It was good timing I happened to be swimming by after visiting a dear friend of mine!"

"Very good timing!," you agreed wringing out your dress. "Well you have my thanks, Mister....Zora?" It just now dawned on you that you didn't even know his name.

"Oh yes. How rude of me." He pressed a hand to his chest, water sloshing with his movements as he bowed his head. "I am Prince Sidon of Zora's Domain. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ma'am."

You blinked. "P-Prince?!" That.. would explain the fancy silver jewelry and gems that sported his body. "You're the prince?!"

"Yes! It seems like everyone whom sees me has that first impression when first meeting me." H chuckled as you stared in awe.

"I see..We-Well thank you, Your Ma-Majesty." You bowed, slipping slightly on the muddy bank before standing back up embarrassed. "I appreciate your help."

"It's my pleasure though what will you do now? Is there anyone near here who can help you?"

You shook your head. "Not that I know. I was heading to the nearest settlement here but I got side tracked by those creatures." You gestured to where you fell off the cliff.

"Oh my. Hm. Well it'd be unsafe for you to wonder around all alone soaking wet and vulnerable like this..Why don't you let me take you to Zora's Domain? You can get proper help there and I'm sure we have dry clothes somewhere. "

You held up your hands. "Oh no. I'm sure I can manage on my own. You've done enough already."

You paused as a red hand extended towards you with a wide smile from the water. "I insist. A true prince never leaves a fair maiden such as you stranded so helplessly."

A fair maiden?

Your face lit up a pink but you ignored it slowly reaching out to take his hand. "A-Alright."

*******

#legend of zelda #Legend of Zelda Sidon #prince sidon #sidon #king sidon #sidon loz #botw sidon #botw #loz botw #sidon x reader

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rafeobx · 9 days ago

Text

MOTH TO A FLAME

plot: the pogues decide to follow the clue on the compass, but isobel has other plans and people to see--or to makeout with?

warnings: mention of drugs, alcohol, abuse, fluff

note: this is the fourth chap to my burning red series. go check out the first three to stay up to date xx ;)

MASTERLIST

JOHN B STARED AT the compass in his hand, the worn metal strangely heavy. it wasn't just the object itself, but the weight of the question it carried: what was his father's compass doing in scooter grubbs' boat?

a million thoughts raced through his mind, a confusing jumble of hope and disbelief. was it a clue? a message? or just a cruel trick of fate? he traced the familiar inscription on the back, the one his dad had carved years ago.

it felt like a lifetime. a lump formed in his throat. he hadn't felt this close to his father in... well, in forever. but the hope was terrifying. what if it led nowhere?

"okay, i'm sorry," jj began, his tone only marginally apologetic. "i know that this compass is your dad's and all, but why are we getting chased down the marsh for this piece of crap?"

isobel let out a huff, a mix of exasperation and disbelief. if there was one thing jj was good at, it was voicing the exact thought everyone else was trying to suppress, regardless of the timing or the delicacy of the situation. she shot him a glare, but he was already moving on, oblivious.

"why does scooter grubbs have your dad's compass?" isobel questioned, her initial skepticism giving way to a morbid curiosity. "were he and your dad close or something?"

john B glanced up at her, his expression conflicted. his mind was clearly racing, piecing together fragments of memory and speculation. "there's only one way to find out," he said, a strange mix of grim determination and a flicker of something that might have been hope in his voice. hope that maybe his dad was alive--although the rest of the pogues highly doubted it.

the twinkie rattled down the road with jj, john b, and isobel inside. john b gripped the wheel, his jaw set with a grim determination that isobel found deeply unsettling. jj, characteristically, was offering a running commentary, a mix of nervous energy and curiosity. but isobel was focused on the task at hand: trying to talk john b out of what she was pretty sure was a terrible idea.

"i don't think talking to ms. lana is a good idea right now, john b," she reasoned, her voice tight with thinly veiled sarcasm. "i mean, it's not like her husband just drowned or anything."

john b ignored her, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, the hope and longing to find his father burning brighter than any caution.

isobel couldn't entirely blame him. he'd clung to the faintest thread of possibility for a year, waiting for something, anything, that might signal his father was still alive. but everyone else on the island thought he was chasing ghosts.

i mean, no one goes missing for nine months and then magically reappears, right?

a heavy sigh escaped isobel as the twinkie rattled to a stop in front of lana grubbs's house. a sense of foreboding settled over her, a shiver running down her spine. screams, high-pitched and full of anger, coming from inside--except it wasn't ms lana.

it was the men from the marsh, the same ones who'd chased them through the marsh.

"did I find anything?" john b scoffed at jj as if it was the dumbest question ever.

jj, ignoring the sarcasm, held up a heavy-looking black duffel bag, a triumphant grin splitting his face as john b climbed back onto the boat. but the celebration was short-lived.

kiara, her eyes scanning the horizon, suddenly went rigid. she pointed towards the shoreline, her voice tight with alarm. "guys..."

A sleek powerboat was heading straight for them, and even from a distance, it was clear this wasn't the coast guard. two men dressed in black, their faces obscured by the shadows, stood at the helm.

pope's eyebrows furrowed, confusion quickly morphing into dread. he turned to isobel, his eyes wide, seeking confirmation of the growing horror in his gut. his heart plummeted to his stomach when he realized he wasn't imagining things. the men weren't holding fishing rods. they were holding guns.

"guys," isobel's voice cracked, the word barely audible above the roar of the engines. "go, pope, go!"

isobel shuddered at the memory, still vivid in her mind. she watched, a feeling of nausea forming in her stomach, as they casually slammed the door off its hinges and strode back to their boat, leaving ms lana sobbing in the shattered silence.

john b didn't hesitate. driven by a desperate need for answers, he bolted into the house. "ms. lana," he muttered, his voice thick with concern, running towards the sound of her sobs.

he found her huddled on the floor by the bathroom, her face stained with tears, a picture of utter devastation. the room around her was a scene of chaos: furniture overturned, drawers ripped open, personal belongings scattered and destroyed. it was worse than anything isobel seen before.

john b, his hands trembling slightly, pulled out the compass, the object suddenly heavy with significance. he held it out to lana grubbs, his voice tight with a mixture of desperation and confusion.

"why did scooter have this? why did he have my father's compass?" he pressed, needing answers, needing some kind of connection to the father he refused to believe was gone.

"john b," isobel spoke quietly, her hand reaching out to touch his arm, but hesitating. her voice was barely a whisper, as if she feared that any louder sound might cause the fragile scene to shatter completely. "maybe now isn't the right ti--"

lana grubbs's head snapped up, her tear-streaked face contorted in a mask of horror as her eyes locked onto the compass. "get out," she rasped, her voice raw and broken. "you shouldn't have that. don't tell anyone you have that."

we exchanged bewildered glances, the air thick with unspoken questions. what was so terrifying about a compass? what secrets did it hold?

"get out!" she screamed, the force of her voice finally breaking through the stunned silence.

she hadn't had a chance to process anything, not really. they'd been thrown from one crisis to another, from the marsh to lana grubbs's house, and the compass... the compass changed everything. but in the brief moments of quiet, her thoughts kept drifting back torafe.

the memory of their encounter at the kegger played on a loop in her head. there wasn't really much to talk about, objectively. a brief conversation, charged with a tension she still couldn't name. but there was that moment when the world had seemed to shrink, to narrow down to just the two of them. a moment when all she wanted was to stay close to him.

but why?

the question echoed in the silence of the room. he was rafe cameron. he'd been a total ass for as long as she could remember, a symbol of everything they fought against. he was entitled, arrogant, dangerous. he'd hurt her friends, threatened them, made their lives harder at every turn.

so why, then, did she feel this pull? this unwanted, undeniable connection? it made no damn sense. or maybe it was always there, she just felt a need to suppress it—ignore it—because she was a pogue and he was a kook and there was no in-between, no world where they could exist without tearing each other apart, without betraying everything they knew.

her thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind, a battle between her head and her heart. but her body, it seemed, had already chosen a side.

before she could fully process the implications, she'd pulled her phone from her pocket, her fingers moving with a speed and certainty that surprised even her. she brought up rafe's contact, his name stark against the bright screen.

the only reason she even had rafe's number was because of her father. she was the reluctant errand runner, the one who braved the sketchy atmosphere of barry's trailer to pick up his orders. and rafe was often there, alone at times, crashing at his place when he was either too high or too drunk.

so, out of necessity, she'd gotten his number, a purely practical exchange: a quick text to let him know she was coming, to avoid any misunderstandings.

the glow of her phone screen illuminated isobel's face, the un-sent text hanging there like a dangerous secret. but before she could hit send, pope appeared in her doorway.

"hey," he said, his eyes narrowed slightly, eyeing her. "what are you doing here all alone?"

isobel took a deep breath, trying to project an air of casualness she definitely didn't feel. her mind raced, scrambling for an explanation that wouldn't expose the chaotic mess of her thoughts. there was no way she could tell pope the truth: that she'd been thinking about texting rafe cameron, about the charged encounter at the kegger, and how he'd basically been flirting with her.

flirting?

the thought sent a shiver down her spine. was that even what it had been? and why did she want it to be? why was her brain betraying her, drawing her back to him like a moth to a destructive flame?

fuck, she thought, the realization hitting her with brutal clarity. she needed to see rafe.

before she had the chance to respond, a huge banging sound reverberated from the back of the chateau, rattling the very foundations of the old house. it was loud, insistent, and utterly terrifying.

isobel instinctively moved to the window, her heart hammering against her ribs. she peeked out, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes widened in horror. there they were. the men from the marsh, dressed in black, their faces grim, already forcing their way onto the property.

"fuck," she breathed, the single word a desperate, panicked whisper.

they had taken it all.

every single piece.

the men from the marsh had systematically emptied big john's office, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation. every map, every note, every cryptic drawing related to the royal merchant was gone. the shelves were bare, drawers hung open, and the floor was littered with discarded papers and splintered wood.

there was nothing left to go off now—no hint, no whisper, no faint trace of where the gold could be. just an echoing emptiness where hope used to reside.

"okay," pope huffed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, trying to find a silver lining. "we still have the compass, right? we can use that—maybe, it'll give us a lead."

john b stared hopelessly at the compass in his hand, his gaze distant, lost in thought. after a long moment, he nodded towards the twinkie. "i think i know what redfield means."

the group climbed into the battered van, the silence inside thick with unspoken questions. john b pulled away, the engine sputtering to life, and the twinkie rumbled down the road.

"what're you thinking?" isobel spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, hesitant to break the fragile moment.

"redfield lighthouse," john b chuckled, a hollow sound that held more pain than humor. "my dad's favorite place"

isobel turned to jj, an unsure look written all over her face, seeking some kind of confirmation or shared doubt.

"yeah, it's possible," kiara spoke, her tone cautious, but willing to entertain the idea.

"it could also be possible that you're concocting wild theories to help—you know—deal with your sad feels," pope intercepted, his voice dry, ever the voice of reason, or at least, skepticism.

kiara glared at pope, shaking her head in disbelief, a silent rebuke for his bluntness. "whatever—let's just go to the lighthouse, alright? i mean, it's worth a shot, right?" kiara turned to the rest of the group, her face a mask of weary resignation. she was seemingly tired of this conversation, tired of the endless debate, just ready for something to happen.

"um, yeah, you guys check it out," isobel muttered, her gaze fixed on something just beyond the windshield, anywhere but on their faces. "i'm gonna head to the country club." the words felt like ash in her mouth, the guilt of what she was yearning to do, the person she had been dying to see for days, eating at her.

jj's eyebrows furrowed, a suspicious glint entering his eyes. "you're working today? i thought you said you were off."

the rest of the group stared at her, confusion plastered across their faces, their unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air. her sudden change of plans, her evasiveness, it didn't sit right.

"i didn't, but james had something come up." Iie. the words felt brittle on her tongue, a flimsy shield against their scrutiny. she forced herself to meet their gazes, feigning a casualness she didn't possess, hoping the slight tremor in her voice wasn't noticeable. it was a pathetic excuse, even to her own ears, but it was the best she could conjure on the spot, a desperate attempt to divert their attention from the truth of where she was really going, and, more importantly, who she was going to see.

"okay, well, we're close by, i can drop you" john b eyed her cautiously, pulling in the direction of the country club

isobel waved off her friends, offering a tight, forced smile that felt more like a grimace. as the twinkie's engine faded into the distance, she let out a deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding, the tension in her shoulders finally easing, if only for a moment. the pretense was over.

as soon as the van was out of sight, she turned, her steps quick and purposeful. there was only one place she knew rafe would be, the only place he ever seemed to truly unwind, or unravel.

barry's trailer.

she knew this was wrong. every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn back, to ignore the insistent pull.

she knew rafe was a terrible person—or at least, that's what she'd heard, what everyone said, what the evidence often suggested. but she couldn't shake this feeling, this persistent whisper in the back of her mind, that there was more to him than met the eye. that maybe—just maybe—jj and her friends were wrong about him.

as she approached barry's trailer, the familiar scent of stale smoke and something acrid hit her. her eyes fell onto rafe's motorcycle, glinting dully in the afternoon sun, a clear sign he was here.

her breath hitched, a nervous flutter in her chest, but she continued, slowly walking towards the front door. she twisted the doorknob reluctantly, the metal cool beneath her fingers, and pushed it open.

the scene inside was a blur of faces, too many people, too much noise. the air was thick with smoke and the clatter of voices. her gaze swept through the crowded, dimly lit space, searching, but no rafe.

however, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar, disheartening sight. her dad. he was sprawled out on the couch, mouth agape, utterly passed out. she let out a sigh, a weary sound of resignation that held no surprise, only the heavy weight of expectation.

"dad," she muttered, her voice low, almost a plea, as if, if she spoke any louder, he'd stir, wake, and lash out. Before she could continue, a voice spoke out from behind her.

"isobel?" his voice was low, husky, and instantly, inexplicably, it made her weak in the knees. she didn't need to turn around to know who it was. isobel turned, her gaze immediately falling on rafe. his hair was disheveled, falling across his forehead, and his eyes—usually so cold or arrogant—were watery, a raw vulnerability she hadn't expected, with tears threatening to fall.

she walked toward him, pushing the thought of her dad, passed out on the couch, to the very back of her mind. this was different. this was him. "hey," she whispered, her voice softer than she'd intended. "i came to see you." she glanced around the crowded, grimy trailer, the noise suddenly feeling oppressive. "do you want to, um, get out of here?" the words felt crazy coming out of her. she was seriously asking rafe cameron if he wanted to hang out with her.

rafe eyed her down, his expression unreadable for a moment. "yeah, sure," he spoke coolly, but his voice was guarded, almost distant, as if he was afraid what would happen if he let himself get too comfortable around her. she brushed it off, accustomed to his walls, taking one last glance toward her dad before following rafe out the door.

he handed her a spare helmet, the worn plastic warm against her fingers from sitting in the sun for too long. isobel stared down at it, her eyes furrowed in confusion.

"well, i don't expect you drove here, right?—since you're broke and all," he deadpanned, a flicker of his usual kook arrogance returning.

isobel rolled her eyes, snatching the helmet from him. "sorry, I just—i didn't mean for it to come out like that." rafe's eyes softened, just for a moment, a brief crack in his carefully constructed facade.

"whatever," she muttered, a sharp edge in her voice, annoyed at herself for even being bothered by his stupid comment.

isobel got onto his motorcycle, settling behind him and clutching onto his torso, the unexpected feeling of his firm abs under her touch sending a jolt through her. rafe drove off as soon as she settled, isobel rolling her eyes at the faint smirk plastered across his face.

"so, where exactly are we going?" isobel raised her voice, trying to drown out the passing cars.

"you'll see."

rafe came to a stop, the motorcycle engine cutting out with a final rumble. isobel scanned the scene before her. they were at a secluded stretch of beach, the kind only locals knew about, with barely any people around—and none of them familiar.

a wave of profound relief washed over her at the thought that her clandestine hangout with rafe had no way of getting back to jj, or any of the pogues. here, they were just two people, away from the watchful eyes of the island.

isobel turned to rafe, a small, tentative smile playing on her lips. "so," she began, her mind drifting back to the charged night of the kegger, to the intensity in his eyes and the strange things he'd said.

"i've been thinking about the kegger and what you said, but i wanted to as--were you, um, were you high?" the hint of uncertainty was evident in her voice, a fragile thread of hesitation woven through the question.

rafe's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. he didn't answer immediately, his gaze drifting out over the calm water, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm. a shadow seemed to pass over his face, something darker than just the memory of a drunken night.

it wasn't the fact that he was high and she knew it that bothered him—he was almost always high, and he didn't care who knew. it was the thought of her seeing him differently if he confirmed it. he didn't know why, but the thought of her hating him, of her being scared of him, made his heart drop. he was used to people fearing him, but not her.

"why does it matter?" he finally muttered, his voice low, a defensive edge to it that made isobel's stomach clench.

he finally turned to face her, his eyes searching hers. he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of rare vulnerability. "but yeah," he finally admitted, the word a reluctant exhale. "yeah, i was high. does that change anything?"

his voice was barely a whisper, the usual bravado stripped away, leaving only a raw, uncertain plea in its wake. the silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken possibilities.

isobel turned away, her eyes scanning the vast expanse of the ocean, deep in thought. the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore was the only sound for a long moment. "rafe," she muttered, looking down at her lap, unable to meet his gaze. "you know about my dad. i've seen enough of that in my life to know it never leads to anything good. so, if you really need a distraction, i'm here, okay?"

rafe stayed quiet, his eyes scanning her face, taking in every detail, every subtle shift in her expression. he saw the genuine concern there, the unexpected offer of something he rarely received. his gaze flickered down to her soft lips, a silent, almost desperate longing flashing in his eyes, before snapping back to meet hers.

the air between them vibrated with a silent battle, rafe's ingrained instinct to push her away clashing violently with the desperate, unfamiliar urge to lean into the unexpected comfort she offered.

before he knew it, before he could second-guess the impulse, he leaned in. his breath, smelling faintly of salt and something sweet, ghosted over her skin. his lips, surprisingly soft, brushed against hers, a tentative, almost questioning touch. isobel let out a soft gasp, a tiny, involuntary sound of surprise and something else she couldn't name.

finally, his lips pressed more firmly, a hesitant exploration that quickly deepened. isobel's initial shock gave way to a dizzying rush. her fingers, almost without conscious thought, found their way to his disheveled hair, tangling in the soft strands as she pulled him closer.

the kiss was messy, urgent, tasting of salt and a desperate need for connection. it was nothing like she'd imagined, and everything she hadn't known she wanted. for a fleeting moment, the world outside—the kooks, the pogues, the treasure, her dad—all faded into the background, leaving only the raw, undeniable sensation of rafe's lips on hers.

she reached her arms around his neck, her hands getting lost in his slick, slightly damp hair, pulling him closer still. rafe let out a soft groan, a low, guttural sound of surrender and pleasure. but then, almost as quickly as it began, he slowly pulled away, his chest heaving slightly.

"fuck," he muttered, his voice rough, his eyes still dark with lingering desire, fixed on her as if he couldn't tear them away, a raw, possessive hunger burning within them. "you drive me crazy." he smirked, a flash of his usual cockiness returning, but softened by the lingering heat in his eyes.

isobel let out a soft giggle, a light, unexpected sound that bubbled up from deep within her. however, the lightness quickly vanished as a cold wave of reality washed over her. her eyes widened, her expression turning serious. "rafe," her voice was suddenly laced with an undeniable urgency, "nobody can find out about this. jj will kill me."

"yeah, whatever," rafe rolled his eyes at the thought of the blonde boy, the brief tenderness replaced by a familiar kook disdain. "we should head back. i'll drop you off at the chateau.

#obx kooks #obx pogues #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #rafe obx #obx #obx fanfiction #rafe cameron x maybank!reader #jj maybank #outer banks #fanfic

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lethalchiralium · 10 months ago

Text

No More | 8 | Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

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It was still before dawn when you sat down in the briefing room, setting your cup of (coffee/tea) down on the wooden meeting table before looking outside. The sky was slowly becoming warmer in color, the sun nearing the horizon. Jet lag tricks always seemed to work on you, except for today. Laswell and Price walked in next, he looked more than pissed and she held a neutral expression. It was too goddamn early for whatever bullshit the U.S. Navy had to serve you on a silver platter.

“Good morning.” A sip of your warm drink helped soothe the tension in your chest, even though your eyes didn’t change their intensity.

Price’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “You seem rather calm for a soldier being repossessed by the Navy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Price, the ghost of Navy’s past will always haunt me.” You snickered into your mug before taking another sip, Laswell chuckled.

“So you know.”

You set the tan mug on the table again, arms crossing across your chest. Your eyes flickered to Laswell for just a moment, voice low with annoyance. “Of course I know, Price. I’m not exactly thrilled to be back on a cockpit after I was promised that I never would again.”

“You were on loan from the U.S. Navy.”

“They were fine for seven years without me.”

“There’s nothing we can do if they desperately need you, Mercy. The 141 is, unfortunately, not your keeper.”

A hardened glare settled in your eye, knowing. To the untrained eye, you seemed indifferent. To your superiors, your friends who stood in front of you, knew what fear looked like. They somehow knew of the scared little girl looked behind your eyes. With a soft sigh, you relaxed your shoulders, pressing your back into the chair. “What will you do without a medic?”

The war worn captain across from you sighed, taking the second to roll his head to stretch his neck before meeting your gaze again. You’ve always found comfort in your friend, the man you considered more like a surrogate father, even though you were technically his equal. You’ve done a lot for him, he’s done so much for you - you’ve drank together, fought together, and worked together without many issues. You knew that Price knew you, yet at the same time, you knew he didn’t know you at all. It seemed like the second you stepped foot here, you were a different version of the Y/N that Price took seven years to shape into his perfect medic. So, what would he do without you? Gaz has minimal medical training, Soap isn’t much better, Simon knew enough, you weren’t sure about Alejandro and you were damn sure that Price would rather be shot than have to play medic to his bumbling oafs. There was no way he would do any sort of mission without you. Right?

He cleared his throat. “You know nothing will change this assignment for you, right?”

That gave you everything you needed to know, but you still needed Price to say it. “Yes, I do.”

“Alejandro will act as our temporary medic until you are finished with this mission and relinquished back to where you belong.”

Oh, you fucking assholes, making me think Alejandro was visiting for “official business”. Ass. Holes.

The scowl must have been obvious when you took another sip as Laswell continued, “I know you’re not happy about this, trust me, we’re not either.”

“If you’re not happy about it, why didn’t you pull your big ass strings and keep me away from here?” (Coffee/tea) rolled over the side of your mug as you carelessly set it down. “You knew I only agreed to joining the 141 ‘cause I never wanted to come back here to fly ever again. And here I fucking am,” Your hand gestured to your beige uniform, the one you were required to wear on base as base personnel. “In a uniform I didn’t want to wear again, seeing people I purposely did not say goodbye to, seeing my family again, and being forced to fly a fucking jet I don’t even think I could anymore. And you’re not happy?” You looked to Price with a furious look on your face. “Are you happy with it? ‘Cause I am, I’m sure you can tell by my huge fucking smile. For fuck’s sake.”

Laswell pressed her lips together, inhaling through her nose, seeming to choose her words wisely. “This decision wasn’t made lightly-“

Your arms crossed across your chest, the pins on your chest pressed into your forearm. It should’ve felt foreign, yet it didn’t. “Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“But there is no workaround here. My contacts cannot overrule the Commander of the Fleet here. He was insistent.”

“What are you gonna do if I fail my flight testing?”

Price was firm with his response. “You won’t.”

“What if I do?”

“You’ll test until you pass.”

You wiped a hand down your face, your chest squeezing itself with stress. “You two do know I have a history of crashing, right? Fucked landings, the crash in Ukraine-“

“It’s not like you to be scared, L/N.” Price’s words were sharp, you knew it was meant to get a reaction.

All it invoked out of you was a harsh inhale and sitting forward, looking directly at Laswell. “If I die in a fucking jet, you’re gonna regret it.”

“I’m sure I will.” She spoke with an even tone, a neutral expression as she placed something on the desk in front of you. A pair of American dog tags. Worn, black and red rubber silencers lined the metal tags - you felt like throwing up. The only two pairs of dog tags that had that marbled red and black rubber were yours and Rooster’s.

MITCHELL, Y/N

“REAPER”

U.S. NAVY

309191712

O POS

“I figured you’d still want to keep “Reaper” and “Mercy” separate.”

“F’r a medic, ye don’t have much mercy.”

“You’re like the grim reaper with that aim, Jesus!”

There’s a knock at the conference room door, both Price and Laswell looked towards it - your eyes were kept down on the metal tags in your hands. It’s been a long time since you’ve worn your real last name of Mitchell, not your original one of L/N. It was like reattaching a frayed thread to its fabric - you were back in your old boots, your old ways.

Laswell moved towards the door, Price splayed his hand on the table top, leaning his head down to look at your face - even when you couldn’t look up at him. “I’m not punishing you, Y/N. I don’t want this as much as you don’t, and I want to help you get out of this but I can’t. I’m here to support you as much as I can, you know that.” There’s a small pause as you heard the door open, his voice because low. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”

There’s more pain underneath the broken promise than your friend, your mentor would ever know. Your heart rate could never grow slower, your anxiety could never ease, your sanity would not stop spiraling - all because you were alone. There wasn’t anyone meaningful yet that wasn’t Ice; Hangman was a brief fling and he never counted, Simpson was a pain up your ass, but no sign of your father or best friends. You were alone, drowning in your trauma, your life jackets seemingly lost to sea-

A firm yet gentle hand glided across your back, jolting you from a spiral. There was no need to look, the faint scent of cigarettes and your favorite cologne hit your nose - Simon. A soft pat before the chair beside you screeched and he sat down, his knee colliding with yours. It wasn’t an accident, it was a nod at you leaving before he woke up. Your hand left your dog tags, falling in between both you and Simon under the table; it wasn’t long until he took it in his own.

There was something about his temperament now, he seemed to be a lot more in tune with you than he was months before, when the trust issue came up. Maybe he could see your anxiety from being here? Maybe Price talked to him to watch out for you? No, he watches out for you regardless. Something was up since he usually never holds your hand in public, let alone when you needed it during the meeting. As Price and Laswell began the meeting, your focus was on your hands - one being held by your boyfriend, the other one holding the dog tags you screamed at your father to destroy, once upon a time.

A pang of guilt hit your chest, making your stomach lurch and your breath seem to escape you.

It was a quick decision, the one to join the 141. And you left behind your only family - your father, Rooster, and your other best friend, Rodeo. You’d abandoned yourself too, creating someone new with the friends you have now - but the residual guilt was there. What if they needed you and you weren’t answering? What if they were angry with you, deep down? You wouldn’t blame them. You tore yourself apart when you left and it took two years to put yourself back together.

“-not goin’ a damn mission without my medic.”

Ghost’s voice pulled your from your seemingly endless spiral, you raised your head to look at him. Eyes narrowed, you could practically feel the scowl radiating off of him.

“We’re not leavin’ her here by herself. We’re a team.“

Laswell took a step forwards, her hand held up in front of Price to stop him from responding. “She cannot go on this mission. She has her own work to do.”

There was a hard squeeze from Simon’s hand before he let go and snarled back, “Fuck the Navy, she’s one of us now, they can go-“

“LT,” Soap spoke from your right, your head numbly turned to look at him. “The faster she gets done with whatever the fuck they need from her, the faster she can fix ye skull faced ass.”

The room fell silent for a moment, a breath invaded the tightness of your chest before you spoke, turning to Ghost, “He’s right.” There was a breath from you, “Faster I get this done, the faster we can go home, big boy.”

His eyes narrowed, Gaz chuckled from a desk down. Price continued his meeting regardless. “Mercy will be under the command of Captain Peter “Maverick” Mitchell and Admiral Simpson. We still have a job to do, which is eradicate this Makarov cell. There will be no changes until she has completed her mission, understood?”

There was a chorus of “Yes, sir!” between the four men surrounding you, yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to reply.

Your dad was here. Of course he was here, why wouldn’t he be? Well, he wasn’t well liked, he was an asshole to anyone with a pay grade above his, and he was surely banned from here. Right?

“Dismissed.”

There wasn’t a moment spared in your seat, you were out the door in seconds. Cerberus, now awake from his nap beside your seat, was trailing behind you, as well as Ghost and Soap. A quick dip down and you grabbed your dog’s leash, just needing to find a door to the outside. A door that will help you escape this crushing feeling in your chest, let you finally breathe. Right turn, left turn, right turn, and you could hear voices - from your friend, boyfriend, and people down the next hallway. Freedom. A quick right turn.

A gasp and your heartbeat seemed to be lodged in your ear, you gazed down the hallway, your feet coming to a sudden halt. Simon almost barreled through you if it wasn’t for Soap reaching for him, pulling him back.

Ghost murmured, “Who’s that?” as Soap spoke to you, “Another shitty admiral?”

The man at the end of the corridor hadn’t spotted you yet, hadn’t taken a second to observe his peripheral vision, hadn’t understood that you stood at the other end. He held a helmet, a flight suit - the anxiety in your belly seemed to loosen and tighten violently at every moment. Soon enough, the man’s voice escaped your throat in a sudden call,

“Maverick.”

Your voice isn’t one that your father ever forgets, ignores. His head instantly turned to you, the scowl that rested on his face was quickly replaced with a smile. And just like that, you felt six years old again - running around these same halls, giggling and holding your hands out for your dad. Now, as your feet moved on autopilot, that memory seemed so close to the present. Mav had a few more wrinkles than the last time you saw him, some salt in his pepper hair - his smile was just as warm as it was when you last saw him seven years ago.

The helmet and flight suit in his hands were long dropped onto the floor, and as soon as you were within reach, he grabbed you and pulled you in. His arms were tight around you, you mirrored him with your arms even tighter around him.

“Welcome home, ladybug.”

The sweet childhood nickname made tears well in your eyes, your face then burying into his shoulder for just a moment - wiping them away. He smelled like oil with a kick of jet fuel, just like he always did - home. He let go, his smile wide as his hands settled on your shoulders.

“You know, I thought I was hallucinating when Ice said you’d need a helmet and a suit.”

You shrugged a little, smiling, “Can’t say no to him, can I?”

“None of us can.” He let go, turned away and grabbed your gear before he handed it to you. “You look different, kid.”

“So do you, old man.” You took the familiar gear, fear striking a deep chord within you, but it was soothed almost instantly by the presence of your father.

His smile was more infectious than before. “So?”

“What?”

He nodded towards your teammates behind you. “Gonna introduce me to your new sidekicks?”

You looked back at Soap and Ghost, ignoring Soap’s confused face and looking down for- “Ow!”

Cerberus whined beside you after slamming his head into your thigh, you shook your head before pointing with your finger, “The dog is Cerberus, then it’s Sergeant John MacTavish, and Lieutenant Ghost. They’re both operators with me in the 141. Boys, this is Captain Maverick Mitchell,” there was a gentle pause, “He’s my actual commanding officer.”

Soap’s jaw was snapped shut after it had hit the floor, then a wicked smile tugged at his lips and he held his hand out, “Oh, it’s nice ta meet ya, Captain-“

“Soap.“

“I’m John MacTavish, but you can call me Soap, I’m ‘er best friend-“

“Johnny.“

Soap finally stood down when Ghost’s low baritone snapped sharply, it caused silence in the hallway.

Maverick responded with a firm handshake, a smile, and a quick, “Pleasure’s mine, kid.” before he held his hand out for Ghost. And with his unwavering and emotionless stare, he took it. “I like your face thing.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed and you smacked your dad’s arm, “Mav.”

He spun his head to look at you, “What? I’m bein’ nice to your friends.”

“Be fuckin’ nicer.”

He rolled his eyes, letting go of your boyfriend’s hand before he pointed down the hall. “You ready for testing?”

Your expression dropped just a little, panic in your muscles. “Now? Like, right now?”

Mav gave you a confused look. “Yes, right now. You need to be retested for F-18-“

“I know that. I just thought I’d have an hour or two to kill.”

“Well, Simpson’s an inpatient man.”

You grimaced at that. “And he’s a cunt.“

Soap chuckled from beside you before wincing, you looked at your boys. Ghost was staring at you, Soap nursing his probably bruised arm, and Cerby looking as happy as a clam. You glanced at Mav again before speaking, “Would you two like a show?”

Soap grinned devilishly, “Depends- OW! I dinnae say anythin’ nasty!”

Ghost’s fist had connected with Soap’s arm again, eyes glaring daggers at him. “You were going to.”

Maverick laughed a little before patting your back. “Go get changed, we’ll meet you on the tarmac.”

You nodded, meeting your boyfriend’s gaze with a silent plea for help before disappearing down the familiar hallway towards the female locker rooms. Your feet felt like stone as you lightly jogged into the rooms, hearing the familiar sounds of lockers slamming, women chatting, and showers running. The black SAS issued boots on your feet were a stark contrast to the tan ones you would wear here, standard pilot issue, but they would work. If Simpson had a problem with your uniform, he could bend over so you could shove the complaint up his ass.

Normally, a captain would have their own private quarters with their own bathroom, but this would be quick. In and out. Strip off the black compression shirt, city camouflage cargo pants, your belt of weapons, and almost your entire stash of weapons on your body. Just because you were in familiar territory didn’t mean that there weren’t moles, and you were not going to be caught off guard. You walked down a few aisles of lockers, ignoring questioning looks from younger and older pilots - deciding to change in the far aisle of lockers, away from everyone else.

It took you just a few moments to start undressing in the far corner, back towards the wall. First came the belt, unclipping all sorts of weapons, then your beloved boots. You placed the belt down on the bench, before hiking a boot on it and bending over to untie it.

“Eject! Eject! Eject!”

Your breath hitched at the intrusion of the same memory that has been plaguing your mind, but you bit your tongue to try and silence it. Nails dug into the black laces, tugging and tugging and tugging-

Snow covering the ground. Fire licking at the front of your jet. Warmth. Get out. Get out. GET OUT!

Boot was off. Mindlessly, you switched feet. Take a breath, Mercy, take a damn breath. Your heartbeat in your ears, your eyes screwed shut and you-

Sounds of faint Russian in your ears, a cold pistol in your hands as you pressed yourself into the cabinet.

Your hands were shaking as you pulled off the next boot, they were trembling by the time you fumbled for the waistband of your pants. A breath, a deep one, filled your lungs - through the nose, held for five seconds, and out again. Think about something else, try to think about something normal, something good. What’s good? What is good in your life?

“Hey, are you okay?”

A voice jostled you from your mind, your eyes darting to look at a fellow aviator, she wasn’t too tall, hair slicked back per regulation, with a kind look on her face. Sniffling, you stood a little straighter, taking a shaky breath as you answered, “Fine.”

“It’s okay to not be fine, you know.”

She had dark brown hair, brown eyes, sun burn on her nose and cheeks - you couldn’t make out the last name on her badge but you could tell she was a Lieutenant. She wasn’t someone you knew. Fresh meat, you supposed. Can’t know everyone.

“The mental health officer is down the hall. I could take you?”

You chuckled to yourself, looking back down at your two feet on the ground, your hands on your waistband. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

She nodded, not knowing what to say, before she backed away and disappeared from your sight. A simple distraction seemed to break you from your mental torture, and it helped. You were quick to throw off your cargo pants, pull on your flight suit, and pull your boots back on. Zipping up your suit, tying your shoes, and grabbing your helmet, you were physically ready to fly a F-18 for the first time in seven years. It’s muscle memory at this point, you’ll have to think for a few moments but you should be fine. Like riding a bike, right?Except this bike is worth essentially your soul, your task force, and five million dollars.

It didn’t take you long to look at the helmet, hands holding either side. Its main color was black, with yellow and red stripes along the top and sides, REAPER adorned along the front. It was a sister match to Rooster and Rodeo’s helmets, all three of you having a black, red, and yellow helmet, just all different color combinations. Your thumb thread across the vinyl, a deep comfort settled over you like a warm wave.

Your original helmet had a gaping hole on the side of it from it smashing against the canopy of your jet. The jet that wouldn’t eject you, the jet you had to somewhat land in a somewhat flat clearing in Ukraine. Gentle fingers traced where the hole should be in this helmet, but it’s not. It’s new, made from the same materials, but it has no memories attached to it yet. It hadn’t been left on your bed before departing for England seven years ago with John Price. This was a fresh start.

It didn’t take you long to get out to the medical facility for a quick check up - oxygen, blood pressure, BMI. Normal procedure for being out for so long, they didn’t have to do much else since you handed over your medical records for the past seven years, and the medic was impressed with your physical wellbeing. A perfect soldier, she had stated, before sending you on your way to the tarmac with the rest of your gear in hand.

Was there a hop in your step? Absolutely not. There was a quiver in your belly as you walked towards Admiral Simpson, Mav, Soap, and Ghost. Cerberus sat willingly in the shade, eyes following you as you approached, Mav and Simpson’s conversation ended the second the Admiral spotted you.

“Captain, glad that you decided to join us.”

You gave him a saccharine smirk. “Sorry I was late, I was wondering how well desertion would treat me.”

Your father gave you a look, you ignored it, staring directly at Simpson. He flatly chuckled before turning, pointing down the line of jets on the tarmac to the one with a crew fussing around it. “That will be your jet. Fuel is currently being topped off, and you will need to-“

“Do an in depth outer inspection.” Your eyes never moved from Simpson’s, even as he glared at you. “You’ll do well to remember that I’m not a recruit and that I am a certified U.S. Naval Aviator with the damn medals to prove it.”

The man whipped around, ready to lay into you when you walked around him, flicking down a pair of aviators you found in your breast pocket. You walked by a few jets before you came upon your own, that had your name brandished beneath the canopy. REAPER displayed in black in between your captain rank, first name, and Mitchell. A sigh escaped your lips, apparently Simpson still can’t listen to a word a woman says.

Circling your aircraft, you took your time to inspect any blemishes or faults that may affect your flight - you pulled ‘Remove before flight’ tags, adjusted air valves in the underbelly before slamming the hatch closed, and placed your hand on the nose of your gray jet. The metal wasn’t scalding to the touch yet, but it was more than warm. You held your touch there for a moment, looking at the jet with a feeling of… something in your belly. This would be the first time you would be without your team in six years, they weren’t your backup and they weren’t able to work with you on this. Your safety net had been stolen from you and you didn’t know how to feel.

Your forehead rested against the metal, a sigh escaped your lips. “We got this.”

Footsteps approached you, you took a deep breath before you felt a hand on your shoulder. “This is what you’re made for, kiddo.” Mav’s words seemed to soothe your anxiety like a balm, you didn’t have to turn to look at him to know he has your back. “These loons don’t understand the art. You do.”

“What if I crash again?”

“Eject.”

You pulled yourself from the jet, looking to your father.

“Do you really think I could do this?”

He smiled, a comforting one. “I think you’re a Maverick.”

Your hand detached from the jet, your father’s hand left you and you didn’t feel alone. There was a comforting sense of grounding, knowing your duty, equipment, and service were all muscle memory. That your support was a short radio call away. A gentle look in your eye and Maverick nodded, turning and walking back down the tarmac - you turned away when you saw Ghost’s figure approach. You climbed the steps up, just a couple of them, so you could see into the canopy. You tossed your padding down, ready to strap it in when you were finally in.

There was panic in your nerves, fear in your heart, and you felt your lover’s hand gently squeeze your calf. In normal circumstances, that was him practically shoving his tongue down your throat. Right now? He was showing Simon, not Ghost. Turning to look down at him, you felt your heart lurching at the way his brown eyes looked like honey in the morning sunlight.

“Just a medic, hm?”

A simple breathless laugh escaped your lips before you pressed them together, inhaling deeply through your nose before exhaling.

He gently squeezed your calf again. “We can leave.”

“Yeah, right.”

“We can. You and me.”

Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, glancing up to look at the sea of F-18s before looking back down at his skull mask. “What, and get court-martialed?”

He shrugged. “What’s a couple of charges? We’re war criminals. M’not worried about it.”

A huff escaped you, sounding half like a laugh as a smile broke on your lips. “I’m fine, Ghost.”

“Mercy-”

“I’m okay. Really.” Simon’s eyes seemed to dart all across your face - he knew you were lying. He knew you. You hated that he knew you so well, but it was one of the reasons you stayed. Why you keep fighting for the relationship, even if you don’t feel like he trusts you with his life. “You gonna watch me?”

There was a pregnant pause, he blinked slowly before answering. “Yes.”

“I’ll do a trick for you.”

“Hold you to it.” A gentle squeeze of your calf and he leaned forwards, pressing a quick kiss to your leg through the mask before looking back up at you. “Be good.”

Heat rose into your cheeks as you softly whispered, “Love you.”

His eyes crinkled a little. He’s smiling.

Ghost turned away, leaving the line of F-18s to stand in the hangar again with your executioner - who was waiting patiently for you to fail or crash and burn. Pulling yourself up and into the cockpit, you tugged the helmet snuggly to your head; attaching your air mask to the port beneath your seat, buckling your five point harness, then looking back up to the sea of levers and buttons. First, close the canopy.

The bulletproof glass enclosure descended, locking into place and leaving you in the one place you dreaded to be, but also felt at home in. Next, start left engine.

Pressing it, you felt a jolt as the engine roared to life. It rumbled lowly at its minimum power to warm up, the jet jolted again as you started the right engine. Doubling checking fuel gauges, weight sensors, making sure the weapons were disengaged, and you had a clear connection to air control.

“Mission control, this is Reaper 6-0-3. Am I clear to taxi?”

Static for only a moment before someone responded, “Reaper 6-0-3, you are clear to taxi to runway B-2 right.”

“Thank you, Control. Reaper 6-0-3 out.”

With that, and your hand on the throttle, you pushed it forward slowly. You knew where to go from years of flying at this base, and the taxi didn’t take long. You were on the runway before you knew it.

A deep breath filled your lungs, your eyes closed for only a moment as you settled all the fraying nerves in your body. If you think while you’re up there, you’ll get killed. You moved every finger on each hand, every toe snug in your boot, felt the comforting weight of your pistol strapped on your hip, embraced the snugness of the harness, the searing feeling of your lover’s gentle and innocent kiss to your knee only ten minutes ago. Stretching your shoulders, wrists, and cracking your neck, you opened your eyes as you gripped the throttle.

“Reaper 6-0-3, you are clear for takeoff. Proceed…”

You tuned them out. With a second deep breath, you pushed the throttle all the way down. Gravity pulled you tautly into the back of your seat as the engines roared with a familiar intensity, both of your hands grabbed the joystick again and you pulled steadily back.

There is nothing like the feeling of leaving the sun bleached runways of Miramar, feeling each wheel leave the ground. The breath you were holding escaped with a rush, a smile adorned your face as warmth flooded your chest. A feeling of belonging. You were back where you were “meant” to be, and you were buzzing with the pride that you did it. You were back in a cockpit, in the air, the one place you loved to be.

“Tower, this is Reaper, requesting a fly-by.”

A little crackle on the radio, “Negative, Reaper, the pattern is full.”

You turned your aircraft, bowing back towards base, a smile on your face and saying to yourself, “Well, it’s time to buzz the tower.”

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