#tally mind is what we call this piece

[collectivelyxchaotic]

I don't think we're EVER finishing this so, might as well!

she thinks she's playing in a baaandd.. 🎵

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 06. TIME CAN NEVER MEND

a/n: so before you dive into this i'm gonna warn you that it's not happy. we have reached the level of angst needed to start this story on it's final arc. the one that changes basically everything. i've put a lot of angst into this, because that's what it called for and well...if you've been here for awhile you know i love my angst. i'm sorry beforehand and can promise a happy ending. but these two have to suffer first.

summary: logan howlett is happy. he's content. by all definitions...he's found the reason for why he's still alive and it all leads down to you. yet time is a fickle and cruel being and she's decided his time for peace must come to an end.

word count: 7k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, angst, a heaping of angst so bitter you will yell at me, oral (f receiving), face riding, overstimulation, wade wilson, mutant powers, violence, tw: blood, tw: gore, trauma resurfacing, ptsd, insanity, tw: torture, cliffhanger, BE WARNED PLEASE DON'T SKIP OVER THESE.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

Silence filled his mind, darkness an endless expanse behind his shut eyes. He couldn't remember the last time the world fell quiet. Piercing through him with a serenity he fought his entire life to acquire. Nightmares were an expected routine that came to him constantly with a bitter echo of things he couldn't change; people he never saved.

He couldn't recall sleeping without them. Not since he was a sickly child in his father's house—fighting fevers that were caused by a mutation he didn't know existed.

Eventually the world would rip a part his bubble of safety—expose him to horrors he never thought imaginable. He'd struggle against it. Bite, snarl, fight his way through the pain like an animal who'd been caged for far too long. There would be no light at the end of his tunnel. No peace for the man plagued by promises he longed to break—a vow he didn't intend to make.

Only to be found by the one person he thought was lost to his world.

A love that lingered in the shadows of his heart. Bringing back the flame of a torch that blew out the night he lost everything.

He awoke to the warmth of your body tangled with his. His heart didn't race with the anticipation of a battle that didn't exist. His claws were safely stored away in the depths of his arms, and for the first time...his soul didn't scream in agony for help that would never arrive. You shifted with a puff of air, a grumble building in your throat at the morning chill. He watched in rapture—his fingers trailing down your spine.

The clock read eight in the morning. Plenty of time for you to sleep in given it was your last day off. So Logan remained still in order to not disturb your peace. He sucked in slow breaths as you pressed your cheek to his chest—arm wrapped around his waist and legs tangled with his. Each small shift of your face, the furrow of your brows and quickening of your heart, let him know you were trapped in a dream.

Good or bad he couldn't tell.

What did you dream about? What ran through your mind when sleep washed over your body?

He made a mental note to ask when your eyes finally cracked open. The spell of sleep lost, retreating to the depths of your mind till later. But for now he admired the shape of your face, the lilt in your eyes and curve of your lips. You were a painting come to life. An art piece stolen right off the walls of The Met.

How he managed to wind up here, waking up beside you, continued to baffle him the longer he thought about it.

Surely he committed too many atrocities to deserve this. Too many lives lost by his claws, too much pain wrought by his own actions. He shouldn't be allowed to lay here, holding you close with a reverence that he thought was lost to the tragedies of his past. He once counted the days until his death. Marked them off with a tally that seemed to only grow the longer he went.

Now he thanked whatever higher being existed for giving him this.

For gifting him you.

Another soft grunt left your parted lips, nose scrunching in distaste as you were roused from your sleep. He smiled at the sight of your eyes fluttering open, confusion flickering across your features for mere seconds before it all came rushing back. The time spent with Logan ravishing your body in this very bed, in the shower you shared. The sweetening ache between your thighs that practically called his name.

You sighed, glancing up at him with drowsy glazed eyes and a crooked smile. "Morning," you rasped, voice thick with sleep.

His heart twisted in his chest. A feeling he could only describe as love began to filter through his veins like an IV. Filling him with the fear that usually came with that four letter word—the terror of possibly losing this. He swallowed it down painfully, his hand moving to press at the base of your spine to pull you closer.

"Sleep well?" he rumbled, dipping down to catch your lips in a kiss.

The shower last night left your skin warm to the touch. Logan found he couldn't get enough of it. He curled himself around you, drawing your leg up to hook around his waist as a way to keep your skin against his. You hummed in appreciation, pushing your face up to meet his movements in kind.

Sunlight spilled into the bedroom with a familiar warmth. The window was shut and locked after yesterday's phone call. Yet the muffled echo of the world managed to slip through the cracks in the wood, echoing in your small bubble of serenity he longed to stay in. This felt like a hazy dream. One that clung to the edges of his mind, dripping small slivers of joy into his heart.

Logan longed to remain here. Buried in the bed with you wrapped tightly around him.

Eventually you parted with a soft gasp, your hips shifting subtly to relieve the ache that began to bloom and unfurl in your body. Even though you had more than your fill of him yesterday, you remained insatiable.

He couldn't say he was any better—his cock already twitching in interest. If he had his way neither of you would find the need to leave this bed; far more interested in how many more orgasms he could wring from your still spent body.

"I like this," you murmured against his cheek, fingers delving into his messy hair. "Waking up with you."

"Me too honey." He grinned when you kissed his chin, thumb running along the edge of his jaw.

A soft breath washed along his skin, sending chills down his spine. "How did you sleep?"

"No nightmares."

He felt you smile. "Are you lying to me Howlett?"

Fuck if you weren't the last thing he wanted to see at night and the first thing he was welcomed to in the morning. Something sharp pricked his chest, bleeding him of the doubt that might still remain. Lingering beneath the surface of too many broken promises and shattered versions of I love you.

This happened before. A love so deep he felt it solidify into his very mutant DNA. Back then he thought it would one day come to an end; finalize when he fucked up too many times for you to forgive.

Now he knew there was no end to this road that wound up with him alone. No version of the story where he sat at a bar somewhere in the back roads of nowhere, lamenting about a woman he once wanted to spend forever with. Whether he stayed young and you grew too old; there wouldn’t be a final page without him in your life.

What transpired here would knot the strands of fate together. So if one was sliced for the final vow of death. They both went together.

"I'm not lying," he confessed. "I didn't really dream of anythin' this time around."

You hummed, eyes opening to see the contented shine in his hazel eyes. "Don't tell me. It was because of me."

"I think it might be bub." His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, hand curving to cup your ass. "Guess you're my cure. Been lookin' for awhile."

"My bad Mr. Howlett," you breathed through a soft laugh that clenched around his chest. "I didn't mean to take so long, but you were kind of in a different universe."

"Technicalities."

"Yeah right! Technicalities my ass."

He dragged you across his lap with a muffled groan he pressed to your chest. "Could’ve found me all on your own honey. You just weren't looking properly."

The high gasp that filled the air left him with a gratification worse than his satiated hunger. He longed to devour you with a need that felt primal. As if the animalistic side of his body craved the taste of you spread along his tongue. You were the answer to every fuckin' prayer he sent out. The embodiment of what his heart had been missing.

"You're right." Your words were shaky, eyes growing dark with lust when you felt his cock press against your slick folds. "I'll do better next time."

He growled, low and desperate; his hands now clamping down on your hips until pain flickered beneath the surface of your already tender skin. "There'll be no fuckin' next time."

"No?" The grin on your lips made him leak against your thigh. "I'm sure there's more than one James Howlett in the infinite number of universes. And who knows, you might not be enough to satisfy my insatiable needs."

Rolling to his back, he took you with him, even as you yelped in an attempt to pull away. You were trapped against his body with no chance of escape, yet running from him was never a choice. This was your safe place. Against his body that offered warmth and solace—a promise of more wrapped in a gentle touch and heated kiss.

He tugged you up his body, smacking your ass as you climbed to sit on his chest with a breathless smile. The sight alone made Logan's heart stutter. His eyes wide with awe—a semblance of adoration that existed solely for you.

"Insatiable huh," he mumbled against your thigh. "Alright honey. C'mere then."

"For what?"

His thumbs indented the skin of your hip, a smile curving over his lips. "I haven't had my breakfast yet."

The realization dawned on you slowly. Your eyes widened, scent growing heavy in the air, and Logan longed to stay here for the rest of his life. Beneath the weight of your body on his—the comfort of your hands cupping his face. Your slick pooled on his chest; a sign that you were in fact interested.

"A-Are you sure?" you breathed.

His teeth sunk into your wrist gently, causing you to jolt. "Fair's fair baby."

Your own words caused heat to spill beneath your skin; you shifted—eyes wanton for what was about to come. "Touché."

Shifting up higher with a hesitancy that turned his mind feral, you situated yourself close to his mouth—barely hovering over his face. With a growl, he looped his arms around your thighs and yanked you down. His mouth sealing over your dripping cunt with a moan of satisfaction. The cry that fell from your lips made his cock twitch against his stomach; the heady tang of you exactly what he longed for.

He was messy with it. Devouring you with abandon, tongue slipping through your folds with little grunts that sent sparks down your spine. When he sucked your clit into his mouth you were done for.

"Oh fuck Logan-" The breath caught in your throat, head tipping back with each swipe of his tongue along the pulsating nerve.

Without realizing it, your hips began to drag along his mouth, chasing the quick building release that threatened to drag you under. He growled—fingers a bruising grip on your skin—with each swivel of your hips. High pitched moans echoed in the room loud enough to resonate through the whole of your apartment.

"Please-" Logan watched—eyes drooped and a red flush across his cheeks—as your body curved towards him, your hand gripping the top of your headboard. "'M gonna. Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

His tongue plunged into you, thumb snaking around to rub harshly against your clit. The long drawn out moan he mumbled into your cunt is what finally broke you. Ripping the release from the base of your spine as you cried out—your hips nearly suffocating him with how you pressed down on his tongue.

Aching for whatever he had left to give you.

Logan drank you down with stunted moan, his cock leaking into the trail of hair on his stomach. But he couldn't fucking care about that. Not when you were gifting him with a nectar that would put the gods ichor to shame.

"Oh...baby," you murmured, eyes staring at the way his cock jumped each time his tongue slid against you.

Before he could turn you away—explain that he was okay and push it off as a natural reaction to you—your hand was wrapping around him. The wet slide of his precum now enough to fuck into your fist with ease. He'd allow you to touch him for a few minutes before deterring you the kitchen. Give you a fill of what need still remained.

He was perfectly okay with finishing himself off.

What he didn't expect was your thumb to settle between his balls, rubbing at a spot that made him see white. A broken feral sound echoed against your inner thigh—his teeth clamping into the skin—as he came across your hand. Spilling down onto his stomach and hitting his chest with a withered shout.

You rolled off him, panting and covered in a sheen of sweat. Logan could barely feel his fucking legs.

"The fuck was that?" he rasped, eyes cracking open to blearily see your prideful smile—teeth digging into your bottom lip while you eyed the mess on his torso.

"How'd it feel?"

"Like my fuckin' body isn't workin'."

You giggled, soft and sweet. A stark contrast to the way you made him cum fast enough to put a hole in his heart. He'd never gotten off so quickly. Yet there you sat, leaning against your pillows, and staring at him as if he'd hung all the stars in your night sky.

He very well would have if you asked.

"I can cook this morning," you offered, snuggling back against his side with a contented sigh.

"Just give me a minute honey and I'll get us food."

"You don't have to cook."

He silenced you with a kiss, your body melting into the mattress at the taste of you on his tongue. "Rosemary's. They still sell breakfast?" When you nodded he planted a kiss on your forehead. "Alright. Soon as the feeling in my legs returns I'll get us some food."

"Okay," you laughed with a kiss to his shoulder. "I like the sound of that."

The television blared loud enough to bounce off the neighbors walls. A loud and rather obnoxious theme song for a reality show. A steady stream of muttered cuss words overlapped the music as another piece of wood clattered to the floor. The screws with it scattered on the shitty coffee table found in the back alley of the building.

"Ugh. Don't hand over the rose!" Wade shouted, throwing a handful of popcorn at the screen. "Clearly they don't belong together. For fucks sake. I swear the bachelorette always settles."

Althea sighed, fingers sliding along the wood in search of a single screw that might be near. "I thought you said you wanted to help me with this."

"I am!" he mumbled through a mouthful of popcorn. "Moral support. You're doing great, just a little more to the left. Almooooost got it-"

She grumbled snatching up the silver piece, locating the wood by her feet. "Next time I'm evicting your ass so you can find someone else to annoy."

"Hurtful. Who else would provide you quality entertainment better than moi?"

"A rock."

"Wrong." He shoveled another handful in his mouth. "I've worked with the man. Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson is not as funny as he might appear. And starring in Fast Five doesn't count." His eyes flicker to the side, smile forming around his swollen cheeks. "To be honest I couldn't tell who was who between three bald men. Clearly that franchise has a type."

"Clearly I need a better system."

"Well of course you do. The shelf is upside down. No, the other way. No. The other way-"

A blinding flash of blue light burned through the living room, searing a hole in the hardwood floor. Wade clambered to his feet, gripping the ceramic bowl with white knuckles. His heart hammered in his chest, mouth dry as he scanned the room for some form of defense.

The closest weapon remained his katanas, propped against the door frame leading to his bedroom. He glanced at them—calculating whether to leap now or wait.

A whip ignited in blue sparks flew from the gaping hole in the air, striking his body and forcing him into the air. He hit the wall with a grunt; the bowl now severed in two on the floor.

"What the fuck!" he groaned, stumbling to his feet. "Al! You okay?"

"Who did you piss off this time?" Althea called, gripping her cane as he staggered towards her, leading her to the bedroom.

"Some fucking Asgardian apparently." A quick glance back revealed someone stepping through—their body encased in ripples of sapphire. "God where's Thor when you need him?"

The bedroom door slammed shut, Althea locking herself in as Wade yanked the katanas from their sheaths. He half expected to see the face of a pissed god coming to enact revenge. He felt his body tense as he prepared for a fight. Only for a hood of blue and gold to be pulled back; your face staring directly at him with milky eyes of white.

"You're not Asgardian."

A sneer crossed other you's face as the whip snapped against the floor, rippling in the space around him. He felt it tug along his body, aging his face with spots that wouldn't show up for decades to come. They healed as you pulled the weapong back; the blue wrapping its way up your arm.

"Where is he?" Your voice bled with a bitterness that punched his stomach. An anger he once felt before.

Whoever stood before him now was not the sweet angel he knew. The scarred skin along your body explained enough of what he needed to know. This was a sign of who you once belonged to. Who the humans hunted. The embodiment of time had become their prey, their plaything. You were the lamb given up for slaughter; the lover scorned and tossed to the side by a man who ran to a different universe.

"Mind giving me a name?" Wade knew who you were asking for. But he also knew Logan lay across the street wrapped in the arms of a you who couldn't protect him.

Your eyes narrowed, the flicker of blue flashing in what used to be the iris of your pupil. "I believe you know him as Wolverine. However...I knew him as Logan."

"Right." He gripped the handle of his swords with cold palms—his eyes flicking to the side where his window was pulled wide open. "Have you tried the yellow pages?"

A scream tore from your throat as you charged—whip sliding across the floor to wrap around Wade's legs. He rolled to the side, katana cracking through the floor to steady his movements. He cursed under his breath at the sight of the burn marks that now spread all the way up to his ceiling—the flicker of your whip lifting in air again.

"Listen you Wonder Woman wannabe. I'm sure we can talk this out rather than fucking me in the ass with the deposit of my apartment!"

Your lips curled into a grin—teeth flashing white. Wade could practically feel them dig into his jugular; all too prepared to rip it from his neck if given the chance. This wasn't a battle to see who could make it out alive. This was a warriors death.

This was you being merciful.

"We had a Deadpool like you on my Earth." He tried to dodge the slice of your whip, but felt it clamp down on his arms, yanking them forward as your hand cupped his chin—nails plunging into his cheeks until blood sprouted to the surface. "Annoying. Less than average IQ. I had such fun sending him to the Void."

The dull throb of pain bit at his face the harder you clutched him. Eyes still a flash of sapphire on an otherwise empty pale eyeball. In the picture Logan showed him, this wasn't how you looked.

The scar that ran from your forehead to chin seemed new—barely healed over. You were nothing like how Logan described you. No light in your smile, no hint of hope or joy.

Whatever happened left you buried so deep in grief and pain there was no chance of digging you out.

"On behalf of my people...fair. We aren't intelligent collectively as a group. Individually we're probably...not better. But as Deadpool Prime-"

"Fuck you're even more annoying than your variants," you growled.

The whip looped around his body, growing with heat as blue flickered in his vision—pulling tight each time you wrapped it around your wrist. His wince of pain brought the malevolent smile back to your lips. Your milky white eyes flashing as you watched him intently. Waiting for a sliver of anguish to cross his scarred face.

Instead his body twitched, a groan ripping from his throat. "Is this the lasso of truth?"

You sneered. "It's a slice of time."

"Because yes, I did steal Captain American themed condoms from the gift shop at the Smithsonian. I thought they would make me fuck like Steve Rogers. But instead they just gave me a rash-" His words devolved into a piercing scream—the once bright hue of his eyes now fading the more his body aged.

The katanas clattered to the floor as you drew him closer, wrapping the whip around his arms tight enough to slice off his blood flow. He struggled—face red and teeth bared—to rip himself free. To stop the aging of his body before it was too late.

He'd endured pain before. The travesty of each wound his body would heal over still burned bright in his mind. But this felt as if he was being crushed under the weight of the universe. The strangled scream you pulled from his chest left him sagging against the hold your whip had on his limbs. Eyes bleary with tears as you stepped back and pulled.

Limbs tore from his body, blood pooling on the floor, as his arms were flung across the room. Blue fizzled in his vision, body struggling to stand upright. And you turned with a flourish—the flutter of energy pouring out into the room around you.

"I'm not going to ask again Wade Wilson."

He weakly laughed. "Look Doc Brown I can't help you with your revenge plan."

The tilt of your head shouldn't have looked so innocent. But all he could see—all that ran through his mind—was a version of you that remained loving. Hopeful. The variant who gave Logan a reason to live. Wade wasn't about to let that slip through either of their fingers; you were too vital to give up.

Even if it meant he might never heal from the one wound that threatened to shove him directly into Death's hands.

Time.

It remained his greatest enemy. Yet there he stood, facing it with a smile.

"Pity." You snapped the whip on the floor, advancing on his broken form with a grin. "Send my regards to your fallen variants."

"If I find a way to come back from this. Expect me to fuck your ass up." He sighed, shutting his eyes. "That sounded wrong. Do I get a do-over on last words?"

He stiffened, waiting for the blow that would be delivered without mercy. But you stopped. Froze in place as you looked out the window—body stiff and breath caught in your chest at the sight. Wade's heart dropped when he turned, staring directly at the you he knew. The lovely angel who stood near the window wearing Logan's flannel, a mug of steaming coffee in your hand and a smile on her face.

"Fuck," he spit, moving to step in and block your view.

No words were spoken, but Wade could feel the anger fall from your body in waves. A rage that made him sick to his stomach. Not only did you arrive in search of your lost lover. But a mirror image of a healthier—a happier—version of yourself stood in an apartment across the street.

"Wait. She didn't do anything wrong. She doesn't know anything-"

Your hand flew up, a flash of azure blinded him—filling the room—and Wade felt time stop. He could hear the silence, the step of your feet, yet couldn't move his body as you lifted off the floor. Floating towards the window, you felt the particles of time slip through your fingers. Forming a bubble around your form as you broke the wall of the apartment with a slice of your whip.

The agony wasn't unknown to you as time froze; the people of New York stuck in their spots while you remained in the realm you knew well. Yet this pain—this never ending grief—formed like a pit in your stomach, growing the longer you stared at the person who stole your life. The false version that wore your face, loved the man you once claimed as your own.

You were plunged back into the frozen depths of that night. When your family was torn from your life and Logan left you in shambles.

The window shattered, glass stuck in place until you pushed past it, your feet setting down on the floor of an apartment that smelled eerily like cigar smoke. Logan's flannel hung off your variant's body with such ease. Memories of mornings spent like this, indulging in coffee he made as he went off to teach, left a bitter taste on the back of your tongue.

How dare he discard you to the side.

How dare he love you in another universe when you still lived.

How dare he replace you with a new version, not yet broken by his mistakes.

The tears flowed down your cheeks, hot and unforgiving. Yet you could do nothing but watch as the smile on your variant's face burned bright in the room. He made this version of you happy. Yet couldn't be bothered to remember the mutant you. The one who longed for his touch, for his love.

For his forgiveness.

"He loves you," you murmured, gently touching your variant's cheek. "He loved me once."

Time flickered, a mere second being allowed to pass. But that remained enough. Your variant's eyes flicked up, shock forming in the iris at the sight of a battered and destroyed mirror image stand before you. If the iris of your eyes could be shown, the sorrow would bring the both of you to your knees. The anger that dripped into your heart with a vengeance.

Death didn't seem a kind enough gesture for the version of you that got to live her happily ever after.

You wanted Logan to keep her. To try and save her from the depths of your soon to be shared darkness.

The mark on your neck burned as you stared at the spotless skin. Free from the horrors. Free from a past you'd never endure.

You were perfect.

It made bile crawl up the back of your throat. The fear in your variant's eyes filled your stomach with a satisfaction that you clung to. The first glimpse of dopamine after years of fighting the darkness in your own mind.

Your nails scratched along the skin of your variant's cheeks. Digging into the flesh with a smile.

"Don't worry," you murmured, allowing the shackles you held on time to fall away. The gasp ripped from your variant's mouth as you gripped her. It swirled with joy in your heart. "We'll both make him regret his choice."

The apartment greeted him with a sickening echo of silence. He dropped your key into the bowl by your door, the bag of food still clutched tightly in his hand, as he allowed his claws to slide free on the other. His breath stuck to his chest, the hair on the back of his neck rose with each step he took. Something was wrong. Yet for the life of him...he couldn't find an explanation.

Your scent was stale. An hour old.

Where he expected to find the sweet echo of your heartbeat somewhere in the apartment; he was met with the chilling realization that you weren't here.

"Honey," he called, his voice lower than intended. "You here baby?"

Logan's heart ached when he was met with a response of nothing. Merely air that didn't carry the sound of your voice, nor the scent he'd grown accustomed to. What was he supposed to do when the emptiness was all the world offered? When the echo of his nightmares suddenly bled into reality.

He set the food on your kitchen table, yanking his phone out of his jacket pocket he slammed his finger on your number. The only one programmed into the damn thing. The incessant ring suddenly never sounded so threatening. So malevolent as he waited with baited breath for your voice to filter through the other line. Loud and clear without a single thing to fear.

When the shrill buzz of your own phone came from the bedroom, Logan felt the familiar cold drip of fear begin to slip down his spine. He struggled to maintain his breathing as he walked towards the room. His claws out—ready to attack at whatever came near him.

The empty bedroom—sheets in a laundry basket and comforter a tangle on the bed from this morning—felt like an icy pick in his chest. You weren't here. And Logan knew there had to be a logical explanation as to why this was.

You left for a reason.

You wouldn't simply offer up silence on a silver platter and expect him to take it with a smile.

You weren't that type of person.

Yet no matter how long he wracked his brain, he couldn't come up with a valid reason as to where you might be. Expecting to see you through the window at Wade's place, Logan rushed to the frame. Only to feel the crunch of glass beneath his feet—the panes shattered and crushed on the floor. Your favorite coffee mug severed in pieces beside it.

"No," he breathed, eyes wide and hand plagued with a tremor of fear as he knelt to grip the porcelain shards.

The terror he fought against for so long slammed into his body with a roar. It forced him to look. To see the truth that he could no longer deny. You didn't leave. You weren't gone of your own volition.

You...weren't safe.

"Fuck," he spit, shutting his eyes as the sting of tears began to prick behind his eyelids. "No. No. No."

"How touching."

The sound of your voice made him whip around, eyes wide and heart racing as he prepared himself to apologize for whatever made you leave. But the face that came into his sight wasn't the you of this universe. Pain sliced his gut as the version of you he couldn't save—the woman he would once die for—smiled at him.

"Fortuna," he said in a breath, eyes trailing down your figure encased in ripples of blue. Your eyes were white—devoid of any emotion. Yet he could feel your bitterness; the hatred that still existed from that night.

Your lips formed a pout, boots echoing against the hardwood floor like bullets firing from a gun. "What? No more honey?"

He flinched when your hand came up to cup his cheek. "What are you-"

"Doing here?" You smiled, blue flashing in the iris of your eyes. Logan felt his body sway with grief—the emotions he swallowed for years now hitting him with a force he never thought possible. "Why...I'm here for you baby."

"Fortuna-"

"Don't call me that." You gripped his chin, dragging him down to face you. "That name never used to leave your lips before. Why now?"

"Where is she?" he bit out, claws begging to take a slice out of your body.

Your voice was filled with mirth. Logan had never heard you this way.

So...deranged. Unhinged.

Whatever happened after you left had pushed you past the edge of what sanity still remained. The brink you toed even when you were together. He could see it in the scars that littered your arms, the long mark along your face. You weren't the woman he once loved. You weren't even the same fucking person.

His eyes trailed further, down to the collar of your suit, until he latched onto the scar that nearly had him staggering away to vomit. Burned onto your skin was a mark to represent who you'd been at one point. Who you would forever remain. The X, a stitched over wound that didn't have the proper time to heal.

The humans broke you. They destroyed the woman he once knew.

Logan felt anger burn in his heart at the realization.

"You mean my replacement?" you spit, shoving him away. "And here I thought you were still nursing your wounds in some fucking bar Logan." The whip twined around your waist sparked to life. "Forgive me for believing you cared."

"You're insane." He stumbled back at the first lick of your power stretching to touch him. "Charles warned you about what your powers would evolve into. He begged you not to go down this path."

Laughter pierced his eardrums—the fury biting at his heart as you cupped his cheeks and shoved your face into his. "Do you know who else begged Logan? Jean. Storm, Scott, Rogue, Bobby-"

He ripped himself away. "Shut the fuck up!"

"They screamed for you Logan!" Time began to slow, slip through his body and tear at the flesh that never aged. "They begged me to help them, to stop their attackers. And what could I do? When I was stuck in the future! But you. You could have saved them. You fucking worthless bastard!"

Blue filled his vision, his body sagging against your hold, as you ripped at his mutant gene with a ferocity that left him beyond saving. This was your last play. The final card you never intended to show him.

"Please-" he gasped, refusing to fight back.

How could he? When his heart still called your name, no matter the universe.

You were his. The person who held every piece of his heart to kill on a whim if you so wished it. The woman who he'd die beside.

He just never thought it would be your mutant variant. He never expected you would be the one to deliver that final blow.

Air filled his lungs when you pulled away. His body healing instantly—the spots of age now fading along his paled skin. Whatever you had planned, it wasn't going to start with his death. Logan knew you better than you knew yourself; a fact you seemed to have forgotten.

You may have been kind—loving once. But final grand shows of vengeance were your ploy. No matter the situation...you wouldn't give away the ending even if he begged.

He fell to his knees, gasping for breath. "Where is she? I-I'll...do anything-"

"You love her," you murmured, regarding him with an expression of pity.

"Yes."

"What a shame."

His head rose, eyes wide as time began to slow. "Fortuna-"

"I'll give her your regards Logan." Your lips pressed to his cheek, breath a familiar warm caress against his skin. He felt his heart shatter.

"Fortuna!"

Staggering to his feet—his heart trapped in his throat—he felt time stop. And any hope he held in his heart...ceased to exist.

The crack of wood jolted you from the darkness you were trapped in. Fear trailed up your spine, wrapping around your heart tight enough to blister in searing pain. Your wrists and ankles were bound, body attached to a chair, and you blinked through the haze to see an empty abandoned room. The cold air stung the bare skin of your thighs as you sat there encased in only Logan's flannel—your skin raw from the rope.

Broken furniture was scattered through the room. A couch stripped of its fabric, walls with torn wallpaper, and you leaning against the wall your head cocked with intrigue.

"W-Who are you?" you stumbled over your words, shivering from the cold.

The echo of boots made the hair rise on the back of your neck, your eyes going wide at the sight of blue spilling off this person's frame. There was no need for her to answer. No response to give, because you knew who stood before you. She wore your face. Spoke in your voice and emanated a power you'd only seen once before.

"Logan once called me honey once," she murmured, milky eyes flashing blue. "He calls you that doesn't he?"

You nodded, shuddering as she dropped to squat in front of you, hands braced on the arms of the air. She didn't regard you with anger like before. Though it still lingered beneath the surface, she watched you as if you were someone to learn from. Someone to figure out.

"Why am I here?" you whispered, voice hoarse.

"Pathetic he would choose to love your kind. After what they did.” Fear struck your chest at the malice in her words, the wrath that now faced you head on. “You can call me Fortuna," she murmured, finger stroking down the side of your face. The place where no scar rested—no mark of torture that echoed from a past she couldn't escape.

"Please." The sting of hot tears burned your eyes. "I don't know what I did-"

A bark of laughter ripped from her throat. "Oh sweetie. You didn't do anything." She stood, loosening the whip from her body. "You're merely collateral damage. No need to take it so personal."

"Collateral-" You gasped as the whip flicked forward, wrapping around your waist. "Wait! Y-You're the woman Logan loved. He told me about you."

The smile that curved her lips forced nausea to the surface of your stomach. "Yes I suppose he would. So guilt ridden by what he couldn't do."

"It's not his fault."

Another laugh had tears slipping down your cheeks. "Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't have to. The humans were the ones to kill your family. Not him."

The whip tightened around your body, pain slicing at your skin. "Oh I'm very well aware of what the humans are capable of."

Scars littered her skin, some larger than others, and suddenly you understood what happened. What she meant by it all. Logan couldn't save her. He wasn't able to keep her from the human's harm. Because he decided to wallow in his own grief than share in hers.

Fortuna had become Logan's worst nightmare. His walking shame that continued to haunt him even in this universe. No wonder he felt so afraid of what might happen the longer he remained with you.

"Do you know this place?" She glanced at the room—the staircase that was tucked away in the corner that led to a second story. "An old farmhouse near the mansion. Abandoned here, but not where I'm from."

"It's..."

"Ours."

Your heart dropped, tears spilling over faster than you could stop them. "Oh..."

"He didn't mention that part did he human?" She stepped closer, leaning over your cowering form with a smile that you felt tear at your heart. "We were going to live here together. You see...I have the one thing you will never be able to give him." Her hand cupped your cheek, wiping at the tears with rough strokes. "I will never die."

You shook your head. "He doesn't-"

"Care?" She clicked her tongue, disappointment flooding her features. "He'll say that now human. But what happens when you're sixty? Seventy? What happens when you outlive the Wolverine? What will he do then?"

"The Logan I know wouldn't leave me because of time."

"I am time," she snapped, gripping your chin. "I have lived as long as he has. I will continue to live even longer. Time means nothing when you are the physical embodiment of it."

"No-"

Wrapping the whip around her clenched fist, she pulled until the power began to split through your nerves. A sob broke past your cracked lips, pain burning through your body, lighting you with a fire only she could put out. She watched with a smile, her power flickering to life as the years began to seep from your body.

Second by second.

Minute by minute.

She stole what little time you could have held with Logan. What might have existed now began to bleed into the air as her whip cut into your skin. The crimson stain of blood seeped into Logan's brown flannel shirt, staining the fabric permanently. A scream tore from your throat—eyes squeezing shut as you tried to block out the sensation that intended to ingrain itself in your mind.

"You are nothing but a replacement." She yanked another inch of the whip closer to her chest—blood pooling beneath the chair and seeping into the wood.

"PLEASE!" you screamed, body wracked with tremors that weren't there before. White began to seep into your hair, streaking down to the base in a long strip—staining you with an age you might never reach. "Please! I-I'll do anything."

She tutted under her breath, her face now at your eye level. "That's where you're wrong. You can't do anything that hasn't already been done honey."

Tears blurred your vision. "W-What?"

"He wouldn't save me." Silence echoed in the still air of the room. The pain slowed to a dull ache as you slumped forward. "So I'm going to make sure he can't save you."

"N-No-"

"Like I said...collateral damage."

Your scream pierced the air like a knife, shattering what peace might have remained, as time began to form around Fortuna. Permanently altering the future that once shone with a light by plunging it into a darkness with no escape. And you were trapped in the center. Unable to claw your way free, to break from the one thing no one could run from.

A hell of time’s own making.

note: i am sorry. we will have a happy ending. just not yet.

[whatsnewalycat]

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure. 

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact. 

So it begins. 

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office. 

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?” 

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.” 

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?” 

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.” 

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.” 

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.” 

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.” 

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat. 

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.” 

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her. 

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings. 

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor. 

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface. 

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?” 

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?” 

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers. 

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.” 

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you. 

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that. 

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant. 

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it. 

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm. 

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray. 

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait. 

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer. 

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open. 

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him. 

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?” 

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort. 

So fucking professional. 

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.” 

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.” 

“I can smell.” 

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional. 

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression. 

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.” 

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door. 

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do. 

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning. 

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor. 

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy. 

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again. 

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest. 

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything. 

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy. 

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford. 

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided. 

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh. 

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes. 

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?” 

“What’re the options?” 

“Chicken roulade or salmon.” 

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder. 

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?” 

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.” 

“Dining room or room service?” 

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.” 

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?” 

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—” 

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.” 

“But still—” 

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.” 

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.” 

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.” 

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way. 

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you. 

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation. 

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table. 

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting. 

“Dieter.” 

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?” 

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?” 

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.” 

“You could eat out here.” 

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.” 

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him. 

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.” 

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.” 

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality. 

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you. 

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?” 

“I… shouldn’t.” 

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision. 

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there. 

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.” 

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping. 

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass. 

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable. 

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile. 

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.” 

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.” 

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?” 

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?” 

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.” 

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to. 

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.” 

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head. 

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.” 

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.” 

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like. 

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.” 

— 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING 

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting. 

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?” 

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.” 

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?” 

“Help yourself.” 

“Do you want one?” 

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy. 

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial? 

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office. 

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?” 

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape. 

“Right now?” 

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question. 

“Can I shovel first?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room. 

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?” 

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet. 

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest. 

What a fucking nightmare. 

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?” 

“The fan doesn’t work.” 

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.” 

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life. 

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches. 

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.” 

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales. 

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.” 

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake. 

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?” 

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit. 

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?” 

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.” 

“Whadda you mean?” you frown. 

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie. 

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?” 

You shake your head. 

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?” 

You nod. 

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.” 

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon. 

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.” 

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?” 

“Because we’re snowed in.” 

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.” 

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter. 

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—” 

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.” 

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?” 

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?” 

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat. 

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.” 

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?” 

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?” 

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?” 

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?” 

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?” 

“Here is fine.” 

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise. 

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box. 

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open. 

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup. 

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”  

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?” 

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.” 

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.” 

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.” 

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?” 

“In pictures.” 

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.” 

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble. 

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still. 

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter. 

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white. 

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party. 

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you. 

“Hey, you alright?” 

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling. 

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern. 

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire. 

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.” 

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him. 

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.” 

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.” 

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.” 

“Is that the shitty one?” 

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.” 

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.”��

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.” 

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”  

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.” 

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable. 

You have a big fat crush. 

So fucking professional. 

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face. 

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring. 

Curiosity prods your heart. 

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob. 

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut. 

Dusting it is. 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity. 

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you. 

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like: 

He-doesn’t-like-you 

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage. 

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him. 

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds. 

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something. 

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him? 

Can’t get far enough away from you. 

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock. 

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die. 

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock. 

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible. 

Well, he seems chipper. 

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area. 

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss. 

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway. 

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?” 

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.” 

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases. 

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!” 

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on. 

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.” 

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES. 

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room. 

“Want me to carry that?” 

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested. 

“No, I got it.” 

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.” 

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder. 

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms. 

“Were you painting?” 

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet. 

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.” 

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table. 

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside. 

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames. 

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?” 

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing. 

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.” 

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.” 

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs. 

He doesn’t, though. 

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment. 

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.” 

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?” 

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter. 

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?” 

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor. 

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone. 

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?” 

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.” 

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.” 

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?” 

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?” 

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?” 

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.” 

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.” 

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.” 

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.” 

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down. 

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?” 

“Will you be joining me?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease. 

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?” 

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.” 

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?” 

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?” 

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room. 

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?” 

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him. 

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation. 

“Fuck it, why not?” 

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.” 

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?” 

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.” 

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?” 

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.” 

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters. 

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?” 

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.” 

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other. 

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.” 

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”  

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair. 

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.” 

“To the possibilities.” 

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM 

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad. 

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more. 

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.” 

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?” 

“Can I open another bottle?” 

“Go for it.” 

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway. 

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark. 

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself? 

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room. 

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle. 

“Sorry. Habit.” 

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?” 

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.” 

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable. 

“Palm reading?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?” 

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?” 

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.” 

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs. 

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod. 

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm. 

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting. 

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy. 

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.” 

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.” 

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?” 

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them. 

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you. 

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though. 

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite. 

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his. 

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.” 

You do. 

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?” 

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.” 

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy. 

But really, you know he’s right. 

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life. 

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face. 

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.” 

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?” 

“But what if it’s right?” 

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in. 

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth. 

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer. 

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp. 

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake. 

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine. 

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?” 

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap. 

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief. 

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.” 

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.  

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?” 

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle. 

“Underwear too?”

He nods. 

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.” 

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.” 

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello. 

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.” 

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?” 

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.” 

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching  him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?” 

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.” 

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.” 

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly. 

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?” 

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah?” 

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length. 

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face. 

“God yes, please, baby.” 

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down. 

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair. 

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin. 

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in. 

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob. 

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan. 

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.” 

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?” 

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them. 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.” 

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.” 

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.” 

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?” 

“Is that weird?” 

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing. 

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?” 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you. 

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. 

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen? 

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut. 

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful. 

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions. 

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his. 

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.” 

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe. 

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?” 

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.” 

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving. 

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?” 

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?” 

“What’re you freaking out about?” 

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.” 

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?” 

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?” 

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.” 

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug. 

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.” 

“You do?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?” 

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.” 

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.” 

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?” 

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart. 

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.” 

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.” 

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter. 

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.” 

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.” 

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter. 

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday. 

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras. 

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen. 

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work. 

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky. 

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work. 

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner. 

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since. 

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it. 

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial. 

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?” 

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.” 

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.” 

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.” 

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.” 

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body. 

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.” 

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.” 

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302. 

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room. 

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp. 

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face. 

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.” 

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair. 

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.” 

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?” 

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

[stillnotyourmusebitch]

Oh. My god. Okay first of all, good morning. Second of all, I just blew my own mind.

imagine demon Adam seeing a wall painting of an angel and demon at war, initially looking at the sinner scornfully, until the reader comes up behind him and says “Those monsters are really scary… especially with those sticks.” and when those words sink in, Adam’s expression changes as his gaze shifts over to the exorcist in the painting and it hits him like a ton of bricks.

It’s for his character development

I love this idea so much. I added my thoughts too (Hope you don't mind)

----

I do feel like there would be a giant mural at the hotel (Alastor made this addition when he returned)

Adam would be mooching around the upper floors of the hotel. Not wanting to join in on the latest activity as it was hitting way too close to home and he was not ready to open the fucked up can of worms. So he wanders the halls until he finds a mural that depicts a sinner crawling bloody and begging towards heaven gates only to have his exorcists aiming their spears at this poor soul with the ground opening up behind them. Demons grabbing for the sinner's ankles.

"And they think we are the monsters."

Your voice breaks the silence making him jump.

"What did you mean? They are a sinner. " He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. Not knowing what to do with his hands.

"So are we. Yet they see that frightened new soul as nothing but a sinner and instead of offering a hand and fair judgment, they threaten their life. it's horrible." You don't like walking past this mural but seeing Adam staring intently at the piece. You had to check on him. He had all but sprinted out when Charlie told everyone what her lesson plan was. You had offered to go find him.

Adam's eyes flick back to the mural.

'Shit' he now focused less on his badass babes and more on the sinner, that could have easily been you or anyone in this hotel. Something clicked into place.

Yes, he had to be called to the gate with his girls when a sinner had rejected their unfair judgement and stayed pleading that they were good. He did love kicking those shitty souls down to hell. He'd even had a tally in his apartment with how many he got to personal boot into hell.

You touch his sleeve gently. Eyes snapping back on your worried face.

What if he was the reason you were down here. he would remember a face like you.

Right?

-----

I'm all for his character development. Demon!Adam would learn to be a better man although it would take some serious trial and error. Heavy on the error side but he would learn and grow in time.

(Sorry about the last ask turning into a ficlet)((and kinda again with this one))

[silvyavan]

New theory time before any leaks drop.

Had this one in the back-burner for a long ass time but now we're sitting down and writing it at last.

Each and every fight between the black bulls and the paladins of sort WILL have a devastating impact on Lucius and chip away at his mental stability and confidence. Each Lucius fight fuck him up mentally like taking the horcrux tally off of voldemort.

We'll start with the first one we know: Magna and Luck.

Chapter 369 Lucius' thoughts are first that from Magna's spell, his magic is split in thirds, then his regeneration being slow from antimagic, that they're chipping away at him and that he "only needs to endure it for a little while" before he can start fighting back.

The wording implies that Lucius just needs to endure it a little and he'll win. The problem? He doesn't, a clone gets busted up out of the 11 ones they have and the angel homunuclus amount dropped too damn fast. Magna and Luck aren't even done, I'm not sure if it's the panels or not but it looks like they're in the Black Bull Mecha too.

What does this mean? Magna and Luck fucked up his confidence in winning just with his clones so he started the shit early to finish it. Them beating the clone into the ground and at the end of the chapter, Asta saying "So which one of us has the advantage now?" Is telling Lucius that yhe plan is no longer in the position to just keep going with the plan. He can't wait out the clones to fuck them up, so he's panicking and starting the tree spell early.

And the same is gonna follow with everyone else.

Gauche will fuck up his confidence in being a proper elder sibling. Man's has in previous chapters stated that he and his siblings will remake humanity, but later it was shown he's got their bodies in cocoons and using their magic to make clones and homunuclus. Man's essentially walking around saying "this is for the good of the world" while desecrating the corpses of his siblings.

I know in my heart Gauche will call him a piece of shit brother. If dark triad being ..like that due to Lucius tempering with their souls, then it would also put him in shit brother category. It would also add to character development for Gauche, showcasing him becoming more aware of things outside of his sister and caring for other people while also not choosing to be narrow-minded in one thing/person entirely. I'm basing this off of the fact that he's teamed up with Rill, who's also very focused on his art but as a result his interpersonal life is struggling.

Plus Gauche big brotherism vs Lucius negative 2 star big brother behaviors would be hilarious.

Noelle, Vanessa and Grey together shit would be realising that him being a noble didn't mean shit for talent. He calls himself a prodigy that's able to purify devils, but Noelle didn't start off with even basic magic control, Vanessa was literally shut off from the rest of the world to make a red string of fate by her mother, the Witch Queen, and Grey, assuming her father is also a noble, was harassed for her magic and lack of ability to do anything or stand up for herself.

We know that the Zogratis were a noble family in Spade so it wouldn't be surprising that that added to Lucius' pride, and being a prodigy it would've elevated that he didn't have to worry about power coming to him.

A noble with social anxiety and ptsd, an alcoholic immigrant and a royal with an undiagnosed learning disability beating his ass would show that having a lineage ain't worth shit. None of them were remotely talented because of their lineages, they had gotten to the point where they were through their own efforts and challenging themselves.

Henry vs Lucius would be a disability on disability violence fight. AGAIN, showing that his disability, while it did hold him back, was not a definitive show that he had to do shit on his own. We could get a possible flashback of Lucius being abandoned by his parents, left to fend for his siblings, as a parallel to Henry being left to die in the house he had. The difference is that Henry was found by Yami, who reached out to him, and Henry never stopped hoping to have a family, even if one wasn't bound by blood.

The Lucius Clones vs Black Bulls quartet would be his realisation that you can get stronger by means that don't require you to be a genuis and he didnt. ALL of them have some form of unorthodox magic that, reasonably, couldn't have worked on the battlefield (ash, sealing, spacial with no offensive traits, cotton/cooking).

Considering Lucius has soul magic, he thought the only way to get magic would be to hijack other people's souls. Vs Finral, Zora, Charmy and Secre who at SEVERAL points in their flashbacks/backstories were alluded to being out down by others for having simple or weak magic types, but didn't give up and instead found to use their magic to help their allies in unorthodox means (traps, food buffs and sheep soldiers, sealing entities/enemies, speed boosting teleportation and likely more).

Yami, Ichika and Nacht? Something along parents being hoes isn't an excuse to be a sociopath witn a hint of scary magic doesn't define you as person. The fact this is Ichika saving Yami from someone he can't fight against (paralleling Yami protecting her from their dad) and Nacht stopping Morgen from doing something he's gonna regret (paralleling the Faust Devil Summoning Incident) is just chefs kiss.

You could also say that, since both of them were in devil related clans (Yami's being partially mixed with devil hybrids, Nachts family just being the Clover equivalents of Zogratis.), this could challenge Lucius' views that he HAD to fo some devil/forbidden magic shit to become stronger, because that's the type of family he has and that's the only thing his magic can do.

Gordon will fuck up his confidence in dealing with devils/curses, assuming the disability will also be a curse thing/metaphor/his curse and disability are a hint at comorbidies. The fact that Gordon is teamed up with William AND Charlotte? And being able to absorb their curses, taking off their supposed handicaps?

Gordon is handing this man the L, as well beating up some supposed idea of, since Lucius was cursed, he was shunned. William and Charlotte are both leaders in their respective squads, highly respected and looked up to, Gordon himself is part of the squad and he's cherished as well. The curse is not an excuse to act like an asswipe.

The fact that Noelle, Vanessa and Grey are paired on the same page spread as Gauche and Rill could hint at familial relations frictions, while Nacht and the In-Laws group and Gordon pulling up with the Cursed Captains Crew could allude to friction/trauma in relation to his family history/traditions.

Henry, Magna and Luck could hint at his struggles with managing his disability (Henry is chronically ill, Luck may have a neurological disorder due to ptsd, Magna needs glasses and has severe scarring on his head, likely brain trauma). The Zora, Finral, Charmy and Secre lineup could deal with his issues of being born with a seemingly strange and unorthodox magic and how he'd focus on developing it.

Asta and Yuno? Obviously dealing with his dreams, goals and aspirations as well as mental instability caused by all the aforementioned.

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

[chloessleepystories]

A New Treat

Mind control, Drugged, Female/Female

"Trick or treat!!"

A common scene in suburban Anytown, USA. Small children running from house to house, shrieking, parents walking along behind them. And two teenage girls, with a bit of gore makeup and torn clothes - just enough to suggest zombie versions of themselves, but not so much that they weren't still attractive - standing on a porch, in the light of an open door.

“Well, what have we here?” the man said, leaning on the door frame with an easy smile. “The sexy zombie, an excellent choice.”

The blonde one giggled. “You think we’re sexy, mister?” she said, throwing out a hip.

“Don’t be gross, Jess,” muttered the other zombie.

The man laughed. “You guys look great. How old are you? Still in school?”

“We’re seniors. We were supposed to go to a party, but our friends bailed on us after we already had our faces on, so we thought we’d take a walk, get some candy.”

“Wise choice. You haven’t had too much of ‘Aren't you a little too old for trick-or-treating,’ I hope...”

“Nah,” said Jess. “Once or twice, but overall, people have been really nice. What’s the harm, right? It's Halloween!”

“Exactly. And better than a lot of things teenagers could be getting up to. Hang on."

The man turned, and passed his hand over the big bowl of little candy before reaching into the little bowl full of big candy. He handed the girls a pair of chocolate bars.

"Full size candy bars? Awesome! Thanks!"

"Happy Halloween, you two. Have fun tonight."

He smiled, showing his teeth.

They waved, and hopped down the steps, giggling as they headed toward the next house.

The man closed the door slowly, watching them go. On the back of the door was a small chalkboard, with a piece of chalk attached by string. He carefully took the chalk and added two tally marks to the marks already counted there ...

***

The leaves were crunchy underfoot as Jessika and Dionne crossed the quiet suburban street. It was dark enough that there were fewer kids out now. Most of the younger ones had been taken home.

“My bag is getting heavy,” said Jess.

“Oh, poor baby! I’ve got so much candy, I can hardly carry it all,” laughed her friend. “ ‘I can’t close my wallet cuz it’s too full of fifties, and my diamond shoes are too tight.’ ”

“Stop it.” She gave Dee a playful shove.

It was a nice warm night, warmer than average for Halloween. A nice night for a nice walk with her best friend.

“I’m gonna start eating my candy, I’m hungry.”

Then they both shouted, “Hungry for SUGARRRRR…” One of their many pointless running gags, whose origins were lost in time.

“So what’s your boyfriend doing tonight?” asked Jessika, rummaging in her bag.

“Oh, you know, nothing much. Just being useless. Call of Duty, I think, or one of those games that’s more important than going to a party with his – What?”

Jess had let out a squeal. “I forgot about this! Lookit that big-ass slab of chocolate…” She produced the bar from the man they’d dubbed “Mr King Size” – a nickname that had kept them in stitches for blocks. “I’m starting with this … “

It was some kind of off-brand chocolate – not a name they’d ever heard of before. But that didn’t matter, “Chocolate Fog” was exactly what she needed right then. She tore it open and broke off a piece, then moaned, in shocked exuberance.

“Holy cow, what am I eating?! My mouth just had an orgasm!”

“Gimme!”

“You got your own …”

“One piece!”

“Damn, it even smells good. Here, smell it.” She held the chocolate under Dionne’s nose, and was a little impressed – and a little aroused – when she saw her friend’s eyes flutter. Dee’s mouth hung open a little, and her eyes glazed for a second.

“Oh, fuck, that smells divine. Where’s mine …”

Dionne had to fight back a sudden impulse to dump the whole bag out just to find the candy bar. She got on her knees on the sidewalk and dug around with both hands and it didn’t take long to find the biggest piece of candy. In seconds she had torn off one end of the wrapper, broken off a square, and stuffed it in her mouth.

“Oh godd why is that so good …” moaned Dionne, lying back on the sidewalk. “Am I just that chocolate-starved?”

“Get up, you lunatic!” laughed Jess. She had already chewed up a second piece, and was licking her chocolatey fingers. “Mmmm, I’m definitely going to have to find some more of these at the store …” She sucked on her fingers, not wanting to take them out of her mouth, in case she found a little more chocolate taste. “Geffup,” she said indistinctly, giving her friend a gentle kick.

Dionne leapt dutifully to her feet, and they walked on. “Here, I’ll show you good I think it is,” said Dee. She peeled back the paper and sucked on one end of the bar, then started pushing it slowly into her mouth. Her moans took on a sexual quality.

“Eww you’re disgusting!!” screamed Jess, finally taking the fingers out of her mouth.

Dionne put a hand to the back of her own head, and pushed her head onto the chocolate, simulating someone forcing it deeper and deeper into her mouth. Jess howled with laughter as she broke off another square.

Dee had felt the chocolate hit the back of her throat, just for a second, and now, as she pulled the bar slowly out of her mouth, strings of drool hanging between it and her lips, she panted. A light sheen of sweat showed on her face as they approached the streetlight, and her eyes seemed a little out of focus as she gasped breathlessly.

“Here, watch this,” said Jessika. The square had been melting between her warm fingers for a moment, but now she held it up to run her tongue over and around the dark chunk. Around and around her tongue swirled, as she made oral love to it, watching her friend with a smirk.

Dee licked her lips as she watched, mesmerized … staring at the chocolate. Staring at her friend’s tongue. Jess popped it into her mouth, and Dee, still not smiling, just watched. Watched her lips as she chewed, the tongue that came out to lick the lips … Then her eyes moved to Jess’s chocolatey fingers.

With a sudden grab for her wrist, she sucked Jess’s fingers into her wet, warm mouth. Dee’s eyes closed and she shuddered a little as she tasted the chocolate. Waves of pleasure tremored through her body and she moaned, and kept sucking, working her tongue between the fingers, poking her fingernails into the back of her throat.

“Oh god,” Jessika breathed, open-mouthed at this performance. Dionne really looked like a zombie for the first time all night – heavy-lidded, dull-brained, drooling, and needy.

Having her best friend suckle on her fingers was sending warm tingles through Jess’s core. A fluttering in her belly … and lower …

“Hey … Hey Dee –“ she gasped, pulling her wet fingers back to grab the chocolate bar. She broke off a piece, then waved in front of her zombified friend’s face. Dionne’s eyes followed it back and forth, her mouth open slightly. Jessika put it between her own lips, holding it in place with her teeth, and smiled.

Dionne didn’t hesitate. She moved in, kissing her friend passionately. They bit the chocolate in half and each kept chewing and tasting while sucking on each other’s tongues, hands groping their clothing, their skin …

Jess’s hand pressed into Dee’s cunt.

Dee lifted Jess’s sweater to squeeze her breast.

Jess bit Dee on the neck, licking and sucking.

Dee hungrily brought her lips to Jess’s nipple, even as she squirmed against Jess’s insistent fingers.

Jessika pulled her tight little sweater and bra over her head, smiling.

Dionne pushed her friend back into a huge pile of leaves, and leapt on her, devouring her juicy tits, lifting her skirt, ripping off her panties, and diving tongue first into the first pussy she’d ever tasted. It was juicy, and warm, and delicious, and her mind swooned with flavor and desire and need.

Jess held her friend’s head in place, humping against her lips, knowing her turn was next, needing to give as much as she was receiving.

Dee growled like a werewolf.

Jess screamed like a banshee …

Later, as they rested in the crunchy pile of leaves – feeling like children, but not at all like children, resting from their play that was more than play – Dee stroked Jess’s hair as Jess cooed and smiled muzzily.

“That was amazing,” murmured Dee. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Jess looked up, kissed her friend’s mouth. “Let me take you home. I’ll sneak you into my bedroom for a while before you have to go home.”

Dionne bit her lip, thinking. Her boyfriend wouldn’t even miss her.

“We’ve still got some of that chocolate left,” Jessika sing-songed.

Dee grinned. “Deal.” And they helped each other out of the leaves and into their clothes, and walked off hand in hand, to enjoy more of this new treat they’d found … each other.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Palestinian civilians panic and flee with children as Israeli occupation bombs and missiles rain down around them in the Jabalia Refugee Camp, in the North Gaza Governate, on Sunday. With nowhere left to turn to, the Israeli occupation forces target civilians wherever they hide. We had trouble even picking a video for this piece, as no short clip could ever properly display the horrors being inflicted on the local population of the Gaza Strip. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

CARPET BOMBING TARGETS NORTHERN AND SOUTHERN GAZA AS "ISRAEL'S" GENOCIDE CONTINUES ON DAY 219

On the 219th day of "Israel's" ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed 8 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of 63 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, and wounding at least 114 others.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted, as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

"The claim of 'safe zones' [in Gaza] is false and misleading. No place is safe in Gaza. Period."

This is the statement of Phillippe Lazzarini, the Secretary-General of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine (UNRWA), who describes Palestinian families with children, who seek shelter in blown out UNRWA schools and shelters with scorched walls, shattered windows and collapsed foundations following 7 months of bombardment by the Israeli occupation army.

Palestinians of all ages and groups grabbed what few belongings that remained with them through this genocide and began the trek to the next claimed "safe place" as ordered by the Israeli occupation forces (IOF), who demand their evacuation from Rafah to the already demolished town of Al-Mawasi, west of Rafah, and to the rubble piles that used to be Khan Yunis, where citizens took shelter in the blown out schools and partially demolished buildings of the UNRWA.

According to the United Nations agency for children, UNICEF, more than 100'000 Palestinians have evacuated Rafah over the last 5 days, as the IOF vastly intensified its air, missile, artillery and drone strikes on the eastern neighborhoods of Gaza's southernmost city, originally depicted as one of the "safe places" designated by the Israeli authorities, and the last city standing in the Palestinian enclave.

"For those of us who are working here, doing everything we can to keep the humanitarian response alive, we remain hopeful our calls for a ceasefire will be heard and acted on," said Hermish Young, a Senior Emergency Coordinator for UNICEF in the Gaza Strip, "but we're also braced for this senseless conflict to continue to shock even the most seasoned of us."

"More than 100'000 people have fled Rafah in the last five days and the stream of displacement continues," Young explained in an interview posted to the social media platform X.

"It's just a tragic situation and there's nowhere safe in Gaza for children," UNICEF's Gaza Coordinator said.

"For five days, no fuel and virtually no humanitarian aid has entered the Gaza Strip. Without fuel, the maternity wards, for example, in the Emirate Hospital, cannot function. And this is while approximately 80 babies are born there everyday," he added.

Meanwhile, the Israeli occupation's bombardment vastly intensified over the last several days, while the occupation army began a new incursion into the Jabalia Refugee Camp, in the northern Gaza Strip, where Palestinian Resistance forces regrouped and reestablished their control, according to the claim of the Zionist authorities who ordered the operation.

According to the occupation media, the 98th Division of the Israeli occupation army entered Jabalia overnight, with Israeli fighter jets and other military aircraft bombing some 30 sites, killing what they claim to be "several [Hamas] operatives."

The IOF claimed it had “intelligence information about the presence of terrorists and the restoration of terror infrastructure of the Hamas terror group in the area.”

At the same time, the occupation army's 162nd Division went on the attack in Rafah, in Gaza's south, still holding the Palestinian side the Rafah border crossing, as well as the Kerem Shalom crossing, preventing any and all aid from entering the enclave, where Palestinian families continue to suffer from extreme food insecurity.

Simultaneously, the Israeli occupation's 99th Division continues operations in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, where the occupation authorities also claim the Hamas Islamic Resistance group has reestablished control.

Across the entirety of the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces conducted a total of 150 airstrikes, slaughtering men, women and children alike.

On Saturday evening, occupation warplanes bombed a tent housing a displaced Palestinian family in the Al-Zawaida area, in the central Gaza Strip, resulting in the deaths of three civilians, and also wounding several others.

In a similar criminal atrocity, Zionist fighter jets bombarded a residential home belonging to the Al-Lawh family in the city of Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, murdering 9 civilians and wounding a number of others, including a young girl, and also demolishing their house and damaging nearby properties.

At the same time, another occupation airstrike targeted a civilian home belonging to the Al-Ashram family in the Al-Sabra neighborhood of Gaza City, mass slaughtering more than 10 civilians.

The Israeli occupation's murder campaign further intensified as the Zionist army launched violent barrages of bombs, missiles, drones and artillery fire on neighborhoods east of the Jabalia Camp, in the north of Gaza, killing and wounding large numbers of civilians.

The exact number of civilians killed remains unknown at the time of publishing, due to the continued bombardment of the neighborhood, preventing local paramedic and civil defense crews from reaching the sites of Israeli bombings.

Zionist forces also struck in the vicinity of local shelters in the central areas of the Jabalia Camp, while violent raids targeted the Ahmed bin Hanbal Mosque on Al-Sikka Street, east of Jabalia.

IOF fighter jets were also witnessed bombing the home of journalist Anas al-Sharif, a correstpondant with Al-Jazeera, also in the Jabalia Refugee Camp, marking the 143rd journalist murdered by the Israeli occupation army.

Warplanes belonging to the Israeli occupation forces also targeted several residential homes with massive firebelts, destroying dozens of houses in the northern Gaza Strip.

"Israel's" open genocide of Palestinians continued when Zionist warplanes bombed a residential building belonging to the Al-Hashash family in the Arraiba neighborhood northwest of Rafah City, slaughtering 9 civilians, with most of the victims being children, while several others sustained serious injuries and were taken to the Kuwait Specialized Hospital.

Additionally, occupation aircraft launched violent raids on the Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, while Israeli drones took pot shots at ambulances working for a UNRWA medical clinic in the Jabalia Camp.

The mass murder continued when Zionist Apache helicopters fired machine guns towards the outskirts of the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood of Gaza City, assasinating two Palestinians and wounding five others who were taken to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in Gaza City.

Later, several more violent airstrikes targeted civilian residences in the vicinity of the Hassan Al-Banna Mosque, in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, martyring one Palestinian and wounding at least six others, who were also taken to the Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital in Gaza City.

In yet another tragedy, local civil defense crews recovered the bodies of Dr. Mohammed Nemer Qazaat, a local physician, and his son, Dr. Yousef, also a medical doctor, after Israeli fighter jets bombed their home in Deir al-Balah, in central Gaza.

The father and son doctor pair, originally from the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City, were displaced and seeking shelter in Deir al-Balah at the time of their murder.

The Israeli occupation's genocide didn't stop there, the mass murder continued on Sunday morning when Israeli warplanes inflicted endless barrages of air and missile strikes on other various areas of Gaza.

As a result of the occupation's intense airstrikes on the town of Beit Lahiya, in the northern Gaza Strip, the bodies of no less than 12 Palestinian civilians were brought to Kamal Adwan Hospital in the same town, while dozens of others are feared to be trapped under the rubble of their homes and shelters.

At the same time, the Israeli occupation army expanded its ground operations in the Northern Gaza Governate, with incursions threatening Beit Hanoun and Jabalia, while occupation air forces bombarded schools sheltering displaced Palestinian families.

Additionally, in Gaza's south, medical sources with the Kuwait Specialized Hospital reported receiving 18 martyrs and 6 wounded civilians over the previous 24-hours, while the occupation's bombardment still continues in the area at the time of publishing.

Simultaneously, Zionist artillery detatchments shelled the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood once again, where at least 16 civilians are estimated to still be trapped under the rubble of their flattened neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City.

In the Central Gaza Governate, Israeli occupation Merkava tanks fired tank shells into Palestinian homes and buildings in neighborhoods east of Deir al-Balah and Al-Maghazi, though luckily, no casualties were reported in the shelling as of yet.

In further Zionist assaults on Gaza City, IOF fighter jets bombed multiple citizens' homes in violent firebelts on the Al-Sabra neighborhood, resulting in the deaths of three Palestinians, including at least one woman, while occupation artillery and helicopters continue firing on buildings in the Jabalia Camp, targeting anything that moves in the area.

Further attacks targeted the Al-Bureij Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, targeting residential homes in intense waves of bombings.

In response to the war crimes of the Israeli occupation, the Palestinian Resistance fired two missiles from the Gaza Strip into the city of Ashkelon, north of Gaza, in the occupied Palestinian territories, causing air raid alert to sound.

As a result of the attack, the occupation's Iron Dome air defense system shot down one of the missiles, while the other missile demolished an Israeli house and wounded at least three Israeli colonists.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the death toll among the local Palestinian population has risen to exceed 35'034 civilians killed, including upwards of 14'690 children and over 10'000 women, while another 78'755 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

May 12th, 2024.

#source1

#source2

#source3

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#source5

#source6

#source7

#source8

#source9

#source10

#source11

#source12

#source13

#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[666writingcafe]

RAD TV (Part Two)

Mephistopheles: Welcome to a very special edition of RAD TV. We are reporting to you live from the auditorium as voting for the bloody moon contest wraps up.

Rogmen: It's a close race for first place with Lord Diavolo, Lucifer, and MC vying for that coveted top spot. In fact, it's so close that the call can't be made until the final vote gets tallied.

Mephistopheles: Speaking of which, I believe the last person has just cast their vote.

MC: *walks up to them* Hi guys.

Rogmen: MC! What a nice surprise.

Mephistopheles: I take it you're the last vote, then?

MC: I think so. The Little D's took away the ballot boxes as soon as I put my slip in.

Rogmen: Well, we might as well take the opportunity to interview you as we wait for the final results.

Mephistopheles: If that's alright with you, that is. I know you weren't too keen the last time.

MC: I don't mind chatting for a bit. *pauses* Lucifer's glaring at you.

Mephistopheles: I'm not surprised. We've never gotten along all that well.

Rogmen: I can think of a few reasons why.

Mephistopheles: We are not here to talk about my relationship with Lucifer.

MC: Excuse me for a moment. *walks out of the frame*

Rogmen: For those watching at home, Lucifer is currently standing behind the cameraman with his arms crossed, and MC's trying to calm him down.

Mephistopheles: *mumbles* I really wish he would let me do my job.

MC: *returns* Sorry about that. He's been a bit twitchy lately. I had to tell him that I was doing this interview voluntarily.

Rogmen: He does seem rather protective of you.

Mephistopheles: Moving on from that little hiccup...MC, how have you felt about participating in this contest?

MC: Can I be honest?

Rogmen: Certainly.

MC: This whole thing has been rather exhausting, and I can't wait for it to be over. That isn't to say that I'm not grateful for all of the support I've received, because I am; I'm just ready for everyone to start acting normal again.

Rogmen: Completely understandable. The fact that you've maintained a level head says a lot about your character.

Mephistopheles: I agree. Throughout this entire process, you've stayed true to yourself, and I think that has drawn a lot of people towards you. You don't feel the need to put on airs in order to impress someone; you just come as you are.

MC: I appreciate you saying that.

Mephistopheles: It's the truth.

Little D. No 5: Mephisy, Mephisy!

Rogmen: Now, you know he hates that nickname.

Little D. No 5: I have the final results!

Mephistopheles: Thank you, Number 5. *sighs* I swear, he's worse than Asmo.

MC: *chuckles*

Rogmen: Do you want to do the honors, or shall I?

Mephistopheles: I got it. *unfolds the piece of paper, glances at the top of it, and looks directly into the camera* Excuse us for a moment.

For those watching at home, a "We'll Be Right Back" screen pops up and stays for a couple minutes. When RAD TV resumes, MC is no longer with the news anchormen.

Rogmen: We apologize for the unexpected break. We had to make sure that the results were accurate before reporting on them.

Mephistopheles: Without further ado, here are the final results of this year's bloody moon contest. In last place is none other than Solomon himself.

Rogmen: I tried telling him that he shouldn't host that banquet, but he didn't listen.

Mephistopheles: *runs through spots 19 to 11*

Rogmen: *provides commentary for each person*

Mephistopheles: At number ten is Beelzebub.

Rogmen: I'm surprised he dropped.

Mephistopheles: He had an incident at Deja Vu.

Rogmen: I see. *glances at the paper* You finished ninth.

Mephistopheles: That's higher than last time. In eighth place is Belphegor. He offered to clean up after Beel's mess at Deja Vu.

Rogmen: *glances at the paper again* Lucky seven goes to Satan.

Mephistopheles: Let me announce the results.

Rogmen: Sorry.

Mephistopheles: At number six is Simeon.

Rogmen: That's really good for an angel. Then again, he doesn't really act like his fellow brethren, does he?

Mephistopheles: That is a conversation for another day. In fifth place is Leviathan, and Barbatos is number four.

Rogmen: Speaking of which, he's headed this way.

Barbatos: *appears in frame briefly to whisper in Mephistopheles' ear*

Mephistopheles: It appears as though they've finished setting up.

Rogmen: Excellent.

Mephistopheles: For those wondering what is going on, there is currently a three-way tie for first place. As per the rules, a tiebreaker vote must be conducted to determine the final winner. We will cut away to the scene of that vote...now.

The location on screen has changed from the auditorium to a conference room, where MC, Lucifer, and Lord Diavolo are seated with a piece of paper and a pen placed in front of each of them.

Barbatos: *off-screen* You may now write the name of the person you think deserves to win this year's bloody moon contest amongst the three of you. Whoever gets two votes automatically gets the title of the most honored and respected individual at this school.

MC: *scribbles quickly and hands their paper to someone off camera*

Lucifer: *hands his vote in second*

Diavolo: *contemplates for a bit before writing down a name, making him the last person*

The camera pans over to Barbatos, who's seated across from the three finalists.

Barbatos: *accepts the pieces of paper from the person that collected them* Thank you. We have one vote for Lucifer, one for Diavolo, and... *trails off as he looks at the last slip of paper and sighs* I can't trust the three of you, can I?

The camera moves down to reveal the three slips of paper, each with a different name on them. Those familiar with their handwriting can tell right away who voted for who.

Barbatos: In the event of a failed tiebreaker vote, the rules dictate that each person must participate in a talent-based performance. For the three of you, I think a good old-fashioned dance battle is in order.

[ivanttakethis]

During Round 3 - Tov’s Log

Stasya (?) vs. Noora (?) - ??? Win

————————————————————

Backstage was a labyrinth of long hallways, narrow corridors, and limited signage.

Tov had gotten separated from Cassio shortly after they arrived, but she was determined to find her friend, with or without her guardian’s help. She had to.

This might be her last chance.

Every area was crawling with aliens and guards alike. At most a guard would turn to scan her, recognize the backstage access badge, and return to their business. The rest paid her no mind.

She could hear the distant roar of the crowd; the thumping bass of the music reverberated up through her feet and into her chest.

Round 3 would be over any minute now.

Tov pushed open a stairwell door and took the steps up two at a time.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The medical band on her wrist beeped in warning. Her heart rate was higher than normal.

Probably because of the lack of sleep. Or the physical exertion. Or the deep-seated panic that sunk its teeth into her bones when she last saw Moran’s tear-streaked face and hadn’t let go. Maybe it was a mix of all three.

Emerging from the stairwell, Tov found herself in the darkened area of the off right wing. Stage crew members hurried this way and that, wired with headsets and talking into handheld radios.

Flashing multicolored lights poured in from the side of the stage. The mixture of the cheering crowd and the blaring music was almost deafening.

Tov’s heart beat faster as she searched for any human figures. If she could just find that signature curl…

“Tov?” Himei called out.

She quickly turned on her heel to find Himei looking at her, confusion and concern knitted in her thin brows.

Tov wanted to speak. Wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. But nothing came out.

She rushed over and hugged Himei tightly, burying her face in her shoulder.

All of the noise from the stage blurred into the background. Tov focused on Himei’s heartbeat.

She was warm and breathing and alive.

At least someone was still alive.

Himei didn’t hesitate to embrace her in return. “What are you doing here? Are you alright?”

Tov squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling a shuttering breath, trying to force her heart rate to slow down, “I keep seeing them.”

“Who?”

A flash of green. Then red. More red.

“Azure. Moran.” She spoke in a whisper, like uttering their names too loudly would stir their spirits. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I can’t sleep.”

Himei tensed for a moment, before she pulled her closer and sighed, “Oh Tov…”

She rested her hand on the crown of Tov’s head, patting it gently. Just like she did when they were kids.

Her heart ached. It only made her want to cry more. But she couldn’t go to pieces yet.

Tov forced down the growing lump in her throat, determination set in her jaw.

She gripped Himei’s shoulders and pulled back to look her in the eyes, “You have to win your round. You have to.”

Tov’s eyes started to sting with unshed tears, “I can’t lose anybody else.”

If I lose you I might come apart altogether…

Himei smiled at her like she always did, brighter than any star in the sky. “Don’t worry, I’m going to win this whole bracket. Then you’ll win yours, and we’ll get to sing together.”

She didn’t mention what would happen after that. Tov didn’t want to think about it either.

Even still, her reassurances calmed Tov down a little.

Her heart no longer felt like it was going to burst from pumping too fast.

The music ended.

The colorful lights shut off.

A hush fell over everyone backstage.

From where Tov and Himei stood, they only had to turn a bit to see the final scores tallied up on a small auxiliary screen.

Stasya 49. Noora 49.

What?

“A tie?” Someone gasped.

“How is this possible?” Another asked.

A chorus of whispers filtered up from the group. The audience outside grew agitated.

Tov’s gaze was locked on the scoreboard.

Could their be a tie?

If Himei and I make it to the finals, could we tie and both win?

Tov blinked.

The scoreboard changed.

Stasya 49. Noora 50.

Noora Win.

“What the—”

A gunshot rang out.

Tov looked toward the stage just in time to watch Stasya crumple to the floor, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to the chest.

Then they started screaming.

Tov’s blood ran cold. “They’re still alive…”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Stasya writhed in agony, face flushed and contorted as they gasped for air. Their eyes were wide open, filled with terror.

“Guardian Photyne! Please!” Stasya begged.

A sharp pain lanced through Tov’s chest. Her heart pounded harder against her rib cage.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Help me! Please! Help!!” Their words became gurgled. They were choking on their own blood.

Stasya let out a chilling scream, a guttural noise pulled from somewhere deep within them.

“PHOTYNE!!!”

Tov couldn’t breathe. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The edges of her vision blurred.

Another gunshot sounded, hitting Stasya straight in the forehead.

Their eyes rolled back into their head as their body fell limp against the stage.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The floor rushed up to meet Tov, and the world went dark.

.

.

.

End of Round 3.

————————————————————

A last minute tiebreaker and a brutal mercy killing. I can’t believe Tov had to witness all that chaos up close and personal. Poor thing 🥲

I hope I was able to describe Tov’s emotions and physical deterioration well. I was a little rushed today, but I needed to get this out before Round 4.

Stasya belongs to @billwasnot! Thank you for letting me write about Stasya’s death, I hope I did it justice 🙏 (also check out their art of Stasya’s untimely demise here, tw: blood)

And Himei belongs to @lookatmysillies!

[didalexiabreakupwitholgayet]

Ah Pina Medina that would have been an absolute banger! Sad it didnt go in

ah it would have been super nice, but i thought pina and everyone else played quite well, and overall, i'm quite happy with the match. we need to work on some finishing and cleaning up set pieces, but alexia was great, and caro was a beast!

hmm, it's still early in the season, but i quite liked what i saw out there. certainly some tweaking to be done, but to me, there were quite a lot of good combos and passes into the box. and the crossbar got a very good workout. otherwise, it could easily have been 2-3 more goals added to the tally!

you also have to keep in mind that elena lete is one of the best gks in the league. there's a reason she's called as gk #3 for the spanish national team. and she made a bunch of good saves too!

really? i don't think i noticed anything. i didn't see the final attendance figures though!

fantastic! i'm glad you had a great time, and i highly support you continuing to attend matches for all long as you are in barcelona 🫶

[bodhranwriting]

A Rivalry for the Ages: Talas vs Sixsmith (Tocktick, Bodhrán M.)

Talas tapped his fingers against the nearest glass canister, “Like this beauty.”

“Beauty?” The incredulity was obvious even to Emmett.

Talas’ eyes narrowed and he deliberately turned his head away. “She is a miracle of modern engineering. This beauty will get this hunk of wood flying again.”

The room temperature plummeted from merely ‘icy’ to ‘Arctic ocean floor’.

“Hunk of wood.”

“She’s running so smoothly now, Emmett, you should hear her, she’s as clean as a fucking whistle.”

“The Iris is not a hunk of wood.”

“I think you will see a fucking noticeable difference in how she runs,” Talas went on with what appeared to be suicidal cheeriness, “And the filter is distilling the excess steam down to practically nothing. We may need to fix up the vent outside though.”

“My ship is not a hunk of wood.”

Emmett grabbed Sixsmith’s sleeve and tugged him backwards. If these two were cats, their fur would have been on end.

Fuck this.

He caught Maia’s gaze and – beyond the spark of pain – saw her look heavenward and mutter something.

It looked like, ‘men!’.

“C’mon, Six, I’ll show you your workroom,” Emmett said loudly. He nodded at Maia, who shrugged helplessly, and then added, “If you don’t mind, Talas, we’ll join you for dinner in an hour or so.”

He saw Maia turn a steely gaze on Talas as he hustled Sixsmith out of the room and down into below decks proper.

He didn’t let go until the doors were safely closed behind them.

——————————-/

“It is so smooth,” Talas said in wonderment, “We were just cutting through the sky.”

“Yep, the wind goblins really blessed us,” Sixsmith replied gleefully.

Talas’ face twisted and he snapped, “No, it is because Maia and I worked for a week straight to make this hunk of wood sky worthy.”

“Blessed wind goblins,” Sixsmith repeated with infuriating cheeriness.

“Wind goblins are not real!”

Sixsmith grinned at him and dropped his voice to a whisper, “How do you know?”

“Because there are no pieces of folklore, no scientific studies, no proof that they are!”

“Maybe…” Sixsmith adopted an innocent expression which Emmett remembered with remarkable clarity, “… they’re just hidin' from you. 'cause you dun’t believe in the wind-goblins.”

“You mention wind-goblins one more time and I do not care that you are old, I will punch you in the face.” Talas was practically vibrating with fury.

Sighing, Sixsmith turned to lean on the railing. “You’ve got no romance in your soul, Tally.”

“Do not call me Tally! And there is no such thing as wind goblins!”

“Suit yourself.”

Face reddening, Talas grunted in frustration and stormed down the steps to the engine room. Sixsmith smirked.

Waiting until Talas was clearly out of earshot and the rest of the crew moved back to their tasks, Emmett sidled up to Sixsmith. Trying to keep his face neutral, he murmured, “You know wind goblins aren’t real, right?”

Sixsmith stared at him wide-eyed, all bewildered innocence.

Then he cackled.

“’Course,” he replied, “I’m just fuckin’ with him.”

———————-/

Sixsmith inhaled and then pointed at the balloon. “I could hit that,” he said confidently.

Talas rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes? Prove it.”

“I would if I had bullets –“

“Oh, that is convenient. You never do seem to have the bullets, do you –”

“Convenient? Tally, darlin’, d’you know how a gun works?”

“Probably better than you – and do not call me Tally –“

“Talas! Sixsmith!” Emmett threw up his hands and continued, “You’re both adults. So act like it.” They glared at him. “Please?”

There was some mutinous wordless acknowledgement from both, but as Emmett turned around, he heard:

“It’s a gun, Tally. It’s supposed to have bullets. Whadda ‘m I supposed to do? Throw it at someone’s head?”

“Throw it at your own. Then we all might have some peace –“

“I’ll crack both your heads together in a minute!” Emmett snapped. “Sixsmith, stop riling up Talas. Talas, stop rising to the bait. If not for me ‘cause I’m starting to feel like a schoolteacher, but for my kid. Set an example for Shade's sake.”

The fact the kid in question was watching the argument with the air of someone about to pull out snacks didn’t help.

——————————-/

Emmett’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard. “Lady Dewitt was granted five nightguards by the Board! I’m asking for one!”

“The threats against Dewitt were very credible, Mr Askren.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He was shaking, forcing himself not to back down. Throgmorton was giving him a very sharp look and it was turning his legs to jelly. “But someone has already tried to assassinate the Katsaroses, damaged our ship, and threatened my eleven-year-old! For Shades sake, my pilot has nearly been kidnapped twice!”

“That one is not a problem,” he heard Talas mutter from behind him, “all we have to do is wait the hour it will take them to return him.”

——————————/

“The ball is vital.” Talas said, biting a hangnail. “And if you do not know the correct courtesy, things could go very badly for us.”

“Worse than they are already?” Scarlett asked dryly.

“Much worse. I know what to expect at these events. If possible, I suggest you do as I do.”

Sixsmith scrunched up his nose. “Well, if you provide the stick, I’ll try to shove it up me arse, but I dun’t think I’ll get very far.”

“Fuck you.”

“Thank you very much, you’re not me type.”

—————————-/

[dantakeyoman]

𝐉𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐘 | 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐧𝐞

♡ 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

♡ * 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝒔𝒆𝒙𝒚, 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆, 𝒛𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒆-𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏. 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔. *

♡ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦 (𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬), 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐨𝐟 𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬), 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐬, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐞𝐭𝐜.

♡ * 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒚: 𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍 *

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

"Knowin' them, it's a trap," Tal scoffed, lowering his binoculars and handing them to Columbus, "Wait here. Drive down if I signal. Princess comes with me."

You shot him a sharp glare, but nodded, grabbing your AK off the hood and cocking it.

After driving for a couple more days, you came across the old Cadillac stranded in the middle of the road.

The hood was up, and it looked abandoned, as if the girls were never there.

Oh, but they were there, somewhere.

You could feel it in your gut.

"You're not gonna shoot them, are you?" Columbus asked, nervous.

"Not unless they shoot at me," you assured with a smirk, starting down the hill with Tally, "Oh, I hope they shoot at me."

As the two of you approached the car, you shot out the tires, just to be safe.

"Not the tires!" Tal cursed you under his breath.

"You don't want them to escape, do you?!" You hissed back.

"My fuckin' Caddy!" He grumbled, seething.

"We got a car twice as good as it up on the hill. Stop whining and check the backseat," you rolled your eyes, crouching to check under the vehicle.

He muttered some more curses at you but complied, quickly checking the backseat and seeing no one there.

You got up and walked over to the open hood, where it looked like the engine was smoking.

Tearing off a piece of cloth from the shirt that was hanging on the hood, you used it to touch some parts of the engine, checking it out.

"Got some residue on the engine block. S'what's causing all the smoke," you stated, Tal walking over to join you.

"You some car nut?" He asked.

"Was a mechanic before the world went to shit," you corrected, "Best damn job in the world."

"Grease monkey?" He cocked a brow with a smile.

"Damn right," you smirked up at him, before turning around to face your other car.

You used your fingers to whistle loudly, Columbus getting the message and driving the Hummer up.

"Looks like they hoofed it. Probably headed west," Tal walked over, hopping in the passenger, "Drive slow. And keep your eyes peeled."

You took the backseat, immediately noticing the little girl from before in the back.

"I'm gettin' real sick of your shit," you rolled your eyes, drawing your gun and pointing it at her head.

But she was quick, and trained hers on Tally's neck before you could blink.

The man let out an exasperated sigh, hanging his head.

"I'm really sorry. She was like a crouching tiger," Columbus apologized.

Tal seethed, "You got taken hostage by a twelve-year old?"

"This is why I call you a doofus, Doofus," you sighed.

"Girls mature faster than boys. She's way ahead of where I was at that age," he defended.

"Twelve's the new twenty. Gun, please," she ordered, holding out her hand.

"You know I'm a squeeze and a smile away from makin' you past tense, right?" You cocked a brow, taking off the safety with a click.

"You wouldn't," she scoffed.

"Neither would you," you scoffed back.

The two of you quickly aimed for the sunroof, letting out a shot before returning to position.

"Don't kill me with my own gun!" Tallahassee shouted.

You paid him no mind.

"I like you," you smirked at the girl, impressed.

She let out a small smile at the compliment, before catching herself and going back to normal, "Honk the horn."

"What?" Columbus asked.

"Honk it!"

"Honk the damn horn, Doofus," you groaned.

He quickly honked it, and the other girl stepped out from behind a hay bale, gun drawn.

"Oh, it's your sister...with my gun," he sighed, sticking his hand out the roof and waving, "Hello."

'I'm gonna shoot him before the day's over.'

"Bummer," she sarcastically winced as she came up on the driver's side, gun aimed at Columbus, "Now step away from the vehicle."

"Not if you would like to see your sister's brains on display," you denied, the woman checking the back and seeing that you most definitely had a gun trained on her sister.

Again.

"I take Weirdo's seat, he sits shotgun, and Country goes in the back with you," she offered, turning to you.

You turned to Tally, who looked back at you with a nod.

So you nodded to her, and Columbus got out the car, everyone switching around their seating arrangements.

But you forgot how big this man was, and you were now squished in the back between the twelve-year old adult and the annoyingly charming cowboy.

'Fuck me.'

As soon as Wichita sat down, she turned and pulled a handgun on you.

You quickly switched your target from Little Rock to her, and Tal trained his gun on her as well.

"For fuck's sake, enough! We're being chased by ravenous freaks! Do we not have enough problems?" Columbus exclaimed, turning around to face you all, "Oh, they stole my Hummer. We have trust issues. They piss me off. Get over it! We can't just fucking drive down the road playing I Spy or some shit for hours like five normal-ass Americans?"

He caught his breath, turning back around in his seat.

"Fuck me."

"Whoa," you nodded, shocked.

That's the loudest you'd ever heard him raise his voice.

"I know," he sighed.

"Let me be the mature one here," Tal stated, slowly lowering his gun.

The rest of you carefully followed, and Wichita finally pulled off.

Everyone stayed in wary silence for a long while, until Columbus decided to spark up some conversation.

"So...where are you guys headed?" He asked.

"Pacific Playland," Little Rock answered.

"The amusement park?" Tal cocked a brow.

"Wait, outside LA?" Columbus turned around to face her.

"Yeah, we went there as kids," she smiled.

"That place totally blows," Tal chuckled.

Everyone turned to him with a scolding look, but he shrugged it off, turning to the little girl with a condescending smirk.

"My mind. It's so fun. Just perfect entertainment for the whole family."

"That's country for I'm a fuckin' dementia patient and should be admitted," you pinched the bridge of your nose.

"You act like you're such a spring chicken," he scoffed with a smirk, knowing the comment would get on your nerves.

"Thirty gives me spring chicken status, asshole," you spat, shooting him a sharp glare.

He smiled.

You were pretty when you were mad.

"I went there as a kid, too," Columbus quickly interrupted, not wanting the two of you to embarrass him in from of Wichita, "In fact, this probably counts as off-season."

"Well, did you guys hear? There are no zombies there," Little Rock smiled.

"Yeah, we heard," Tal nodded, turning to her with an air of annoyance, "Uh, y'know what, I may not shoot you, but you have still royally pissed me off, and I'm not going to play with you at Pacific Playland."

The girl looked slightly hurt, and you rolled your eyes, sitting back in your seat with a sigh.

"Don't worry, he grows on you," Columbus assured, turning to Wichita.

"Really?" She sarcastically asked.

"No, he gets worse," you corrected.

"Okay, how about we play the Quiet Game? Yeah? Starting now," she shut down.

And everyone stayed quiet...until Columbus spoke up again.

"Oh, um, I've actually been meaning to ask you. Did you hear anything about Columbus, Ohio?" He asked.

"You never played the Quiet Game?" She asked.

"Sorry," he apologized.

"No? Well, they're playing it in Columbus," she stated, coldly, "It's a total ghost town. It's burned to the ground."

That was fucked.

You cleared your throat, tapping her shoulder with your gun.

She turned to you, and you nodded towards the doofus, who looked on the brink of tears.

"You're Columbus..." she finally got, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

He didn't answer for once, and instead opted for the window, taking a deep breath.

She paused for a moment, trying to come up with the right words.

"We'll get you a ride. That way you can take it if you wanna go see for yourself, or find somewhere new," she offered.

He turned to her and gave a thankful nod, the two of them sharing eye contact while you and Tal gave each other knowing looks, wiggling your eyebrows.

'Doofus might get some tail after all.'

𝒛 𝒐 𝒎 𝒃 𝒊 𝒆 𝒍 𝒂 𝒏 𝒅

"Who wants to go first?" Tal asked as the five of you stepped foot on the porch of this Native-American themed rest stop.

Everyone was feeling a little cooped up in the car, so you all decided now would be as good a time as any to stretch your legs.

But living in the apocalypse meant being constantly aware of your surroundings.

And someone had to check things out first.

"Dibs," you smirked, stepping forward.

"After you, Princess," he taunted with a pretend bow.

You rolled your eyes, kicking up a rock from the ground and catching it, tossing it at the small bell hanging from the doorway.

With a loud growl, a zombie suddenly came sprinting out from the back, running straight for you.

Noticing a mallet with tribal paint sitting patiently in a barrel, you grabbed it, smashing the monster right in the face.

It fell over and you were quick to wail on it, not letting up until it's head was completely caved in.

And even then you made sure it was done with a head shot.

Tally let out a long whistle, and you turned back to the group with a proud smile.

You were met with varying different expressions.

Columbus was embarrassed, Wichita and Little Rock were concerned, and Tal was beaming with pride, and a little bit of something else.

"What?" You asked, confused.

"This is why you're my favorite," he chuckled, giving you a firm pat on the shoulder and stepping over the dead body, walking in.

But in all honesty, that rougher than normal pat was the only thing keeping him from tossing you over his shoulder and finding somewhere private.

Since day one, you were a thorn in his side.

A pain in his ass.

You were loud, and opinionated as fuck, and ragged on him any chance you got.

You were cut-throat, and cold, and irritable, and concerning levels of violent.

But you were also funny, and confident to boot, and oh, so fucking sexy it drove him insane.

You were impossibly gorgeous, even while being in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

Your hair, your skin, your curves, your smile, your hot Jersey accent.

In fact, you looked so good that he'd thought you were at least in your early twenties when he first met you.

Not that he discriminated by age, but such a beautiful and capable woman like yourself deserved find someone else better than him, someone younger than him, someone more your speed.

So until that day came, and he could finally start getting over you, he would press his feelings deep, deep, deep down, until he could no longer notice they were there.

You entered the store with a smile, making a beeline for the snack aisle.

"C'mon, you little bastard. Where are you?" You muttered to yourself with a smile, searching for a fridge.

After speed-walking to the end of the aisle, you found yourself staring at a wall of glass fridges, filled with water and sodas galore.

"There is a god," you beamed, starting to scour for that signature red label and delicious brown tint.

"Why do you wanna find this Coke so bad?" Little Rock asked, walking over to stand next to you.

"'Cause it reminds me of the time before the world went to shit," you answered bluntly, not taking your eyes off the wall.

She nodded, staying quiet as you continued to look.

"Gotcha," you smirked, opening one fridge and grabbing a can, the satisfying crack of it opening scratching a very nice part of your brain.

As you took a rough swig, the little girl looked like she wanted to ask another question.

"Back at the other store, when I pretend to get bit, you got really mad," she started.

You cocked a brow, "Yeah.....and?"

"Was it because something like that happened to you?" She asked, looking up at you with a flicker of guilt.

You sighed, noticing that you'd now have to choose your words carefully.

"Yeah," you nodded, sliding down the glass to take a seat on the floor, "Yeah, it happened to me."

She slowly sat down next to you, pulling her knees up to her chest.

"Do you think...you could tell me about it?" She turned to you, sincerely.

You nodded, deciding now was as good as ever to get three months of angst off your chest.

"The day everything went to hell, I went into my brother's car shop, like I would any other day," you started, looking down at your drink, "Everything was normal 'til around noon, and my brother left for lunch. I had asked him to pick me up a Coke while I hung back to finish up a detail that was running long. But even when I finished he still wasn't back yet..."

You quickly gathered yourself, already feeling your voice about to crack.

And you were not about to start bawling in front of this twelve-year old.

You took a deep breath, "I was washin' my hands, when I started to hear some commotion comin' from outside. And like usual, I paid it no mind. Newark wasn't the greatest city to begin with."

She nodded for you to go on, fully invested.

"But it started to get louder and louder, and it wasn't the usual sounds of scuffles and punches. It was screaming. Bloody-murder type screaming. And loud, monster-like grunting," you continued, staring down at the ground as the sound echoed in your ears.

"I knew better than to go outside and check it out, so I went for the window, picking up an ax off the wall, just in case," your heart beat roughly in your chest, as if you were reliving it right that moment.

"When I looked outside, all I could see was chaos. Neighbors were eatin' neighbors, cars were crashin', and those that were still normal were running around in a huge panic, gettin' taken out left and right."

You shook your head at the next part, taking a swig of your drink.

"And me, bein' dumb and terrified, dropped my weapon, making a loud clang," you let out a painful chuckle, turning to the little girl, "And guess who found their way home?"

Her eyes went wide, and she clutched her knees tighter, already knowing the answer.

"Yup," you nodded, "My brother came running in through the back door, all glassy-eyed and covered in blood."

Little Rock let you take a moment before you started up again, not saying a word.

She felt that if she'd made anything over the peep, it would shatter the surprisingly strong hold you had on your emotions at the moment.

"He ran straight for me, growling and hissing like a fuckin' animal, and I picked up the ax, using the dull side to knock him in the stomach. And he fell over, hitting his head against the pavement. But he was still alive, slightly moving," you continued, taking another swig.

"Finally able to get a good look at him.......I knew he was gone. Chunks of his skin was missing, his shirt was stained red from whatever poor bastard he'd attacked on the way.....and the constant smile I had never seen him without.....was gone."

You stared out at the aisle in front of you, an empty expression on your face.

"I knew it wasn't him anymore.......and I didn't want him to hurt anyone else......so I did what needed to be done," you stated, "His head went rollin' and I booked it for my apartment, bashing whatever came within three feet of me."

You let out an awkward chuckle, "I was lucky I had a wannabe redneck for a dad. I scooped up all the guns I could carry and stole a truck, then got out the city as fast as I could."

Tally, Columbus, and Wichita all shared sorry looks, the three of them having listened to the story right from the beginning.

No wonder you freaked out so much before.

What you went through was fucked, even on Zombieland standards.

Little Rock looked down at her feet, ashamed, almost as if she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized, barely above a whisper.

You quickly shook yourself out of it, going back to your normal, Jersey self and flashing her a smile.

"Don't apologize. You were doin' what you had to in order to survive," you assured, standing up and ruffling her hair, "Besides, I didn't tell you the story to make you feel bad, I told you to give clarity. Now we're square."

She looked up at you with a small smile, and you smirked, taking a final swig of your Coke before tossing it somewhere.

Suddenly, you heard something shatter, and Tally howled excitedly.

"Yeah. Come on, break another one," he egged.

You and Little Rock turned to each other with a confused look, before walking over to see what was happening.

Wichita joined you two to watch Columbus push over another vase, an awkward smile on his face.

"Nice," Tally nodded.

Wichita pushed over a cup of drumsticks, and you and Little Rock picked up a snow globe, smashing it on the ground.

Delightful chaos ensued, and after ten minutes of non-stop destruction, the five of you had completely destroyed the store.

Standing at the entrance to admire your work, you suddenly caught a whiff of something.

It was flowery.

Quickly sniffing the air, you found it was coming from Tallahassee.

"Tex..."

"Yes, Princess."

"Why the hell do you smell like petunias?"

He snapped his head over to Columbus, glaring at him so hard that he'd probably burn holes if such a thing was possible.

"I think I'm at fault for that," the boy admitted awkwardly, slowly inching away from the man.

You snickered, resting your arm on Tal's shoulder.

"Keep messin' with him, Doofus, and he'll strike a fault with your head."

𝒛 𝒐 𝒎 𝒃 𝒊 𝒆 𝒍 𝒂 𝒏 𝒅

[theerrorofmylife]

Crime Fighter pt. 2

- So.... part 2... you guys asked and you shall receive! I meant to have this posted for Christmas but oh well. I am not confident whatsoever in my abilities to write smut, so please be kind. This is not for minors- I repeat THIS IS NOT FOR MINORS you’ve been warned. 

Content:  Reader stops by the Batcave under Wayne Tower after Bats calls them over for help on a case. However, things escalate because they are both incredibly desperate for each other. 

Here’s Part 1: Crime Fighter 

Warning:  Sex, Lots of sex, kissing, making out, fingering, p in v sex, penetrative sex, THESE TWO ARE HAVING SEX, swear words, etc., I’m not sure what I missed but I know I did- HAVE AT THEE!

    Rain pelted my helmet as I wove between cars and trucks in the upper Gotham streets, and holy shit was it cold. Days seemed to blur together since the migraine incident, and weeks became months became casually getting invited to the Batcave every other day. I’ll be the first to admit that I spent days and nights losing hours over him. Moments and singular little phrases blurred together the more I thought about it. Seconds spent holding his hand after he’d help me on my bike, little light touches on my back when we walked into a crime scene, the way he looks at me when I walk up to him after a case-well-closed. The little whisper that night… “he would love you” … the vivid memory of his lips on my forehead. I couldn’t care less if Bruce Wayne, billionaire recluse, loved me. I wanted this man, my Bat, to love me. 

The stairs were all I could focus on as I made my way into the cave. Our latest case was still running through my head on repeat, slowly driving me insane. A series of medical equipment manufacturing plants had been robbed over the course of the last month, tallying up to a total of 7 buildings and over 25 pieces of equipment stolen. We spent night after night in the cave trying to figure it out, trying to stop whatever was going on before it happened. Over that time, I got to re-meet The Bat with new eyes. This man loves this one takeout place on South St. it was actually hilarious. To be fair, it was growing on me as well. If only we had been paying attention to the tiny details rather than trying to figure out the big picture, we would have noticed the tiny desk plant that went missing from the 5th building. Poison Ivy was using medical equipment to create a toxin that would grow plants in peoples lungs. Now, I never mind a good monstera deliciosa, but I do prefer them outside of my body. But that wasn’t important right now. Right now, all I could think about was the way he pulled me to his chest, turned us towards a wall and caged me with his arms so that a glass beaker would crash into his back rather than my face. I still vibrated with the ghost sensation of his hands. 

“You called?” As he turned to greet me there was a smile on his face, a grin that had become so much more frequent, reserved just for when we’re alone. Parking my bike near his, a nervous glee set inside me, and I couldn’t stop the grin. He still hadn’t taken to removing the mask for me, but I knew that would take time, more time than we already had. And I was patient. For him, I would be patient.

“There’s some evidence I need you to look at,” I walked up past him to look at the monitors. He didn’t move, only made room by making a small space for me to stand in front of him. “You were always better at seeing the bigger picture.” He was directly behind me, the arm leaning against the table pressed against my side, he was so close I was sure he could feel my heart speed up at the closeness.

“Am I now?” Yes, yes act coy and snarky, let him build the conversation because clearly, I’m way too distracted by his arm to do it myself. I felt him shift, moving behind me, the arm that was pressed into my side lifting so that his hand pressed against my lower back as he passed behind me. The warmth that sunk in and then completely dissipated was intoxicating.

“You know you are.”

“Mm, I thought you were the great detective here. Why do you need me?” 

“I want you.” My heart nearly fucking stopped. The goddamn implication of that statement, the ideas that it gave me. Sure, I had thought about it, you can’t blame me when this hunk of brooding emotional baggage was around 24/7. Ever since I spent the night after my migraine, he became a plague on my most intimate thoughts. First just passing thoughts, fleeting ideas and images. Then little daydreams and purely innocent wants. But after a time, it became an infection; a shiver as his hand brushed my lower back, my thighs crossing as he looked at me a certain way, and the heady feeling when he put his hand on my knee during an interrogation. His hands were the curse that tortured me though, his hands were huge and the thought of them on my waist, on my thighs, dipping between them… I was a lost cause, and I knew it. 

He seemed to realize the implication as well, his eyes on me, flicking about my face as if looking for the same reaction I was. I should fix this, I should speak up, I should SAY SOMETHING DAMMIT. My mouth opens and closes like a moron, and for a moment I think I’m suffocating because now his eyes are flitting between mine and my lips and oh god get it together. “Do you?” I'm an idiot. 

“Always.” He sounded so breathless, as if he could not risk his words to disturb the space settled between us. Chills set upon my arms and not for the first time I was eternally grateful for his closeness. There was barely a few inches between us now, and I could practically feel the human radiator in front of me through my suit, but instead of overwhelming me with discomfort… I became desperate for his hands on me. An ache grew in my chest, a desperate need to be touched that damn near made me sick with nerves. Everything I ever wanted, and it’s right here waiting to make a move. My eyes moved from his to his lips and back again, only to find him staring back with a deep intensity that made my head dizzy. This silence was agonizing, and my hands shook from nerves. I got so focused on the fact that I was beginning to panic that I hadn’t even notice the few inches between us had become less than a few centimeters now, less and less by the second. When I felt his lips barely pass mine, the shaking inside me stopped, and the anxiety in my chest lodged in my throat as I pressed forward.

I have kissed many people in my time, each slightly different with the same overarching form of conduct. Every kiss before this one meant nothing when B kissed me for the first time. It was sloppy, I’ll admit, and it was clear he hadn’t really done it before, at least not in a long time, but he was a fast learner, and as his hands grabbed my waist to pull me into his chest, the force sent me reeling. I would like to say I was more elegant, less messy, but that wouldn’t be true. Because the moment I felt his hands and his lips and the way both made my head swim, I became so incredibly desperate for more that I could hardly be blamed for dropping all sense of decorum. When he broke away from me, I remembered that breathing was important and tried to regain myself as he leaned his forehead against mine. His hands tightened around my waist, and I felt the force with which he lifted me up and onto the table with ease. I barely sat on it, and a good portion of my thighs hung off the edge, but whatever care for stability I may have once had was overpowered by the concept of his hips between my legs. He looked down at me once more, and I nodded with extreme enthusiasm. I heard him chuckle lowly before his hand wrapped around the base of my jaw and he kissed me again. Clumsily, I pulled at his belt and tried to undo the clasp at the front. Instead of actually succeeding like I hoped I would B grabbed my hands, gently tossed them aside and did it himself. When the belt hit the floor, he began kissing my neck, inching his way down slowly, as his hand gently pulled at the waistband of my pants.

“Please…” He slipped one hand into my hair at the base of my neck as his other undid my pants, slipping into my underwear where the pad of his forefinger gently pushed against my clit. Jolts of sharp pleasure ran up my hips and I had to actively refrain from bucking my hips up against his hand. The rough fabric of his suit rubbed against my thighs as he shifted his stance, pushing my legs apart. He pulled my hair gently so that I leaned back only slightly, enough for him to place his lips against mine. My hands shook as I wrapped them around his shoulders, the wonderful sensation giving me jitters.

“Hey, hey look at me, is this ok?” He nudged my nose with his and I looked up into his eyes. Those ice blue eyes. I nodded very enthusiastically. “Is this?” His hand slipped further and brushed his fingertips against my entrance.

“Yes.” Slowly dipping his fingers inside me, I sighed at the stretch. I was by no means a virgin, I’ve had plenty of partners of varying origins, so sex was no major endeavor for me. Usually. B’s fingers were huge, and callused and two alone made me lose my breath. This nauseating weight started in my chest, and I felt myself tightening around his fingers and his other hand pulled away from my hair and grabbed my hips to pull them farther off the table. I was barely sitting on it now and I was beginning to feel pressure in my lower abdomen. Little moans and breathy pleas were all I could manage, it just felt so good. He slowly moved his hand, pulling his fingers out before slowly pushing back in, pushing the pads of his fingers against the inside. The pressure began to get intense and my hands on his shoulders clawed into the armor of the suit. He continued to move slowly, only removing his had from my hips to place his other thumb against my clit. With both his hands occupied I lost my ability to speak as my walls sporadically tightened and released with his fingers still inside me. I was breathless, gasping and rocking against his hand ever so slightly. After a few seconds he removed his thumb from my clit, then slowly pulled his hand away.

“What do you want? I need for you to tell me.” Fuck, words are the last thing I wanted to think about. Resting my head against his shoulder, I tried to regain my breath.

“For the love of all things holy, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m-” My back hit the table with a soft thud as he pushed me down. My pants, albeit having fallen low on my thighs, were tugged off all together. His hand on my chest stayed there as his other hand lifted my knees to rest on his shoulders. My breathing regulated easier while laying down but that didn’t stop my breath from catching when I heard this belt come undone with a click. His left hand left the loose belt, pushing between my legs again to rub my clit slowly. My eyes roll back, and I hear him take a harsh breath before letting slip a low groan. It took effort, but I leaned my head forward just enough to look between my thighs where I got a perfect picture. With one hand rubbing my clit with his thumb, the other was wrapped around his cock, moving up and down at the same pace as his thumb. His head was thrown back, eyes closed with his mouth open. He was big, bigger than I expected. I threw my head back gently, whining little obscenities as I tightened around nothing. “Mm!” I whined when his hand pulled away but sighed as I felt the light pressure of him lining up with my entrance. 

“Shhhh relax, I got you.” His hand that wasn’t guiding his dick inside me came to rest on my hip, rubbing little circles with his thumb. He was slow to push in, taking his time to allow me to acclimate to the stretch. Again, 100% not a virgin, but holy shit. There was a slight sting, then immense pressure as he filled me to the limit and then some. The push was so satisfying and filling that it forced me to sigh out all the air in my lungs. He was easily 8 inches and him taking his time gave me the wonderful opportunity to feel every bit of him. 

“Fuck…” I was gasping quietly as he slowed to a stop, I couldn’t feel his thighs against my ass which meant he wasn’t even fully in. I hadn’t even realized my eyes were closed, but when I opened them, I looked up to see his eyes closed, brows drawn in concentration, with his mouth slightly open to let out ragged breaths. To say that it was hot would be an understatement. My eyes were focusing and unfocusing as I watched his eyes open. His once ice blue eyes were darker somehow, and his pupils were blown wide. He looked predatory. Suddenly I felt the drag of him pulling out and then the heavy push back in. There was heavy friction that sent sparks of pleasure up my abdomen. It was absolutely amazing. He began moving, pulling out slowly only to push back in with force. It wasn’t anything erratic or rough, but it was firm and precise, like he was doing it on purpose. As much as I loved the slower pace, I was more needy than I realized, so I moved my hips with his. Slowly lifting to match his, he seemed to get the idea, grabbing my hips harshly. His fingers were bound to leave bruises, but I wasn’t opposed to that at all. I wasn’t opposed to any of this, finally having B to myself like this and knowing that I wasn’t totally crazy thinking he would want me like this as well. His movements were harsher, hitting deep and I slowly adjusted to fit him entirely so his thighs brushed against my ass as he moved. It felt absolutely amazing, the slow build of pressure below my abdomen creating a slightly nauseous feeling in my stomach. But that needed fast when he pulled out. 

“B? No no please don’t sto-” I was pleading with him, there is no way he could be stopping now, I think I might kill him holy shit. 

“Shhh, come’ ere.” He slowly pulled me to my feet and turned me before I could fall, “Is this ok?” I nodded, not entirely sure what he meant but I’d probably agree to anything if it meant he’d continue fucking me. He pressed me forwards till my hips were against the table and on instinct I laid down on top of it, my ass high behind me. His hands immediately grabbed my hips, lifting them off the table and realigning himself with my entrance. My toes barely grazed the ground beneath me and something about not touching the floor while he slowly pushed back into me was intoxicating. It was different, the drag of his cock in me was pressing against the pressure in my abdomen, increasing it greatly. His rhythm became so much harsher, snapping into me with a force that shook the table. I couldn’t do much but whine and try to breathe but every time he push back into me so hard, I heard his thighs hit my ass and felt the table shift, the air was forced from my lungs. Through my own sounds and the sounds of us together, I heard him from behind me, muttering explicatives through gritted teeth and groaning lowly. One of his hands tore away from my hip and I heard fabric moving before his hand hit the table above my head, holding his mask in his fist. His mask…. Oh fuck. He’d taken his mask off. I suddenly felt his forehead against my shoulder, his hair falling and brushing the side of my face. His lips pressed against my shoulder, then moved up my neck as he continued to move inside me. I was stunned. Not only was I beyond thinking with the overwhelming amount of pleasure running through my system, but I couldn’t move past the idea of him removing his mask. But his other hand pulling away from my hips, letting me softly settle on the table again before wrapping around to press his fingers to my clit distracts me, and I’m lost in the feeling again. I let out little moans with every thrust, barely able to keep my breath as the hot tightness between my legs grew worse and worse. His hips move faster, and the pressure is becoming more tangible as I feel a sharp tightening in my hips before an overwhelming release. It’s a confusing mix of tightening and relaxing as my walls contract around him. I try desperately to breathe through it, but my mind falls blank, and I can’t think of anything but the pleasure rocking through my body. B continues to move, slowing his finger on my clit to gently coax me through my high, his thrusts losing rhythm but not force. He kept moving in and out of me, breathing heavily, until he pushed all the way in and stilled. He buried his head in my shoulder, moaning loudly now as my body brought him over the edge, barely moving now. His hips jolted every now and then as he slowly came down from his high, heat flooding my lower body as we both slowly relaxed into each other.

“Mm,” he rubbed his face into my shoulder, “Are you ok?” I nodded slowly, still fuzzy in the head. He chuckled quietly, shifting to kiss my shoulder again. We stayed like that for several minutes, still pressed together, cum dripping between the two of us. Suddenly, with a sharp kiss to my cheek, he pulled out of me. I whined, the rush leaving me with nothing, no energy to move or string a sentence together. I stayed still, acutely aware that he still had his mask off. I may be… very dazed, but I had enough sense to know that if he wasn’t ready for me to see his face then I wouldn’t move until he wanted me to. 

“B?” He hummed in response, “your mask?” He was somewhere behind me, and I didn’t have the energy to push myself off the table. 

“Do you want me to wear it?” What a loaded question. I respected his privacy, his identity, and the deep-seated secrecy that comes with the job. But I also don’t think I could live without seeing him after this. 

“No.” I heard him walking around behind me before a wet washcloth was placed beside me. His hands wrapped around my waist to lift me up. Once again, standing was not an option, but he held me up and turned me to sit back against the table. Looking up, I met his eyes, but now I saw the angular nose that accompanied them, and then his cheekbones, then his lips, and his jawline, and his eyebrows, and- “You…”

“Yeah…” Bruce Wayne. Billionaire, recluse, and... Batman. Of course, he was Batman, of course my Batman was Bruce Wayne, it made so much sense. The same night that had haunted me for weeks suddenly hit me like a truck. ‘He would love you’. 

“You said… but if you’re…” He looked so worried, but it was his own fault for ruining any chance I had of a coherent thought. 

“Is this ok?” 

“Yes! But… that night, at the tower, you said-” He smiled, something he used to do only rarely. 

“I know what I said.” But then… that meant…

“Do you?” With a low chuckle he shook his head, bright blue eyes crinkling in the corners. 

“Yes. Now lay back.” My eyebrows shot up in excitement. 

“Again?” This time he laughed, an actual laugh that was full and deep. 

“Later, let me help you first.” I sighed in disappointment but groaned the moment his large hands grabbed my legs. I was still incredibly sensitive and the washcloth, no matter how warm and comforting, still rubbed my sore clit gently causing my body to jolt and shake a little. “I know, I’m sorry.” Once he was done, he gently helped me put my underwear and pants back on. I stood, leaning against him, and he helped me into the tower elevator. “Hey...” 

“Hm.” I couldn’t really respond because I was trying to focus on standing rather than falling. 

“I love you.”

  -- 

@wolfie1494 @tumb3ld0wn @projectcampbell @niviiera @dur55​ @spidercat​

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

DERSHOWITZ: Gore's team and I contested 2000 vote. Why go after Trump?

Trump "supposedly" lost GA by approximately 10,000+ votes. Stacey Abrams spent 3 years pretending to be GA's governor after losing by 30,000+ votes.🤔

ALAN DERSHOWITZ: Al Gore, his legal team and I tried to find uncounted presidential votes, lobbied officials and fought in the courts in 2000. The only difference now? The candidate's name is Donald Trump... That's why this prosecution is an outrage

By Alan Dershowitz For Dailymail.Com12:17 EDT 16 Aug 2023 , updated 12:56 EDT 16 Aug 2023

Alan Dershowitz is a lawyer, Harvard Law School Professor and author of 'Get Trump: The Threat to Civil Liberties, Due Process, and Our Constitutional Rule of Law'

Electoral challenges have long been part of American history. 

Only now are they being criminalized.

I was one of the lawyers involved in objections to Florida's presidential vote in 2000.

A margin of less than 600 ballots determined that Governor George W. Bush rather than Vice President Al Gore won the state and, thus, the electoral college vote.

I was convinced then and I am convinced now that this result was wrong.

No one was indicted, disbarred, disciplined or even much criticized for those efforts, yet here we stand today.

President Donald Trump and 18 other defendants has been charged with election fraud, conspiracy, racketeering and more, under a law designed to take down criminal organizations, known as the RICO Act.

Should Al Gore have been charged in 2000?

What about me?

I represented the voters of Palm Beach County, many of whom voted by mistake for Pat Buchanan rather than Gore because of the infamous butterfly ballots and hanging chads that prevented their votes from being accurately counted.

During the course of our challenges, many tactics similar to those employed in 2020 were attempted.

Lawyers wrote legal memoranda outlining possible courses of conduct, including proposing a slate of alternate electors, who would deliver our preferred election results to Congress.

A margin of less than 600 ballots determined that Governor George W. Bush rather than Vice President Al Gore (above) won the state and, thus, the electoral college vote.

I represented the voters of Palm Beach County, many of whom voted by mistake for Pat Buchanan rather than Gore because of the infamous butterfly ballots (above) and hanging chads that prevented their votes from being accurately counted.

Electoral challenges have long been part of American history, only now are they being criminalized. I was one of the lawyers involved in objections to Florida's presidential vote in 2000. (Above) Alan Dershowitz is a lawyer, Harvard Law School Professor and author of 'Get Trump: The Threat to Civil Liberties, Due Process, and Our Constitutional Rule of Law'

Now, Trump and his attorney Rudy Giuliani, along with others, are accused of conspiracy to commit forgery and false statements for drafting their list of alternate electors.

In 2000, Florida state officials were lobbied to secure recounts in selected counties in which we thought the tally would favor us. We were trying to find at least 600 votes that would change the result.

This new indictment features Trump's phone call with Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger, which was captured in an audio recording. In the conversation, Trump asks Raffensperger to 'find' 12,000 votes.

In my mind, this call is among the most exculpatory pieces of evidence. Trump was entitled as a candidate to ask a Georgia state official to locate votes that he believes were not counted.

In 2000, attempts were made to influence various Florida officials to recount the votes.

Now, the former president's request that Georgia's Republican Speaker of the House reconsider the count is being charged as soliciting a public official to violate his oath.

Florida state officials were lobbied to secure recounts in selected counties in which we thought the tally would favor us. We were trying to find at least 600 votes that would change the result. (Above) Paln Beach, Florida County elections officials conduct presidential vote recount on November  11, 2000

President Donald Trump and 18 other defendants has been charged with election fraud, conspiracy, racketeering and more, under a law designed to take down criminal organizations, known as the RICO Act.

But if similar behavior was legal in 2000, how could it be illegal in 2023?

In the end, all those efforts in Florida failed when the Supreme Court in a five-to-four vote ordered the recounts stopped thereby turning the election over to President George W. Bush.

I wrote a book entitled Supreme Injustice, condemning the Supreme Court's decision and insisting that the election had been stolen from Gore and improperly handed to the candidate who received fewer votes.

The book was a bestseller, featured in front page reviews in the New York Times and other major publications. Most Americans thought that those challenging the Florida vote had acted in good faith, even though the courts ruled against them.

What's different today is that many observers do not believe that Trump and his advisors were sincere when they declared that he had won the election. But that doesn't make what they did a crime.

The Georgia indictment hinges on the allegation that Trump was lying in order to corruptly prevent the inauguration of the candidate who won the election fair and square.

Conspiracy and RICO violations are specific 'intent' crimes. In order to secure a conviction, prosecutors must prove a personalized agreement to join a criminal activity.

That will be an incredibly difficult case to make, especially regarding Trump himself who — to my knowledge – has never wavered from his belief that the election was stolen.

In the end, all those efforts in Florida failed when the Supreme Court in a five-to-four vote ordered the recounts stopped thereby turning the election over to President George W. Bush.

Most Americans thought that those challenging the Florida vote had acted in good faith, even though the courts ruled against them. (Above) Demonstrations at the U.S. Supreme Court in Washington, DC where justices determined whether the Florida recount could continue

He is wrong, but again, that is not enough to prove him guilty.

The First Amendment and general criminal law principles protect the right to be wrong, especially if that right is based on an honest mistake or belief.

Many point to the claim that Trump associates allegedly stole voting machine data, but that accusation is hotly contested. The jury will have to assess the credibility of each side.

The fundamental truth of this indictment is that if the evidence of specific crimes were compelling, there would be no need to charge under the onerous 'intent' requirements of RICO and conspiracy laws. The proof is not compelling, because these electoral challenges have precedent.

Once again, as with the preceding three Trump indictments, the law is being stretched to its limits in order to snare a former president.

'Show me the man, and I'll show you the crime,' is the infamous Soviet-era boast attributed to Joseph Stalin's chief of the secret police.

Is this really what our country has become?

When prosecutions are rooted in the fickle ground of politics and not the solid rock of justice everything will crumble.

[summerhighlandfalls]

Oh I don’t think I’ve ever talked about my cursèd memorization technique on here. Okay here we go this is my memorization table

I call this the Fuck You Memory Boy technique it’s the only form of memorization that’s ever worked reliably for me and I hate hate hate it so much. Basically you can memorize something on short notice in anywhere from an hour to a day depending on how long the passage is but it is a rather lengthy process no matter what so watch out. You can do it in under a day but the seconds will feel like hours.

As you can see from the table there are fifteen boxes, don’t let this fool you because each of the boxes actually holds five tally marks so yes you have to read whatever it is you’re memorizing 75 times. I don’t like it but it works. First you read whatever it is aloud five times off of a piece of paper, and make a tally mark at the [1, aided] box for each time. Then you can move horizontally (this is not intuitive at all) to the ‘semi’ column where you read the thing five times again but this time from memory, except you have the paper and you’re allowed to reference it if you get stuck which you most likely will. Then you move to the memory column, here you are absolutely required to do it from memory, I’m serious, leave the room or screw your eyes shut or something but you can’t reference the paper until you’ve been standing there for at least 60 seconds trying to remember your next line and cursed at least twice.

When you’ve done that five times you move into round two, where you repeat the exact same steps starting from five rounds of ‘aided’ to five rounds of ‘memory’. This will feel equally like a fire ant colony is eating your brain except now ‘aided’ is worse and boring now because you’re reasonably confident in your ability to do this from memory, but I promise you you have to do more than one round for it to really set in. Repeat this process for three more rounds, or 5 rounds in total, or a grand total of having read this thing 75 times aloud to yourself or an incredibly patient friend.

Okay now you should have something memorized. If you’re like, now it’ll really stick in my brain NOPE think again this knowledge disappears about a month after you need it so you do have to refresh this periodically. This part may not apply if you’re a stage actor repeating lines every night for months because hopefully then they’ll be well and truly in your blood but no promises. Enjoy the Fuck You Memory Boy Technique, this one goes out to everyone who got told by debate coaches/school theatre directors/random people that they should use the Mind Palace Technique and then found out that that shit doesn’t work

[grewlikefancyflowers]

Hi,

Can forging the yin tiger tally be called WWXs mistake? Apparently some people think he made it due to his resentment during ssc. Also there is emphasis on that he regrets making it which can be shown by him destroying it and the following conversation making it seem like it was his mistake.

“I’ve always been the one using this to deal with others. Today it’s finally my turn to have others use it against me. Now I know just how obnoxious the Tiger Seal is. If I were them, I would’ve wanted to kill the person who created this damn thing as well.”

On that note, i have also seen fandom using the following instances-

1)“It’s not that I want to bargain about such a thing, but that I don’t want my charges to be doubled just because of some words from another. I won’t shoulder what I didn’t do.”

2)The things I did, not only do you remember them, I remember them too. You won’t forget them, and they’ll stay even longer in my mind!”

Use as an evidence that he regreted(personally, i dont think he has done any wrong) his actions during nightless city when all i get from this is that he is just accepting the fact that he did kill a lot of people during nightless city. Can this be said that he is regreting for it?

The novel explicitly states WWX's reason for forging the yin hufu in chapter 30.

'Back when Wei Wuxian had created it, he hadn’t thought too deeply about the whole thing: if he were to take control of the ghosts using solely his own spirit, he was bound to get tired. Then, he remembered a very rare piece of spirit-infused iron which he had happened to come across inside a monster’s abdomen, retrieved it, and forged it into a Tiger Tally.

But once the Yin Tiger Tally was created, Wei Wuxian realized that something was very wrong after using it just once.

The power of the Yin Tiger Tally had far exceeded his original expectations. He had merely wanted it for assistance, but who could have guessed it would turn out so mighty it would almost triumph over its creator?'

His cultivation was having some effect on him that he wanted to avoid, so his original intention was that it would help with that.

We're told he thought about destroying it at the time, he gives two reasons for not doing so. 1, it was very difficult, apparently 'demanding an incredible amount of his time and energy' (let's not forget that destroying it contributed to his death, this isn't some flimsy excuse). 2, he kept it for his own protection, 'he already vaguely sensed that his own situation was precarious, and sooner or later, everyone would turn on him. The immense power of the Yin Tiger Tally meant that no one dared touch him while he was wielding it'

Then, as we all know, he broke it in half and 'decided never to use it without thinking carefully through the consequences.'

The yin hufu situation is another example of how MXTX subverts typical villain tropes with WWX. The expected tropes of a character forging a powerful, dangerous weapon then keeping it should be that they're greedy for power, they arrogantly assume they can control it and are then tempted by it to give in to darker desires, which eventually brings about their downfall. Rather than greed or arrogance, we see that WWX's reasons for forging the yin hufu are humble, he recognised his own limitations and sought an aid to avoid wearing himself out, and he foresaw the danger he was in and kept it for his protection.

About this line,

“I’ve always been the one using this to deal with others. Today it’s finally my turn to have others use it against me. Now I know just how obnoxious the Tiger Seal is. If I were them, I would’ve wanted to kill the person who created this damn thing as well.”

It's giving us an insight to the mindset of WWX's opponents, and that their fear/anger/resentment of him & this insanely powerful weapon he wielded is actually a justified and rational response, which WWX empathises with. But I think it takes a leap in logic to say that understanding the motives of people who opposed him indicates that WWX thinks he has done something wrong or made a mistake. WWX notably is understanding of JZXun's reason's for ambushing him at Qiongqi Path, but that certainly doesn't mean he thinks it is his own fault.

So can forging it be called a 'mistake?' I guess, but only in the sense that it did not fulfill the purpose that WWX expected it to. Keeping it is a different topic... it's true that him having it gave people more reason to oppose him, yet there were also a myriad of other reasons people opposed him, and the yin hufu did provide him protection from that. Yet, in the end they attacked him anyway, and he ultimately decided to destroy it, yet that also resulted in his death (WWX couldn't defeat the sects with the yin hufu so I think it's pretty clear he couldn't have survived the siege without it). Ultimately the judgement in MDZS on the yin hufu is that it shouldn't exist, it's too dangerous. However, there isn't clear condemnation in the text or from WWX himself for him keeping it, because he had completely fair and logical reasons for feeling it was beneficial to him at the time. It can be called a 'mistake' that he didn't foresee things clearly, but I also think it is absurd to say this is because of some terrible flaws on his part. Humans can't predict the future or know everything, that's not a flaw.

I already spoke before about how I don't think WWX was right at Nightless City, not because of strictly his actions but because of his intentions. The people at Nightless City attacked him first, they wanted and planned a fight, so there's no argument to be made for them being innocent or victims, nor any reason they should be spared from something they willingly signed up for. However, in this situation, WWX was also neither innocent nor a victim, he went to Nightless City because he also wanted a fight, he waited for them to attack first because he wanted to go apeshit on them. He was lashing out after everything that happened prior because 'anger was the only thing that could suppress the other feelings within his heart.' (ch.78)

WWX undeniably does not feel all his actions in the past were good or right, because he makes different decisions in the future. But I do not get the impression that he feels particularly sad or remorseful about the people he killed (aside from JZX). Actually throughout his second life, WWX's attitude towards those who'd led the siege on him is fairly scornful, so it doesn't seem like he feels it was justified or that he deserved it. During the second siege he is dismissive of the people coming at him with their grievances... this is not the behaviour of someone who has a lot of guilt or regret for what he did to them.

Imo, his regret is more centred on himself and how he lost himself back then, giving in to his anger and lashing out at the world. How he gave up everything do try to avoid this kind of conflict, hidden away in what he calls a 'hellish place,' only it to all be pointless because he fell apart at the end anyway. He couldn't stop the siege, so what was it all even for?

Though he has some regrets, to WWX this is all in the past, he already died once and he has moved on from it all (MXTX expressed this same sentiment in one of her author's notes btw).