#“the ceiling smelled of cinder????'

[sirlancenotalot]

daughter by cathy linh che

[eddaawrites]

Flu season - Chris Sturniolo

A/n hey, so this is my first post which means I’m gonna need some constructive criticism. Don’t worry I’m the eldest granddaughter my feelings won’t be hurt. Also I wanted to start off chill so this is just some fluff of Chris taking care of you when you’re sick. I’m in love.

Warnings- tooth rotting fluff, reader is really sick (duh-doy) and no use of y/n.

Now without further ado-do (hah! I said doodoo), I present Christopher Owen Sturniolo.

—————————

This is just not my day. First of all I went to sleep with a major headache, so I barely got any sleep tonight. Secondly I woke up with a fever so bad that I couldn’t even get myself out of bed and lastly I can’t find the remote to my tv so I’ve just been laying here like a cinder block all day while sweating like a pig.

I stare at the ceiling hoping I’d eventually just fall asleep, only to be interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing to my right. I groan rolling over to my side to check the contact, my heart fluttering at the sight of my boyfriend’s name. I grab my phone hitting answer and put the phone on speaker because I don’t have the energy to hold the phone.

I initiate the conversation to let him know I’m here. “Hey, you.” I croak, my voice sounding like I’ve smoked 20 packs a day since birth.

“Hi, baby” he answers “am I waking you up? You sound tired.” He asks. “No, I’m just a bit sick. Think I caught the flu or something. But what’s up?” I try to act fine but my voice betrays me.

“Are you sure you’re fine? You don’t sound too good. Do you want me to come over and cuddle you?” He asks completely ignoring my question.

“Yeah, baby I’m fine. And you probably shouldn’t come over, I’ve got 104 degrees and I smell like a rats ass.” I say, not wanting him to see me like this. He’s seen me sick before since we’ve been dating a while but not like this.

“Well that’s too bad.” I’m completely lost until I hear the turning of the lock of my apartment door and the faint sound of footsteps coming my direction. My door opens to reveal a gleaming Chris, holding my favourite flowers in one hand and a bag full to the brim with all my favourite foods.

I sit up pouting at him “how did I get so lucky?” He smiles handing me the flowers, setting the bag down and pressing his hand against my forehead to check my temperature, then sliding it down to rest against my cheek.

“Aw, you poor thing. You’re burning up” he says genuinely. “I’m gonna go run you a bath and I’ll be right back” he says pressing a kiss to my temple and pulling away.

“Man I really do smell bad, don’t I?” I say sarcastically, grinning from ear to ear as he walks to the bathroom. I hear him chuckle and then water running.

He comes back to the room reaching his hand out for me to grab. I grip it and he pulls me to my feet and I wobble a bit, blood rushing to my head after laying in bed all day. I then feel an arm at the back of my knees and under my right arm and suddenly I’m in the air, Chris carrying me bridal style to the bathroom.

He puts me down to sit on the toilet seat. I let him help me undress, not caring as long as I get to get in the bath soon. My muscles aching for relief.

When I step into the bath I instantly relax, the water is the perfect temperature. Warm enough to ease some tension in my shoulders and back but not too warm so that I feel nauseous.

I feel like I’m at a spa, Chris went to my room and grabbed a face mask I’ve been meaning to use and applied it for me, even putting some on himself. And now he’s washing my hair for me.

I actually think I fall asleep for a second, the mixture of no sleep, a warm bath and a scalp massage getting the best of me.

When I’m done bathing he grabs me some pyjamas and helps me get dressed. We get back to bed, pulling out the snacks and turning on the tv after he found it under my pillow and watching 10 things I hate about you.

He’s so gentle with me, peppering my face with kisses, whispering how much he loves me and holding me so tight I think he might break one of my ribs.

I don’t remember falling asleep but when I wake up I’m wrapped up in his arms and I’m feeling so much better.

Chris however…

————————

A/n I love this so much, actually broke my heart to think about the fact that none of you will ever experience this because Chris and I are happily married with 3 kids😔💔 but on a serious note, please tell me if there’s anything you want me to do differently next time! I expect you guys to be absolutely brutal in the comments. Thank you guys for reading, I hope it lived up to your expectations! XOXO 💋

[sssammich]

day 15: scotch | childhood trauma

note: this fic has a vague reference to suicidal ideation. subtle, i'd say, but still.

supercorptober / whumptober

---

Lena lets the darkness swallow her whole, stepping foot in her father's study. There's a staleness that pervades her senses, the settled dust on the surfaces throughout the room. She beelines for the balcony doors at the far end of the room, pushing the French doors open to the cool midnight air. She takes a deep breath, then another. Bits of moonlight filter down where she is before she turns her attention towards the fireplace. She paws for a switch on the side until she hears the faint hiss of gas and lights the decorative logs in the hearth. The office is bathed in warm golden light, the fire's shadows dancing throughout the room.

Turning her head, she holds her breath when she grabs hold of a corner of the white sheet that covers the sofa right by the fireplace, dropping the sheet by her feet. She can smell the leather from where she's standing and her mind fills with memories of the final family portrait they'd taken on the very couch just shy of her twelfth birthday, just before she was shipped off to boarding school.

Before her father passed away just a few feet away at his own desk, drunkenly racing towards the bottom of a scotch bottle.

Before her mother pushed her to her absolute limit in the name of pride and familial expectations, each critique tied with a dangling promise of praise that all came too late.

Before her brother pursued his vices and his obsessions with singular focus, all leading to his eventual, inevitable, ruin.

Now, they're all dead.

And she is alone.

She walks to the perpetually stocked bar cart on the other end of the sofa and she grabs hold of the scotch bottle by the neck, twisting the cap open and filling a glass halfway. Unceremoniously plopping on the couch, she stares at the dancing flames, one hand holding her glass and the other holding the bottle.

The warmth of the alcohol flows down her throat. For a long, beating moment, she imagines throwing the glass into the hearth. Imagines throwing the bottle right after it. Imagines this forsaken house engulfed in the very flames that warm her now.

She imagines herself inside of it with nowhere to go. The walls crumbling, in cinders, soot painting the ceiling, the photos on the wall crumpling into ash. The couch and the desk and the shelves and the rug and the family portrait all ablaze with her in the center of it all. Enshrined, entombed in the fire. Worthy of a legacy befitting their name.

She imagines an escape from the deep, conflicting heartache that presses down on her chest.

They had not been very good people, yet.

She loved them.

Every single one of them. Each bid for attention she sought returned with scraps, all of which she was thankful for anyway. Because at least she had them. Because having was better than not having. Her uncompromising stance elsewhere in her life doesn't apply to her heart, doesn't apply to her love. That, she'll break over and over again in the name of hope.

How little had changed in all the years since.

The sound of a billowing cape comes just outside the balcony doors followed by a padded landing of boots. She hadn't said anything, hadn't wanted to. Yet, they are both here now. For what that's worth. If anything.

She imagines completely drowning in a wildfire of her own making.

Because having was better than not having.

[raccoonfallsharder]

heartspur.⋆☁︎ :･꧂

a scene from cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ pearl portrait | the runabout | rocket fanart masterlist let me love your OCs masterlist | main masterlist

only a couple chapters until rocket gets a whole new ship and i finally have this scene from chapter thirteen done. let it be known i have almost every gun in mcu-rocket's arsenal in here except like, katie and vicki. (excerpt + feather-free version below too!). now time to get back to the OC doodle queue!

He wakes up with claws already hooked, ready to rend — ribs tight, lungs heaving — teeth bared and eyes wide, darting, scraping over every shadow and bright hot light — he looks for cinders, for sparks, nostrils flared and searching for any shred of smoke — for fur, for blood, for the burnt smell of the laser pistol— “—only you and me. I’m here — it’s just me.” The voice is a caress. “Herb— Sire is far away, and so are the Recorders. It’s only you and me.” He rakes in another scorched lungful of air, and the burnt scent in his nose suddenly seems dampened, softened by clear water and dewdrops and lilies. Pearl. “Did I scratch you?” he pants. “Did I hurt you?” Her eyes are big and careful on him, shifting from his own stare toward something just a little below his left ear. Unassuming, nonthreatening. “Not at all,” she soothes, and her voice is the softest little brush along his senses. “I’m fine.” “I can’t—” he seethes, peering around the bunk. It’s still swaying recklessly on the straps that suspend it from the ceiling, and the pillow is hemorrhaging feathers: a soft spill of downy guts, scattered across the mattress between them like a silk sacrifice. He reaches out — the fabric that had been underneath her head is in slivers. “I shouldn’t frickin’—“ —be here.

Her thumbs dip below his collar and he freezes — suddenly terrified of her feeling his scars and metal bits, even though he knows she’d caught glances of them on the Arete; suddenly terrified she’ll dig her digits into his swollen, sore tissue and hurt him. But she pauses when she feels him stiffen — so quickly that it almost feels like she noticed his fear before it even rose to the surface. Then the delicate touch shifts safely back outside his shirt, coasting tenderly over his clothed shoulders and then back to his neck. His muscles stay strung-tight — cinched up under the memory of what he’d done the last time he’d had his hands on her throat — but her thumbs just stroke lingeringly along either side of his spine, then up to the base of his skull. She dips them into the fur there, below the surface layers and into his plush undercoat, rolling the pads of her thumbs carefully over the bone. It’s like she’s found a dial he hadn’t known was there. His heart and lungs are still pummeling his bones, too much momentum to slow them down — but his shoulders go molten, becoming flux under her ministrations, and his head tilts forward, suddenly too heavy to hold up. Her fingertips float to the sides of his face — light as Foresterian moonmoths brushing against his whiskers and fur — while her thumbs continue to stroke up from the nape of his neck to the crown of his skull. They rove against his head in petal-like ovals, and then slide back down again. Circs and circs before, trapped on HalfWorld, the muscles in Rocket’s neck and shoulders had been manipulated into new shapes: shortened, lengthened, split; twisted into tendons. They force himself to hold his shoulders broad and his head upright. He’s pretty sure there’s no name for any of the stuff he’s got going on in his body. But it’s here — in these strange manmade muscles between his neck and his shoulders — that pearl carefully kneads her thumbs. Her fingertips are still stretched upward, cradling his jaw like he’s— Like he’s something precious. Fragile. His breath hitches on a strangled sound. His ribs spasm upward, eyes suddenly wet and burning. “Drink,” she murmurs, gliding her thumbs deep into whatever agonized mess has been made of his trapezii. He grips the straw with his teeth, and takes a long pull of the water. It floods his mouth, cool and sweet and clear, and his eyes flicker closed — just for a second. The tears on his lower lids spill over and river into his fur. (from cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ chapter thirteen. heartspur.)

pearl portrait | the runabout | rocket fanart masterlist let me love your OCs masterlist | main masterlist

[dbmars]

NOW ON A03...

The H-Files, Episode 1 Part 1

Relive everything you loved about the pilot of the X-Files but better now that it's Hannibal as Scully and Will as Mulder... "Spooky Graham"...!

The aliens may be responsible for Will's empathy powers, and Mischa was abducted...

If I get a decent response/support I'll finish the episode and maybe write some more!

No time like the present. I make my way back through the violent crime section, and downstairs, revisiting the secretary. She directs me to an elevator that sinks me down to the first sub-basement level. The doors open and I move through the cinder block hallway that smells of industrial floor cleaner and wet ceiling tiles. At the end of the hallway, past shelves of case file boxes, is an office door cracked open. The placard reads GRAHAM. I can hear shuffling within, the movement of a chair. My nose wrinkles against cheap aftershave and stale coffee.

        I knock. I knock again. “Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted,” comes a wry voice. 

        I push the door open, revealing a small, windowless room packed with filing cabinets and shelves of still more files and paperwork. Despite what must be the vast amount of material crammed into the space, it is remarkably tidy, stacks neatly organized, lines clean. The bulletin board above the desk, however, is a mess of photos and handwritten notes. My eye is immediately drawn to a large poster of a science-fiction style flying disc, emblazoned with the phrase “I WANT TO BELIEVE.” 

        They don’t look like inverted bowls. More like saucers, thin and fragile, somehow meant to support an even more fragile teacup. 

        Against my will, my mind shows me the images that have haunted me most of my life – my mother’s teacup shattering against the floor, the white light filling every window of our hunting lodge, my sister’s screams, the whining, mechanical hum of the silver beast that descended from the heavens. My mother’s terrified shrieking as I raced out to save my sister, only to be rendered weightless, floating in searing blindness, and borne away. 

        I slam that door in the memory palace and attach another lock to it. They seem to rust and break at the most inopportune times.

         Agent Will Graham is bent over a light box, examining a series of slides. He, too, seems to forego the typical FBI uniform of dark suits and white shirts with uninteresting ties. He looks more like a rumpled professor or domesticated outdoorsman in brown pants and a green collared shirt that could just as easily be worn for yard work. His hair is curly, untidy in places, and he wears a layer of scattered stubble. When he turns to me, Will Graham lowers his tortoiseshell glasses down from his head. Fascinating. Nearsighted? 

        I give him my best introduction smile, oozing friendliness and ease. “Agent Graham. My name is Hannibal Lecter.” I approach and offer a hand. He shakes it very briefly, and a shadow flickers over his expression as I hold on just a little too long for his comfort. “I’ve been assigned to work with you.” 

         He glances at my eyes for a fraction of a second before turning his head, putting the frames of his glasses between us as a barrier. “Nice to, ah, suddenly be so highly regarded,” he says, all barbed irony. Rude. He turns in his seat and fiddles with the slides, deliberately disengaging. Ruder still. “So, who’d you piss off to get stuck with this detail, Lecter?” 

    He knows full well why I am here, it seems. Rather, why I’ve been sent. But they could have sent anyone. I was not chosen at random. There are multiple chess pieces moving at the same time on a three-dimensional board, and I have control of the queens. I am here because I seek truth. Because I cannot trust my memories – they might be nothing but a traumatized child’s nightmares, a wounded brain trying to explain what happened the night the world went away. Will Graham may very well be the lantern to light my way.

         “As it happens, I’ve heard a lot about you,” I say pleasantly as he gets up from his desk chair and opens a tidy file cabinet drawer, thumbing through the immaculate plastic tabs. I wonder if his drawers at home are kept just as meticulously. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

         “Really? I was, ah, under the impression you were sent here… to spy on me.” He opens the file and glances through a few typewritten pages before returning it to its proper place. I let my eyes wander over him as he stands in profile. I’d jump at the chance to spy on him. Voyeurism is one of my favorite parts of my process - to see without being seen. To stalk. I imagine him moving through his assuredly modest home, stretching, scratching his head, sleepy. Ready for bed in, oh, a pair of dull boxer shorts. I think of him illuminated by the light of his refrigerator as he searches for a little something before bed, uplit by its unholy glow as I watch him through the window.

            Interesting. My body is responding sexually to the image. I wipe it away as though I’d drawn it in steam on a mirror. “Agent Graham, if you have any doubts about my credentials or qualifications-”

            “-you’re a medical doctor and you’re teaching at the academy.” He interrupts me. Rude. Instead of imagining my knife piercing his skin, I picture him on his knees, waiting to make it up to me. Again, I force the image to dissolve. “You did your undergraduate degree in physics, while, ah, concurrently double majoring in psychology and art history with a focus on Renaissance Italy.” He selects another file from the cabinet and slides the drawer shut. “I dunno about your artsy stuff, but your senior thesis was ‘Einstein’s Twin Paradox: A New Interpretation’. Now, there’s a credential: rewriting Einstein.” 

            I successfully mask my surprise that he’s so familiar with my work. “Did you happen to read it?”

            He returns to his desk chair and compares something in the file to a slide. I glance over at his computer screen as he bends over to retrieve a dropped report from the file. I make out the words force, abduction, and light before he rights himself. “Yeah. I liked it,” he says, still not looking at me directly, the rims of his glasses in the way. “It’s just that in, ah… in my line of work – the laws of physics rarely seem to apply.” He adjusts another slide, then turns on the projector, flashing a washed-out image on the blank bit of cinder block wall kept clear, it seems, for this purpose. He has a curve to his lips on one side that strikes me as impudent. I want to wipe it off his face, one way or another.

            “Not fond of eye contact, are you?” I say, an attempt to derail and destabilize. 

            Now he swivels in his chair and looks directly at me. His eyes are like the ocean between islands in Greece. “Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking those whites are really white, or they must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein?”

            I can’t help but smile, returning his gaze steadily. 

            “So… yeah. I try to avoid eyes whenever possible. It’s even easier in the dark.” Agent Graham steps behind me and switches off the lights. The windowless cell is lit now only by the projected image – a young woman, lifeless on the ground. Ah. I had wondered when we’d discuss murder. While Will Graham is apparently very aware of my career and accomplishments, he doesn’t know of my finest work as the Chesapeake Ripper. Perhaps, someday, he will. 

            Will leans his hips against his desk, crossing his arms over his midsection. It catches the loose fabric of his shirt, drawing it against the bow of his back. Distracted again. I refocus on the image he’s elected to show me. “Maybe you can give your medical opinion, though,” he says. “Oregon female. Age twenty-one. No explainable cause of death. Nothing in the autopsy.” He switches slides, showing me a close-up shot of the young woman’s lower back, marred by two livid red welts. According to the ruler nearby for scale, they are roughly the size of an American dime. “Two distinct marks, however, are found on her lower back. Can you ID these marks… Dr. Lecter?”

            I move closer to the projected image. Despite not liking eye contact, I can feel him watching me. Perhaps he has some voyeuristic tendencies as well. “Needle punctures, perhaps. An animal bite. Electrocution is a possibility.” 

            When he switches slides again, I hide my surprise. It is not the body from another angle, but a diagram showing a chemical compound. 

            “How’s your chemistry? This is the substance found in the surrounding tissue.”

            I study the image, my brain humming steadily. I do love a challenge, and I find them so rarely. “It’s inorganic. Perhaps a synthetic protein.”

            “Hell if I know,” Agent Graham says. 

            “That’s surprising. You must have had your fair share of chemistry studying entomology. Your monograph on determining time of death based on insect activity required a high level of understanding to compose, I’m sure.” 

            “By all means, be sure,” he snarks, but the subtle pink staining his cheekbones tells me he’s pleased I’m familiar with his work as well. “I’ve never seen it, either. But here it’s found again, in Sturgis, South Dakota.” He switches slides, this one depicting a large man in a motorcycle club vest with the same two raised welts on his back. He switches again, showing me another male body with the same marks in the same place, spanning the thoracolumbar fascia and the internal oblique muscles. “And again, in Shamrock, Texas.”

            A true mystery. This is delightful. I haven’t had an afternoon so pleasant since I murdered the man sent to evaluate me by my life insurance agency and stretched his corpse across two rows of bus seats. “Do you have a theory?” 

            “I have, ah… plenty of theories,” he dismisses, joining me in front of the projected image, the dead man’s outline juxtaposed over him, throwing the kind of light that both obscures and reveals. His forehead bears a gentle shimmer of perspiration, and I can smell more of him now, the scent beneath the cheap aftershave – dogs, fresh splits of pine, machine oil, and something sweet I’d need more time and a closer proximity to identify. He doesn’t look at me, turning his head to the side a few degrees to let the slide’s light catch on the lenses of his glasses instead. “What has me stumped is why Bureau policy is to label these cases as unexplained phenomena and ignore them.” 

            I can sense the rumble of anger beneath his sardonic tone, taut with frustration. 

            “So, Dr. Lecter, do you believe in the existence of… extraterrestrials?” He says it with a wry twist that might be a kind of bitter smile. I tilt my head. “As a scientist,” he prompts, leaving me to lean against the edge of his desk again. 

            “Logically, I’d have to say no.” I do strive to tell the truth in my own way. Logically, I shouldn’t. But I am here because I need his help with the illogical – to determine, once and for all, if something happened to me, or I happened. “Given the distances needed to travel from the far reaches of space, the energy requirements would exceed–”

            He interrupts, shaking his head. “Conventional wisdom. That girl in Oregon – she’s the fourth member of her graduating class to die under mysterious circumstances. When convention and-and science offer no answers, might we not consider the, ah, the fantastic as a plausibility?” 

            He tested me at first, showing me the chemical compound and the crime scene photos. Now, he wants to make the boundaries clear. Impudent. Wants to get a rise out of me, surely, to define the methods of interaction. 

            My answer is mild, clinical, the kind of voice I’d use if I’d chosen to become a psychiatrist. “The girl is dead. Death occurs for a reason.” Sometimes, I am that reason. “If it was natural causes, then it’s plausible something was missed in the postmortem. If she was murdered, it’s plausible there was a sloppy investigation. What I find fantastic is your willingness to sidestep human error and search for answers beyond the realm of science. The answers are there, I’m sure. You just have to know where to look.” I raise an eyebrow to add in the sentence I won’t let my mouth say. Apparently, you don’t know where to look. Or you want me to think you don’t know where to look. 

            Agent Graham looks at me now, a brief glance up through his side-lit lenses. His left eye is illuminated as well, making it unearthly blue and leaving the other subdued, its subtle green and brown tones shimmering through the dominant color. He smiles, the most genuine expression I’ve seen yet, and I’m momentarily distracted by his beauty. It’s like visiting the Louvre, making one’s way quickly to see a great work before a crowd forms, and catching sight of an exquisite but uncelebrated painting in a forgotten side gallery that makes one lose all sense of purpose, the internal compass spinning and spinning. 

            “And that’s why they put the I in FBI.” He breaks away and sinks back into his desk chair, rolling over to the glowing blue screen of his computer monitor. “See you bright and early then, Dr. Lecter. We leave for the, ah, the very plausible state of Oregon at 8 am.” 

            I can’t help but smile back, a beam of pleasure, as he turns away from me and begins clacking at the keys. “Until then, Will.”

            I’ve taken a risk, demanding a first name basis. He makes no comment, waves a hand over his shoulder.

            I take my leave and hurry home to pack. 

[red1culous]

Whatever Remains, However Improbable

For a moment the space was serene, except for the floating dust bunnies that caught the light. Squinting into the shadows she can barely make out light switches on the wall. Her eyes follow the metal pipes and plastic casings that snake up the cinder block wall to the ceiling painted a matte black. 

Sighing she focuses her attention back to the ground. She can’t believe she’s just only noticed the oversized garbage can beneath the light switches. Her nose twitches as she gets a whiff of something sweet with a hint of sour at the end. 

She sighs aloud. Wishing she was anywhere but here. There were wooden tables pushed up against the wall and a half dozen chairs scattered about the place. Some of them were stacked haphazardly but most of them were lying on their sides as if someone had kicked them over in a fit of rage.

She can hear faint voices and an opening and closing of doors. Finally a set of doors directly in front of her opens with a loud groan. 

“What is it going to take for you to cooperate? Money or threats because either works for me.”

Her eyes sting and water as the overhead lights flicker on. You’re standing a few feet in front of her, watching her with dark eyes and smelling of fresh laundry and gun oil, a very potent mix. “Excuse me?” she quirks an eyebrow at you.

“I know you heard me.” 

Your reply is simple but she doesn’t miss the warning behind the words.

“You have a lot of nerve for someone dressed in plaid overalls.” She rolls her eyes. If she were being honest she would admit she enjoyed your visits. It gave her something to take her mind of sitting there for hours on end. 

You glance down at yourself and back at her with a smirk on your face. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“You look like a plaid monster chewed you up and spat you out.”

“And?” you reply indignant folding your arms over one another across your chest.

“Well it’s hard to be intimidated by someone wearing plaid everything. It’s very little-house-on-the-prairie. If you wanted to come here making threats you should’ve dressed in all black with a leather jacket or something.”

She watches as your expression tightens and your jaw clenches. Your eyes narrow slightly and she hears the huff of air you release from your nose. 

“Rough day?” she asks, her voice sickly sweet.

“You could say that” you say stepping closer to her.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I thought we were talking” you reply tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No. That was more you threatening me” she answers shaking her head.

“Fine” you sigh.

“Fine?”

“I came to see if you’d have lunch with me at the Garrison?”You say holding her gaze. 

She glances at the clock on the wall. It reads 8:25 pm in big neon numbers. “It’s dinner time” she replies with a chuckle.

“Exactly!” You groan slumping into the chair beside her. “I’ve been waiting to have lunch with you since noon. And you’ve just been sat there filling in these damn reports telling me ’soon soon soon’ so many times I’m pretty sure I’ll grow a beard before we finally go.”

“Fine” she all but shouts rolling her eyes again.

“Fine?”

“Yes just let me grab my jacket and then we can go eat” she gets up planting a kiss on your forehead before speed walking to grab her coat off the rack. 

“OH MY GOD FINALLY” you call after her. 

She chuckles walking back to you and you take hold of her outstretched hand. 

“Here” she drapes the jacket over your shoulders.

“Oh I’m not cold babe” you go to shrug it off but she stops you by pulling you into her side.

She kisses your temple as you both walk towards the large double doors. “Mhmm but I was serious about the overalls, so the jacket stays on.” 

-----

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[ask-icancraft-it]

Love's Retribution: Chapter 5

((Chapter 5 of the Western AU is here! Things get heavy as Tamora is reminded of why she can't let her guard down. Tagging folks for visibility @sgtcalhouns, @bashfulgnome, @sadboytristan))

TW: Brief allusion to sexual assault

Chapter Master List

—

Tamora awoke, squinting through the dark. She heard a distant shattering of glass, followed by laughter. Sitting up, the blonde felt the grit and dirt of the ground scraping her knees through the thin fabric of her nightgown. The smell of smoke and an orange glow seeped through the cracks in the boards above her.

Feeling the stacks of stored wood at her sides, panic crept in, and she fumbled for the ladder through what little light she had, climbing up to the rectangular outline marking her way out. Pushing up with her hands, her breath quickened as the door didn’t budge. Those bastards had blocked her in. 

Ramming her shoulder into the wood, she shouted, the smoke beginning to sting her lungs. Shove after shove, the door started to give way as she desperately fought to get through. With one last cry, Tamora finally burst from the floor, scrambling up and into the center of the burning building.

Through the searing heat, she crawled, charred debris raining from above. She passed a pair of boots, not daring to look at the body attached to them as tears stained her face. 

She had to get out. 

Gasping, the blonde spilled out of the front doorway, the chilly air a welcome relief from the flames that licked at her skin. Moments later, the wood cabin finally gave out, its ceiling and walls caving in a burst of cinders. The house was completely gone within minutes, leaving a pile of burning lumber in the middle. As Tamora stared at the remaining flames, they danced and changed shape, taking the form of a man. 

She stood, feet numbed by the frost clinging to the grass. Trembling, she approached the fiery figure.

“Brad?” she whispered. Though made of flame, his face was unmistakable as he turned. 

He smiled, yet sadness filled his eyes as he looked at her. A glowing hand came upwards to caress her face. Tamora flinched, but the fire did not burn her, so she leaned into his gentle touch. 

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry—” she cried. 

The flames shifted, and suddenly before her was Felix with that same doleful look. 

Tamora’s eyes grew wide, a gasp escaping her lips as she stepped back. Heart pounding in her chest, she looked down, horrified by the body lying at her feet. The dead man among the glowing cinders was not Brad, but Felix, his cold eyes staring up at her as dark streams of blood poured from his torso. 

The blonde screamed, hitting the floor. With panicked breaths, her eyes darted around a blue, moonlit room. 

“F-Fe—” she tried making words, but nonsense spilled out in her agitated state.

Felix rushed around the corner, brandishing his hunting rifle. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears as he scanned the room for whatever threat Tamora was awoken by. When he saw nothing, the handyman looked down to where she wrestled with the bed linens on the floor. 

“Felix!” she finally cried, still disoriented as she fought to get up. 

Setting his firearm down, he knelt, helping to untangle her. 

“I’m here!” he said. “I’m here. What happened?”

Tamora looked at him as if she’d seen a ghost. Starting at his torso, her hands grasped as they climbed up to touch his face. Her palms on either side of his jaw, she looked him twice over, tears filling her eyes from the relief that he was still alive. 

“Tammy?” The handyman’s voice was laced with concern, and he gulped when the blonde pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Slowly, carefully, he returned her embrace while she sobbed against his chest. 

“You’re okay,” he spoke softly, repeating those words and holding her until she calmed down. 

“Oh, God,” Tamora sniffed, wiping the tears from her face. “I’m sorry…”

“No need to apologize,” Felix reassured her. “I’m just glad you’re…are you all right?”

More tears threatened to fall as she shook her head.

“I had a husband—” she disclosed, feeling like she had to confess everything. “We had just gotten married when three men came to our ranch. They killed him... And when they were done with me, they took our things and burned our home to the ground.”

A look of horror crossed the handyman’s face, his heart shattering. “Oh, lands—” he said after processing everything she’d said. “Tamora…I’m so sorry.”

“I haven’t been alright since that night he died. Then I ended up here,” the blonde added. “I’m beginning to find I feel alright when I’m with you…But I can’t—”

Felix was unsure what to say, staggered by her words. He knew she had been hurt in some significant way, but what he had pondered never came close to reality. 

“Could we…Would you like to talk over some coffee?” Tamora nodded and he helped her get comfortable in her chair before lighting the oil lamp and stoking the stove. He always thought better with busy hands, so Felix cleaned the supper plates while waiting for the water to boil. 

Drying off, he glanced at Tamora; she looked back, her tears mostly gone. The handyman then grabbed the rifle he’d rested against the edge of her bed and tucked it safely back in his room.  

“If someone had come in,” the blonde piped up. “Would you have shot them?”

“If I felt I had to,” he replied, dropping some grounds in the boiling coffee pot. Another span of silence filled the room as he tended to the brew. Pouring two servings, Felix stepped over to the chair beside Tamora’s. Sitting, he extended her mug for her to accept. 

The handyman couldn't bring himself to take a sip yet, running his fingers over the enamel surface of his cup. 

“H-how long has it been? Since your husband—”

“Three years,” Tamora responded. “Sorry…do you have any whiskey?”

Felix hesitated before getting back up, walking to the kitchen cabinet, and pulling out a flask of the good stuff. Uncorking it, he poured an ounce into her coffee. She thanked him, and he momentarily looked down at his cup. With a little shrug, he spilled some of the golden liquid for himself. 

Despite the heaviness in the room, that made Tamora smile.

“I threw a lot at you at once,” the blonde acknowledged. “You don’t need to come up with any profound response.”

The handyman nodded, taking a little more time as he settled back in his chair at the table.

“I think it’s no secret that I’m… sweet on you,” he began softly. “I’ve tried to be mindful because I saw your struggle. But I fear I’ve stepped out of line��I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what happened to you…I never meant to make things harder— or to dig up bad memories. I just wanted to be good to you.”

“You are good to me,” Tamora replied. “I don’t want you to feel guilty for that.”

Looking down, she realized she had placed a hand on his thigh. An image of Felix’s dead eyes from her nightmare flashed in her mind and she retreated.

“But I need to remind myself of reality. I’ve been hunting Cyrus for a long time and killed a lot of those bastards, including the three that ruined my life...But their leader, like me, isn’t exactly the forgive-and-forget type.”

Tamora paused to sip her drink; anything to chase away that awful visage that jolted her awake. 

“If they find me, they’ll kill you,” she said, tears welling up. “I can’t let that happen; I can’t go through that again.”

Felix swallowed the lump in his throat. “I understand,” he murmured. Reaching for her hand on the table, he linked his pinky with hers, fearing anything more would make her shy away. She shifted in her seat, but her hand stayed where it was.

“It’s okay to be afraid, Tammy... But don’t let it shatter your faith that things could be different. Whether you stay, or go—that’s your choice. Just know there’s a life here for you if you want it.”

“How is it that you’re not scared?”

“Who says I’m not?” Surprised, Tamora looked into his eyes. Suddenly, she could see what hid below coming to the surface. “I was terrified when you yelled for me— I thought someone had hurt you again.”

The handyman wiped a tear that rolled down his cheek. “I-I’m sorry…I’m supposed to be comforting you,” he sniffed. 

Tamora felt guilty for causing him distress, but a part of her was relieved to know she wasn’t alone. 

“You are,” she said, weaving her fingers loosely with his. They shared melancholic smiles, both taking some solace in the tender connection.

After a while, the blonde’s more thorny nature retook its hold and she let go, polishing off her coffee. This made Felix realize he hadn’t drunk any of his, swirling the whiskey-spiked beverage before having a taste. His nose scrunched up, and he coughed after a painful swallow.  

“Smooth, isn't it?” Tamora smirked. 

“Oh yeah,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “Goes down easy.”

“I’m surprised you had any; you don’t seem the type.”

“I drink,” Felix feigned offense. “On occasion.”

“Really?” the blonde chuckled, cheek in hand. “Tell me about the last time you bent your elbow.” 

Felix couldn’t help but smile at her reversal. Taking another sip, he prepared to stay awake with Tamora for as long as she needed; no matter how many embarrassing stories it might take.

[wordslikesilver]

Ashen Promise

Our bed is soft like warm ash. I stare up at the ceiling, wishing for your hands to paint my skin with the fire-snow we lie on. I want to be tattooed with the pressure of the hand on my breast. Ashes fall from my hair when the sweat has dried. The room smells of sex. Of us. We can wait a little bit longer before we get up again. I haven’t finished yet. Memorizing your face. Your every scar, bone and treasured curve. If I try hard enough, if I spend long enough pressing the colours of your soul into mine, will they stain? Wherever I end up next, can I take you with me? Leave a mark on my neck right where it tastes the best. Burn it deep into my skin, love. Crumble me between your fingers and press my ashes to the blood on your lips. Grant me that single, harmless touch and I’ll get up from long-cold cinder to flame-tongue your skin. Hold me well. Your touch defines the boundaries of my existence. There’s simply nothing out there, outside your hands. Give to me a rune, my love. A rune of your home, to carve into my door and all over my ribs. Show me the end. Bring me a little death each night for dreaming and hold my hand while we sleep.

I’m so tired, darling. I wanna rest like ashes on your skin.

In the bathroom, I sit for your clippers. I’m not a woman who kneels, but this feels close. I gaze long into your eyes while you groom your wife, revelling in my vain indulgence and guilty pleasure. I truly am a selfish woman. Asking you to listen to me sing. Asking to hear you sing. To sit by and partake as my audience, my loving prisoner to my practice. You feed me love like you feed me food, I want to beg you for seconds. I want more dinners together, served with potatoes and soy; to steal more of your attention and the last grain of rice. I want another bowl of soup and hope that I can be just as filling. I want to be wanted. And then keep asking for more. Asking you to draw me. My body, my face, I can’t help how much I love being your muse. I get to see how I am seen in the eyes of my lover and be moved by the tidal stroke of graphite. I feel real when I look down at the page. I wonder if it’s all too much. If I’m too much. If I’m loving you wrong or making you feel neglected. Am I just as filling? You rest on top of me after telling me to undress, skin to skin, heat to heat, and loose a lovely sigh. “There’s my wife,” you whisper, the smile in your cheeks felt clear upon my breast. I am loved with a tenderness only faith could fathom.

I’m so hungry, dearest. May I please have more?

You saw me. Did you realize? Do you know what it did when I stripped off my flesh, cracked open my bones and showed you my sins caked in marrow, only to watch you drink them one by one? I bet they tasted like rotten apples. But you drank them all. You don’t even eat meat. But you held the bone between your teeth and told me to stay. Our bones were touching. I saw myself as a monster and our bones were touching. It shattered me. How could I ever be the same after that? I handed you matches to burn me alive and stood patiently against a stake. But you struck one against my ribs instead and held it softly to the horizon, right where the sky kisses the earth, ‘til the night began to glow. You used a match to break the dawn. What a terrible light it was that filled my archways of bone and ribbon. I wasn’t supposed to come back. How did you bring me back? The single most terrifying part of it all is not that it happened, of course. It’s how easily you do it again and again, no matter how broken I become. You are the hope in the box. The kiss upon my tears as I grieve into the earth, the ash, the dust. “The long night will pass, but I will not,” you whisper with your hands. You beckon for the sun to rise so I lift my head and touch your heavens.

I’m so cold, sunshine. Or maybe I just can’t take the yearning.

I will bury you first. For all the gardens you will attend to, all the earth you will hold and all the life you will sow with seed and rain, I will attend to the dying. Long before I met you, I felt that in another life I’d be an undertaker. Caring for graves and ghosts and grief with all the love in my heart. A beekeeper who makes candles for the dead and honey for the living. I think a lot about death, for someone as young as I am. There’s such a cold beauty in its cycle. Lovely, if you’re not a part of it. Beautiful, if you’ve no heart to break. It’s so unlike you. Sweet little you, as gentle and warm as sunlit spring-fall. Teach me all you can of your hair and skin. Leave me your paintings and the yarn. I will comfort myself in the softness of a life built together until the day comes when I join you in the urn. I’ll get lonely, without you. You’re the one soul I’ve loved that would choose me, every time, in every life. But for that alone, I would live. No matter how far you’ve gone, no matter how long it will take, I will walk this earth til I am with you again in your garden and you will never live a day without your love. This is the gift I give with this poem. I will bury you first.

I’m so anxious, fruitbat. I wanna hug you with my lungs.

You said once that you worried I might run out of words one day. That I’ll run out before we can say our vows. Such a lovely, silly thing to think, really. That the affections I express are so constant there’ll be nothing left, in time. Thirty days, the eighteenth, the next, devoted to you. Word after word, I breathe to a sequence, repeating over and over til they spill from the spout the way it feels they should. I lay claim to no meter nor talent with rhyme, but I know when it feels just right in my heart. I can keep writing, if I just keep listening. If I just keep falling in love with you, each and every day, I know there’ll always be more. This is my performance of devotion. Witness my ritual and let it be a gift I can lay with reverence at your feet. I can’t make much, you see. My hands aren’t the steadiest and I’m not the most patient. But I can weave. I can dance. I can rub oil on my robes, drop to my knees and tell you a million other ways I’ll touch the words, “I love you.” I can lie. I can say that I’ll never run out. That as long as you’re with me, I’ll find new ways to write it. Wouldn’t it be lovely? If I wrote so much you didn’t notice when I start over, since once could never be enough?

I’m so loved, my love. How could just once ever be enough?

[jinx-on-mars-19xx]

Tried to Kill Me

(Kill Somebody Like You Part Two Chapter Fourteen)

🔪Previous Parts Here🔪

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: ABO dynamics (knots, slick, heats, mpreg), alpha serial killer/hitman Dom, omega mob boss Kells, cursing, past abuse, past SA, attempted assassination (repetitively), threats, violence, guns, bombs, teasing, insults, poisoning, trip wire traps, improper use of a condom, piss play (not what you think), Dom being an alpha, trouble with stalkers, baiting, fights for dominance, morning kisses, grinding, mentions of sex, hormone cycles, self hatred, self control issues, needy make outs, desperate boys, voyeurism, claiming, demands, ruts, d/s undertones, enemies to lovers ❤️‍🔥 Rating: mature (lightly explicit)

All ideas helped by @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🩷

The first attempt on the Alpha's life was a surprisingly dumb one- not that he should have been shocked by any amount of idiocy from James Sebastian. The next day after they turned down his not-so-kind offer of one life and one lifelong sex slave a package came to their door. It looked oddly fancy for regular mail and none of them had birthdays very close besides the obviously freshly born child, so Dom was already on edge the moment he saw it. He set it on the kitchen table and he tried to sniff it and listen closely. When nothing was apparent besides the annoying stench of other people he opened it carefully and rolled his eyes at the sight inside.

“Wha’s inside? A present?” Blain asked when he wandered into the room. When he peaked inside he grumbled too, they were all already at their wits end over this bastard. “Another bomb? Didn't he learn nuffin before?”

Dom shrugged and pulled the contraption apart, crushing the cell in his hand before ripping the cords free just to be safe. “Suppose not. ‘Ang on.” He smirked, retrieving the first phone they got and taking a picture of the mess that he sent to Jimmy with a kiss emoji and a middle finger. He laughed when he saw the three dots pop up and disappear. He was enjoying the game too much and loving how easy it was to drive the other Alpha up the wall.

The second attempt came the next day, a poisoned box of chocolates Dom could smell the moment it arrived on their floor. The toxin was overused and disgusting. Besides, chocolate wasn't high on his list. He accepted the box and set it on the counter, getting the phone for a second picture. He laid his middle finger on the box as if he were pointing and sent the image asking if he should try one. After that he double bagged the poison and called a hotel worker up to remove the trash from the building. He tipped them extra to pick up a safe box on the way home because his oldest son had gotten a look at the present and was pouting about fancy chocolate. He sent one more message telling James he should have tried chicken twisties, Dom was far more a salty bitch than a sweet one.

The third attempt was laughably over the top. It didn't even make sense to be set for him. It was by chance he was the one Colson sent down to the garage to check the Bentley for one of the omega's cards. It could have just as easily been Mod or Blain or even Col himself but it was annoyingly juvenile. Between the car and the beta’s Jeep was an actual tripwire waiting for his ankle. It was easy to spot and step over and he followed the string to the cinder block on the ceiling. The idiocy of this posh pompous arse was starting to piss him off but he just shook his head and disabled the trap before he found his mate's card between the leather seats.

After finding it he started to walk away before an idea struck him. He couldn't help but laugh as he checked the glove box for what he might need and victoriously found an old condom. Making himself whip his dick out and pee into the opening was difficult in the shadow of the garage and it triggered a memory like every time he used the bathroom since the day his lover made him piss himself. He didn't regret their play but it caused him trouble, it was hard forcing a stream through even a partial hard-on but he was learning. The attempt was worth it though when he was taking the block off the trap and tying the makeshift ‘water’ balloon in its place. He felt like a giddy child that he never got to be.

After fixing his own Home Alone style trap he retied the trip wire where it would actually be hidden. He dropped and broke the cinder block so it would appear the original thing hurt him before he all but skipped back to the elevator and up to their home. When he found his fiancé he handed over the card and started giggling. When Kells arched a brow he broke into an absolute fit. “Sorry luv but I might ‘ave pissed on someone else.” He forced out through chuckles and Col only looked at him even more confused. Eventually he was able to explain and the boss joined him in a laugh. They really couldn't treat this bastard with any sincere worry. He just didn't feel like a threat so much as a pest, not to them. Not after everything they went through already.

“What kind of Acme shit is this dude on? Too many Looney Tunes growing up. Pussy ass bitch can't even get his hands dirty.” Col sighed. He had too much to actually worry about to be anything more than annoyed.

“Nah, but he's about to get ‘is ‘ead messy.” Dom teased and they both started laughing again.

Of course Jimmy boy didn't text them in his rage but they had someone check the trap to find a wet mess everywhere except a dry spot on the ground in the shape of two very expensive shoes. Surprisingly he didn't contact them at all for the entire next day and Dom didn't find any assassination attempts. The next morning was safe as well until they started getting confused and checked with the clerk to see if he'd seen anything. Normally it would just be the Alpha leaving the apartment but Col thought they were more likely to talk to him. Halfway down he was fidgeting being away from their son but he just squeezed his lover’s hand and forced himself to continue.

For the man's first attempt to leave their baby behind he thought it was a success. Sure they stayed in the building but he was far enough away he felt the pull. It seemed like there was a tether between him and the infant still even though Punk existed outside of his body. His mate was his rock though and kept hold of him as unobtrusively as he could, and he let the omega lead the way as they spoke to the workers about all their security risks. They didn't have a picture to give them for James, weirdly the frat boy fuck kept himself out of the media. They just tried to explain the general vibe but it sounded like half the people who would stay at the Four Seasons.

It was late at night because they didn't want to be surrounded by people and it was the easiest time to catch the employees free. The lobby was empty and it made Col nervous but he talked to everyone he could about the situation before thinking it was time to head back up. Someone covered head to toe stepped through the glass doors and kept their head down. The older man noticed the hat and the trench coat were expensive as fuck and probably vintage and he tried to give the stranger an appreciative head nod. The man didn't look at them and barely moved but he reached into his briefcase. The couple felt their nerves escalate at the same moment and Dom turned them so his partner was behind him. The broody bitch did exactly what they thought and pulled out a gun. It all happened so quickly and three shots went off before the other Alpha was running out the door, jumping into a vehicle, and speeding away. The killer didn't have a chance to go after him. They realized in that moment they weren't just being stalked but being watched very closely. How else would he know they were out of their flat? Fuck.

Colson took a breath and looked around, the guy's aim was as bad as his bomb making and trap creating. The shots had gone wildly far away but the clerk was freaking out anyway, far more stressed than either of them. They shared a look before trying to calm the worker. They had to tip him a lot to keep him from calling the police. They couldn't include them when they were already being watched. They just hoped no one else caught the mess. Thankfully the idiot was smart enough to use a silencer even though he obviously didn't know how to use a gun. They did what they could to smooth over the incident and made their way back upstairs. Dom was ranting about how much he hated guns and Kells joked about how awful the man was with one. It felt like an insult he thought it would be so easy and he started to wonder if the fucker was actually trying to kill them or just fulfilling a duty. Every attempt felt silly, not serious. He might have stepped it up but that was probably more from being embarrassed than anything else. Of course Dom made the shame worse with a text to the bastard about how his aim was obviously better than Jimmy's and asked if he still felt pissed.

Colson was just proud of himself for leaving their home for a while, even if the attempt went terribly. It was almost better it went so badly because it set a precedent that he could handle anything. He felt more himself working things out with the hotel employees and getting shot at than he had in months. Violence was his lifeblood. His love language. Granted he was working on both to learn better for their sons. Blain was upset when he was told about the more serious attempt but he didn't know what he could do to make it better.

The next morning Dom was enjoying his morning tea and cigarette on his balcony when another shot was fired. It went way off track and over the building he thought, and the next landed closer but bounced off the bulletproof glass. He didn't move, he wouldn't be bullied so close to his home and he wanted to embarrass the man even more. He enjoyed every sip of his drink and every drag with his gaze wandering calmly until he spotted Jimmy Boy in the building across from them. It was another hotel and the Alpha was on the top floor- of course. Dom just finished up, blew him a kiss, flipped him off, and went back inside.

“Did I hear something hit the wall?” His lover asked as he woke up but Dom just waved off his worry and slipped back in bed to hold him.

“Jimmy is fhrowing a tantrum again.” The killer explained and the other rolled his eyes, pressing his lips to Dom's in a good morning kiss. The taste of something he no longer let himself enjoy was always an aphrodisiac in the morning. His mate didn't smoke much anymore out of respect for him but he allowed himself the relief first thing with his breakfast tea.

“I don't like that he's fucking with us in our home.” The omega grumbled, his fingers tangling in his fiancé’s wild hair. Dom didn't like it either but there wasn't much he could do until they were allowed to kill him. It was driving him mental as well.

“Let me off me leash.” The Alpha purred, biting softly at the boss's neck. He wasn't normally the one to nibble but his urges were getting intense and he felt more aggressive than normal. It was a feeling he knew well but he didn't want to bother his partner with it. He kept trying to shove it down but having someone threatening his family was making it way worse. He knew he was being more typically Alpha than Col had seen him before but he couldn't help it and Kells didn't seem to mind it. Yet.

“Fuck- I would if I could.” The omega promised as he tilted his head and let his growling lover roll him to his back. He'd give a lot to get the feds off their backs and let his pet psycho loose, he wanted blood as much as Dom did. He was surprised at the reaction his pent up boy was having but he had to admit at least to himself he was loving it. Every day he was acting more claiming. It started with the Alpha cupping his cunt when they slept and progressed to him bending Kells over at random times and laying against him like a promise. Dom never really growled or bit but he was obviously worked up and overwhelmed. His instincts on high alert with their new baby.

“Ain't no one getting close to yas. You mine.” The Alpha vowed as he set his teeth around the mark he'd left months before. It was his main claim on the older man and he was tempted to make another. His body slid between his mate's thighs as Colson spread his legs to invite him closer. He was already throbbing and Kells was wet enough he could scent him. A soft whimper escaped the boy, he didn't want to go too hard. They still weren't technically supposed to fuck and he knew if they did he'd go wild. His cock fit against the other's core and he felt the heat coming off him. He needed to be inside. He needed to own him. “Fuck m’sorry.”

Colson’s brows furrowed and his hips bucked up. He didn't know why the killer went still above him and he was tempted to punish his bitch for stopping mid-play. “Why? What the fuck? I'm having a good morning.” He chuckled. His voice was already breathy and he was surprised at how much he wanted to submit. The last few times they'd been together Col had held all the control. He rarely gave it up but whatever was going on inside the boy was doing it for him.

“I fink I'm… I- bloody ‘ell.” The Brit grumbled but he couldn't stop his body from rocking down, grinding them together.

Col grabbed his partner’s hair and tugged until their eyes met. Dominic was full Alpha already, his gaze crimson and his fangs exposed behind his plush pillow lips. The omega kept him close but took a breath to ask- “Fuck is wrong with you? I thought we were having fun.” When Dom flushed pink he knew it was something new. The guy never really blushed, he had to make him piss himself to get him to. It was something that drove him crazy and endeared him to his fiancé. He knew it meant it was something to do with his Alpha side. It almost always was.

“I don't mean to get all… grr.” Dom tried to explain but he ended up just sounding like a pitiful monster. His growl was half assed and frankly adorable but the omega just arched a brow to tell him to go on. “I mean I wanna. Fuck do I wanna. But ya know I try to let you-”

“That's cool. I didn't stop you, did I? I get everything this douchebag is doing is a lot. I get you're feeling territorial. I mean he hurt our son and we can't do shit to get back at him. It's fucking me up too. I can't imagine what it's doing to you since it's your family.”

“Not me family.”

“Possibly your family. So what you're getting a little aggro? I didn't say stop.” The omega grinned, flicking his tongue over his lover’s mouth.

“But I'm- it ain't about tha'. I don't ‘ave control of it. I- I'm sick.” Of all the things Dom could say Colson didn't expect that. He moved his hand from the boy's hair down to the back of his neck.

“You do feel warm. Hot even. Do you not feel well? Wait, what the hell does being sick have to do with your dick?” He chuckled. He was confused but starting to get worried.

Dom pressed his face against his partner's chest and made a noise like he was fighting a scream. His cock was still hard and pulsing against Col and the older man just wanted to get fucked. The Alpha mumbled something but the omega didn't understand. After he asked for a repeat and the killer just muttered again he tugged him back up by his hair. He was already dealing with multiple children and childish behaviors, he wouldn't put up with it from Dom no matter his actual age. When he met that red gaze again he tried to soften his annoyance. The guy was obviously nervous.

“Rut.”

“What?”

“Ya know ‘ow we waiting on ya ‘eat?” Dom flushed hotter.

“Duh. I don't think I'm there yet but maybe close. I mean shit when I wake up there's like a bucket of slick between my legs but I figured that was just cause you keep getting all- oh. Ooooh. Your cycle. You have a cycle too.” The man figured it out as he talked through it and it felt like a brick on his head. Of course he wasn't the only one with a hormone cycle and his fiancé hadn't had his since they met. “Is my body just reacting to yours then?” He didn't mean the question in a bad way, he always reacted to his lover but he could tell in the moment Dom took it wrong. “Don't you dare move. You know I didn't mean it like that.” He huffed and was surprised when his normally tame bitch growled at him. He was starting to think he could really get used to it, at least occasionally.

“So bloody sorry you wet for me.” Dom grumbled and his tone made something in Col’s mind want to go soft.

“Fuck you. I'm always wet for you, asshole.” Just because his instincts wanted him to go soft didn't mean he had to listen. Another part of him wanted to push the man into making him submit. It was so hard to get the killer to play rough with him and this felt like his chance. He just had to push the right buttons.

Dom smirked and nosed along his lover's jaw, nipping playfully at his mating mark. “Good omega. Better only be wet for me.”

“I dunno. There's a few pornstars that still turn me on.” He shrugged and got the death stare he wanted. “Look at you. So scared of your own rut you won't do anything to me. You'll ask me to present for you, won't you?”

That felt too much like saying Dom wasn't a good Alpha which bothered the part of him that wanted to kill James and protect his family. He forced himself not to get lost in the darkness though, he had more pressing matters to worry about. Mostly the puddle of slick making his boxers stick to them both, that was distracting as hell. “You'd say yes. I can feel ‘ow much you need me. Desperate. Needy cunt.” He cursed and felt his partner shiver below him. “But if you so sure of yourself…” He trailed off before kissing his lover roughly and hopping off of him.

Col stared up at the boy and felt himself shake. He needed him more than he could explain but he didn't want to be the first to break. He wanted to make Dom take him. He pushed himself out of bed and bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from speaking. He tried to just ignore the other and walk to the bathroom but he felt the weight of that gaze. At the last moment before he left the room he felt a hand grab his wrist and the Alpha pushed him forward and pressed him hard against the glass wall. The cold almost stung his skin but he tried not to whine, even when his mate lay flush against his back and grinded his cock against his ass. He fought to stay quiet. Dom pulled on his arm and it reminded them both of their first time. They'd had a moment almost exactly the same. He almost couldn't believe how far they'd come in that time but he didn't have time to be sweet. No, his mate obviously had plans for him.

“Get on the fucking sofa and present for me omega. I want him to watch me claim you.” The Alpha's voice was barely above a growl and it made Colson’s pussy wetter than he thought possible. “He doesn't fink I'm Alpha enough to protect you and our boys? I'll fucking show ‘im 'ow much of one I am.” Kells couldn't do more than nod and finally let a soft needy noise escape him. That he could do for his partner. For Dom's new mood he'd do a hell of a lot more.

Author's Note/Tags: @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @fenoy7 @cole-way-iero28 if anyone wants tagged let me know 🧡

James is turning up the heat but it seems like Dom's rut might be turning on Col's as well 🤭 Dom is getting very Alpha with all that's going on, I just wonder if it'll trigger Col's cycle or if they'll have multiple distractions. I told you they never stay apart long! Wonder what Jimmy will do with what's coming. Hope you're all still enjoying it! ❤️‍🔥🖤

[stargirl1331]

Very Oddly Specific Vibes of (some of) my mutuals!(mainly if I interact with you a bunch)(I will be adding more this post will get so long)

@hauntedsuns (sunny!)

The smell of strawberry cotton candy, and the color of sunlight through a sun catcher tinted purple, the texture of a popcorn ceiling painted sky blue and the feel of when you are spinning in a flowy skirt and it’s not quite raining because there aren’t many clouds and it’s sunrise so all the clouds are nice colors. Pink and blue mica powder swirling in water, and the sound of pancakes getting made. And just have Aphrodite vibes.

@wyvrens (wyvren<- adopted child)

The crunch of a grape jolly rancher, the smell of air in the kitchen after snickerdoodles are made, a dinosaur shaped penutbutter sandwich. You are the sparks before the match lights, and the stim whre you hold your arms a little away from you and wiggle your wrists. Running fingers over a gecko that’s not quite cold but is cold blooded. The sky right before night in a city where it’s not dark but it is dusty, streetlights reflecting off a green house and Christmas lights up in October.

Izzie-re’pue:)

The minty taste of bubblegum icecube gum, the smell of squishmallows, the soft light when you shine a lamp through a scarf so it doesnt hurt your eyes. You are the stim where you are sitting criss cross and wiggle your shoulders and it turns down to your torso, happy and good. It’s when you see the stars and are sitting on the grass so you wiggle our shoulders and you feel it all the way down your torso, not anxious. Eating moss, but only if it was edible, and getting an obscure tattoo so that you can make up stories for what it means. Shadow puppets on the wall with the light of a phone screen, stirring a chocolate spoon in milk while rain falls in April. You are the smile when the first snow falls and the whole class runs to the windows to look, the quiet of a full house when everyone is sitting together.

@thedoctorandclaraforeverandever (Zoya:))

Firelight shining on stones(like the big blocky ones fireplaces are made of) and apple cider. the little bits of paper that fly up when you burn it, and cinder blocks painted orange. sharp ish thing is tree bark. white oak tree bark. it looks all rough and angry to touch but is actually soft and will fall off the tree easily. Waving to someone as they exit the airport and you meet for the first time, and an arm around your shoulder. The smell of popcorn half way through the movie, and music in headphones.

@wardofwinters (Pauhi Life)

Melted wax on a penny, and sunlight on pavement. leaves blowing through a doorway, scarves on lights, worms digging through the dirt, unseen by everyone. 27 candles burning at once but only 3 have sents and they are all warm smells. pine needles if anything sharp, pokey but actually not. Eye contact and giggling, shushing the other. Trading notes telling you to take care of yourself and staring until they open it. Excessive and unnecessary punctuation, but it’s fun. Bumping shoulders and knocking elbows. Post offices and the taste of envelope glue. Spinning in so many circles and staring at the stars once you fall.

[lordreconnaissance]

Maiko

(TW: religious trauma)

The nightmare came and went over time. It was always the same. The knowing smiles, all eyes on her. Paws reaching out to touch her scales or grab her wings as she dragged her feet to the front of the room. Everyone acting normal about the dragons speaking gibberish and falling to the floor. And worst of all, that icy, bitter water, filling her eyes and ears. She detested the cold now, and that was precisely why she’d run away to the Southern Icefields–it was the last thing anyone would expect. But she didn’t like to venture out without several layers of clothing. 

She knew she would never grow up after what they’d done. Forever tiny, forever weak, forever unable to fly beyond a few feet. Forever innocent, they’d said, with those horrible simpering grins on their faces. 

The clan was good to her. They always made sure she stayed warm, for the cold would send her into hours-long silence and stillness. But they didn’t really understand her. There was only one who didn’t treat her like an eternal child. 

The girl had ventured close to that one's room one day, drawn by the fragrance of tea leaves and clean water. She peeped through a crack in the door. It looked even prettier than it smelled–flowers grew along the vines that grew up the walls, somehow brought to life in the cavern underneath this frigid land; shelves bored out of the rock held all manner of colorful bottles and jars; a hearth in the middle of the room spilled sweet-scented smoke through a small hole in the ceiling. Silver clouds raged overhead, but the room was safe from the storm. Most importantly, it was warm.

"You can come in, dear," said the lady who used to be a teahouse. Donna. The girl crept in, basking in the heat of the crackling fire. She sat down on a plush cushion that was a deeper purple than she was.

"What kind of tea are you making?"

Donna carefully returned a large bottle of some green substance to its shelf and turned to the young dragon. "Oh, I'm not making tea. I'm making a salve for Cinder. He burned his tail in his forge."

"Oh. What's in the salve?"

Donna smiled, but it was an enthusiastic smile, not a saccharine one. "Would you like to know?"

"Yeah, tell me how it works."

The next week, the girl had a name and a title--Maiko, the apothecary in training.

(written by Luna)

[oldpennyblogwasd]

As Weiss opened her eyes, she was greeted by an ever-more familiar sight. The gentle glow of the morning sun shimmered along the ceiling, rolling and waving through the shadow of an old oak just outside the window gently shaking with the breeze. She could faintly make out the smell of sizzling bacon in the air, and faint voices echoing through the house. Even still, it was quiet in her and Blake’s room, save for the rustling of her blankets as she slowly rose.

Even a week and a day after moving in, Weiss’s mattress still sat directly upon the wooden floor, askew and alone in the corner of her room. Blake’s side of the room was worse off, a half-dozen cardboard boxes of their belongings messily scattered. Weiss was thankful that she hadn’t had any personal belongings she cared to bring with her from Los Angeles, aside from what she’d need for school and—

And for Vytal Fight.

“Ah.”

She shakily stood from her mattress, the aches and pains of the previous night’s game slowly creeping in. She carefully walked over to the full-body mirror Blake had on their side of the room. At the sight of herself, she sighed. 

Her hair was a tangled mess, and her face hadn’t fared much better. A light bruise had formed on her upper cheek near to her ear, a painful reminder of the fierce slap she’d taken. The exact details of the injury were difficult to make out. Half of her vision was blurry, and despite her efforts, she couldn’t focus it. She tried blinking to rid herself of the blur, but all it did was sting.

The doctor said she’d been lucky, that if Cinder had struck even a fraction of an inch closer Weiss would’ve lost her vision permanently. That she had made it out with only a scratched cornea and two deep cuts was ‘better than the worst she could’ve done,’ according to Velvet, but it scarcely felt like it. Weiss had never considered herself a vain person, all-in-all. The makeup, clothing and careful crafting of appearance was always a requirement of being a Schnee, not of being herself. Still, that she would carry this scar with her for the rest of her life? This scar that she’d received from her?

It was more disheartening than infuriating. At the same time, though, it almost felt more… honest, that she should carry a scar with her. It just made more sense.

Mm.

She carefully peeled off the dirtied bandages along her cheek and eyebrow and tossed them into the little black trash can beside the mirror. The bandage on her palm was a little more painful to remove, but she did it all the same, wincing through it. She walked back to her mattress and kneeled to open her bag, extracting from it a box full of fresh bandages. As she tried to open the paper packages they were individually wrapped in, a drop of blood fell onto the hoodie she wore. The red soaked into the black fabric, turning the shade askew. She hurriedly grabbed a paper towel from her bag and dabbed at the wound. It seemed she still bled some, despite the stitches.

Frustration at the inconveniences brewing, she walked back to the mirror and finally reapplied the bandages. Upon looking at the hoodie, though, she sighed. It was two sizes too large and had a cartoon bunny on the front. She was thankful Jaune had lended it to her seeing as her dress had been rendered quite unpresentable, but cleaning it and getting the blood out before she returned it would be yet another thing to worry about. She’d never really had to wash her own clothes back home. The maids always took care of it. While she wasn’t opposed to learning, she couldn’t even begin to guess where to start and could only hope that one of her teammates knew how to go about it. Maybe Ruby—

Oh. The hairs on Weiss’s arms stood up straight as a warmth engulfed her face. She buried herself in her hands, hiding her blush only from herself.

“Oh, god, Weiss… what are we doing?” She whispered to herself.

She leaned forward and touched her forehead to the cold mirror, cursing under her breath as she recalled the most terrifying event from the previous night.

She’d told Ruby her feelings. 

After the match, but before the fight, as the fireworks were blasting and the audience was blaring… well, the excitement and adrenaline had gotten to her. When she stared into Ruby’s eyes in that moment of bliss, she just couldn’t help herself.

Ugh, what was it I even said? Weiss looked into her own eyes, so close as they were in the mirror, and tried to recall the words. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know why.

A chill ran down her spine. It wasn’t a confession, but that didn’t make it feel any less intimate. She wondered how on Earth she would explain it if Ruby asked, but, would she even remember?  Besides…

…does it even matter, now? 

She sighed. The mirror fogged up in response, turning her face into a pale blur. She pulled her forehead away from the glass before walking back to her mattress and ungracefully falling into it. Seeking anything to distract her, to ground her from falling too deep into her own head, she grabbed her pillow and held it tightly to her chest. It didn’t work. The uncertainties of everything still haunted her, with one particular question weighing her down more than any other.

How could I possibly help Ruby? 

For what felt like the dozenth time, Weiss buckled under the weight of having lived a sheltered existence. She didn’t know the words to calm Ruby, to reassure her that she didn’t care she was…

…was what, exactly? 

Weiss immediately came to a few solid conclusions: Teammate, friend, fascination. She’d held no doubts on those fronts any longer, but Ruby was more than that, too. She was an entire person, with an entire life, and Weiss had only the smallest sliver of insight into it. She’d been so preoccupied with preparations for that ridiculous match that she hadn’t even asked Ruby the most basic questions about herself. She hadn’t even realized Ruby was… well, like Penny, it seemed. She was the only point of reference Weiss had, but she knew even less about her.

She didn’t know what to think, nor did she know where to even begin. The general idea was understandable enough, but there was so much about it that eluded her; Why someone would want to switch genders, how one was supposed to act around them, how they even did it. The last was of particular interest. Penny seemed a little scruffy, but Ruby was so… not. The image of rubbing Ruby’s back flashed across Weiss’s mind, and a warmth once again crossed her cheeks.

At least I’m not a lesbian, Weiss mused to herself.

…wait. Is that how that works?

She pursed her lips and looked towards the ceiling. Too many uncertainties, too many big and scary questions. Blegh.

The pit which slowly began to form in her stomach grew deeper. In response, she set her jaw. Her mattress suddenly felt a little less comfortable, and her thoughts became a little more structured.

We need a game plan. She had to be better for Ruby. She had to be there for her, and she couldn’t stay in the dark on it all. If an abundance of questions was her first obstacle towards that goal, then she’d simply have to find the answers.

She tossed her pillow to the side and reached over to her bag, pulled out a silver aluminum laptop, unfolded it and opened Safari. I’ll just google it.

WWW.GOOGLE.COM SEARCH: _______________

Her text cursor blinked idly as she pondered the surprisingly difficult question of what exactly she needed to look up. The words escaped her, and she didn’t quite know where to begin. All she could do was try.

WWW.GOOGLE.COM SEARCH: BECOMING A GIRL About 2,400,000 Results (3.1 Seconds) AdriennesGuide.com - From Girl to Woman, How To Survive Adolescence KansasCityClinic.org - Everything You Need To Know About Puberty Youtube.com - Top 10 Magical Girl Transformations Susie.org - What Do I Do If I’m A Boy, But Wish I Was A Girl?

She clicked the fourth result, and a wall of text appeared. Weiss traced along each and every word, trying to wrap her head around it all as well as she could. She noticed something, though, in that some of it sounded strangely familiar. Where had she…?

Ah. Calavera’s. Ruby’s words stuck with Weiss like glue, quietly traveling along with her all this time.

“You feel like no one gets you, right? Like they don’t even try to. You go through your life trying to be as happy as you can, where you can, but then these stupid societal expectations get put on you by everyone. Even by the people who supposedly love you. They say you’re supposed to just grin and bear it, but every day you get more and more angry because you feel like if they'd just listen to you and let you explain, from the bottom of your heart…”

“Then they’d understand.” Weiss softly repeated her own words. She closed her eyes and gently sighed. “Oh, Ruby….” The air felt still as Weiss blankly stared at the screen, that same familiar feeling in her chest pulsing, the pit deepening. In that second, she wanted nothing in the world more than to hold Ruby once again, as closely as she could. It was the only thing she could think to do.

Her search was interrupted as the door creaked open. 

[nav-eras]

A tap. The sound was above her. Genevieve snapped her chin upwards to see a set of black eyes staring back at her. An arm lazily hung over the canopy of the bed, a cheek pressed against the wood that created the frame of the canopy. Black toiling hair poured outward and over, hanging like the arm. As if she were a giant feline, the woman seemed to preen. Watching with lazy interest at Genevie that took in a sharp breath.

"What."  Genevieve snapped at the woman, and a slow grin curled on the woman's face who stared back.

"Watching, watching, watching." The voice of this dark haired woman seemed to purr out, a raspy curl like that of smoke. So much texture on that voice. Genevieve could feel strings being plucked within her ribs as the voice slithered around the shell of her ear, it strummed something deep within her.

"Why… what do you…want," she swiftly countered hoping to be left in peace for one, single, moment. Could she have a single moment to herself?

The woman moaned, eyes rolling back as lashes veiled her eyes and finally closed. Delight ebbed from her, head turning on the wood as she faced the ceiling.

"Oh, I love… that question, I love answering that question. Ask it again." She mused, savoring it as if it were a piece of chocolate now melting on her tongue.

"…why.." Genevieve seemed struck with the strangeness only to see the wrist roll, motioning her to continue, keep speaking. "What… do you want?"

"Yesssss…" the dark haired woman answered. "I, want," she paused, every word she spoke slowly, creating a spell with each deliberate word, "… everything."

The candid words, the pureness of the answer that radiated from her. Such candor, its honesty seemed to rattle Genevieve's bones. Everything about this woman was inviting and terrifying.

"I want the world to burrrrn. Its cinders to light the fires under these thrones. I want to bleeeed this world and let it drain until it has to start anew." The whispering hymns softened as she turned her head back now to face Genevie and tilted her head to focus in on her own expressionless face. "I did not think the Lion of stone would invite you so quickly into his den. Barely a day. These men…." she mused, there was such an indifference on her tone as she spoke of them.

"Why, why do they all seem to think I am a threat? I barely knew my name when I woke." Genevieve asked, there was an undeniable sensation of a bond between them. As much as this woman seemed to speak like a viper with an unhinged jaw, with a mind shattered, there was something so clear and rueful in her words. Each word was heavy, weighted with truth.

"You are a threat." The woman answered back. Even before she had answered, Genevieve had almost known. As much as it was near impossible to admit, there was something beyond the logic that clicked within her mind that told her of this. "Your very exissssstence is a… threat." The woman licked her lips, before her body began to slump, slowly slide down the wood and roll her body like that of a snake over the edge of the canopy only then to land on her feet and now stand. Rags littered her body, wrapping around curves that would provide agile movements. A draping piece of fabric curled over her arms and then would bind like bandages about her forearms and tucking in-between her fingers. Palms also covered by this beige and blood stained fabric. The rust colors becoming more apparent as she stood in the fire light. White streaked within her black hair and seemed to loom wildly over her shoulders. A belt of daggers grinned menacingly on her waist. They were all different, each one yielding a different hilt, a different curve of a blade. A thick collar of jade pressed against her throat, tied together with leather strands. The overwhelming smell of smoke seemed to envelope her. The smell like when you throw water on a fire to douse the flames. It would cause a curl in the depths of your cheeks as it assaulted the senses. Boots tightly encased her calves, leading up to her knees which were padded with more rags, worn and thread bare. It was as if she attempted to cover up any sort of beauty by rags, to cover it and rust it so it wouldn't pour through yet it could barely be contained. Lips parted, her jaws opening and then snapping shut as if she were trying to contain a roaring need within.

[aspiringauthorintraining]

A Fateful Encounter (3/?)

When I think a castle, this is not what I had pictured.”

Helping you walk up the steps of the entrance, Sophie looked around the dimly lit room with a grimace.

Layers of dirt and cinder covered the entirety of the wooden floor, while cobwebs were strewn on every possible surface of the ceiling. The smell of soot and burnt firewood thinly masked the unpleasant odor emitting from the direction of the kitchen.  The windows rattled every so often with the howling wind, increasing the eery feeling of the castle tenfold.

“I think we should leave while we still can,” she whispered to you while helping you settle into the wooden chair sitting in front of the fireplace.

Feigning not to notice the small eyes watching the two of you silently, you turned to  your friend with a cheeky grin.

“I think it’s homely.”

She didn’t share your humor, giving you a pointed look in return. As she opened her mouth to comment on your nonchalantness of the whole situation, she was interrupted by another voice in the room.

“I don’t envy you, lady. That is one bad curse.”

The girl visibly flinched, whipping her eyes around the room to find the source of the voice. You, however, tried not to laugh at your friend’s response, knowing who had actually spoke.

When she was still looking around the room a minute later, still unsuccessful in her search, you felt pity for the girl and tapped her arm, directing her attention to the voice’s owner.

“The fire spoke?!” Sophie’s eyes went round in disbelief.

Seeing eyes on the now talking fire, she crouched behind the chair you sat on, popping her head out just enough to see from over your shoulder.

“Is that Howl?” she squeaked.

“No, I’m an extremely powerful fire demon named Calcifer.” the fire proclaimed, growing in size for an added effect. Laughing to himself, he returned back to his normal state. “I just like to do that once in a while.”

“A fire demon?!” Sophie’s grip on your shoulders tightened with fear. “We should get out of here, (Y/N)!”

“Don’t worry, Sophie. Calcifer won’t hurt us.” you calmed down your frightened friend. Turning your attention back to the fire demon, you raised a brow recalling his original words. “What do you mean, curse? Sophie isn’t cursed.”

Had you missed something?

“Not your friend” he responded, shaking his head, “you.” When you gave him a blank stare, he returned the look with one of pity. “You didn’t even know you were cursed?”

“How?- Wha-,” you took a breath to calm down. “Wha-who cursed me?!”

“That, I do not know.”

“Then how do you know I’m cursed?”

He shrugged at your question. “I just do. It’s hidden well, but it’s still there.”

“Is there a way to break it?” Sophie asked. “You’re a fire demon- you should be able to break her curse, right?

With the news of her friend being cursed, she now had forgotten about being scared of the fire demon and now confronting him into breaking your cursed state.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Calcifer shrugged again. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can find a way to break the spell that’s on me, then I’ll break the spell that’s on you.”

Sophie gave him a narrowed look before questioning, “If you’re a demon, how do we know we can trust you? Do you promise to help her if we help you?”

“I don’t know, lady. Demons don’t make promises.”

“Then go find someone else.” Sophie crossed her arms. “Come on, (Y/N). Let’s go find someone who we can actually trust to help you.”

As you watched them bicker, you couldn’t help but think what went wrong for you to have been unknowingly cursed. 

Calcifer gave a huff. “Come on! You should feel sorry for me! That spell keeps me stuck in this castle, and Howl treats me like I’m his slave!” He continued his rant by starting to list all of the things he was forced to do by the elusive wizard.

Having a feeling he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, you told your friend to take a rest on the nearby cot located in the adjacent small room. Thankfully, after some heavy convincing, and partly due to her frazzled state from the eventful day before, she eventually relented. It didn’t take long for her to slowly  nodded off to the fire demon’s ramblings.

And eventually, Calcifer came to a close on his monologue.

“-so if you can figure out how to break this thing I’m in with Howl, then you can break my spell. After that, I can easily break the spell that’s on you.”

If only it were that easy.

Sure you could definitely just shove Calcifer into Howl’s chest the minute he returned to the castle the next morning. But you had a feeling that in order to break the curse successfully, it wasn’t the “how” that was important but rather the “who”. And something was telling you that the “who” needed to be someone who was truly in love with Howl, and vice versa; i.e. the future Sophie.

“I have one condition, then.” you said after some hard thinking.

The fire demon huffed, exasperated. “What? I’m giving you a bargain by offering to break your curse! Others charge for that sort of thing you know?”

“Then I guess I’ll just go to someone else then.” you replied, nonchalantly. “Money’s not really an issue after all.” you trailed off. 

At the rustling sound of you attempting to stand up from your seat, Calcifer quickly spoke.

“Okay, okay.” he agreed, reluctantly. “What’s the condition?”

Shuffling back into a comfortable position in your chair, you clasped your hands together with a a smile.

“My condition is that you,” pointing at the fire demon for emphasis,  “do whatever I ask for. Within reason of course.”

“Fine, fine. Do whatever you want. It’s not like I don’t do that already.” He griped. Wanting you to agree to the deal before Sophie woke up and changed your mind again, he asked you once more. “Do we have a deal, then?”

You smiled.

“It’s a deal.”

________________

*(A/N): hehe, we finally met Calcifer.

[misericorsalvator]

2 or 7 for the location thingy?

7. An antique shop that smells of death and decay.

The rumour had started a few nights ago when a couple of kids passed by Basil & Brook's one late afternoon, just after sunset, and heard noises inside. They should have left, but adolescent curiosity is hard to resist, so they made their way to the back of the shop, to the one window the dust hadn't fully covered. The noises, they said, sounded like someone cursing in a language they couldn't understand. Just as they were about to dare each other to go see what it was, a flash flooded the shop, one second of blinding light, carrying with it the smell of cinders, and the instant the kids could see again, they fled as fast as their legs could go. So now, word on the street is the old antique shop is haunted…and the Cell couldn't leave it unchecked. 

The door creaks open, letting in the dim light of the lampposts that litter the streets. It looks striking, garish against the pitch-dark shop, and a whirlwind of dust obscures the hunter's vision even further. He slips in through the doorway, the heavy leather coat blending in with the shadows, but the wooden floorboards creak and squeal under even the lightest step. With each sound, any hope he may have had for the element of surprise diminishes a bit more. 

Still, there are all sorts of things that wander the streets at night, sneak into abandoned places through broken windows and crumbling doors fallen ajar, and an old abandoned antique shop like this one ought to draw in its fair share of rats and cats. And although none of them are the boot-wearing type, not outside of fairy tales, there's still a slim chance, a tiny hope, that whatever's in here won't pin the sounds on a human. 

For a brief moment, there's still the saving grace of the streets outside, fresh air and light slipping through the shop's entrance, but not three steps in, that saving grace is gone. 

It strikes him like a punch to the stomach. The thick, pungent stench of humidity sticking to the mouldy wood, of death and decay for every decomposing rat carcass, eaten away by cats and flies and left to rot. It's…. 'Sickening', Henry's mind provides, naming that feeling in his gut, and Henry tries to breathe through his mouth instead to keep the smell out. 

It works enough to offer a slight relief as he wades through the rising dust clouds and sidesteps around the half-covered furniture and antique curios strewn about the shop. About halfway to the counter, he starts to hear it; the skittering of small creatures in the walls, in the ceiling above him, moving under the floor with each step he takes. Rats, termites, who have made this place their home, testing the waters to see if this invader in their house is a threat, and Henry's about to wave it off as such– when a crash echoes under him, and at once thousands of critters scatter. Following a string of foreign words of frustration -just like the kids had described- Henry goes around behind the counter, where the voice is louder right under the thin red rug spotted with signs of termite infestation. He kicks it aside to reveal a small iron latch on a loose, square panel made from a slightly darker wood than the rest of the floor. The latch has rusted over with time, stuck from disuse enough to be a struggle, and when it slides open, it's loud– but by sheer damn luck, it's drowned out by another crash from below.

His heart jumps to his throat, deafening for a moment, but he clenches his fists and steels himself. He hasn't lost the element of surprise, not yet. And as he pulls open the wooden panel to reveal the hatch underneath, it does him the small mercy of being silent.  

Henry takes the shotgun holstered on his back, checks that it's loaded and ready, and with his good hand on the trigger, he heads down. 

The steps to the basement caved in long ago, chomping marks from rats sticking out on the bits that are left, but now the voices and mayhem are loud enough to muffle the creaking of the wood. Quietly, he crouches down behind a crooked bookshelf, holds his breath to listen in…

There are two of them, he realises. The foreign one's voice is hoarse and raspy like a long-time smoker's, and the other's, offering words of encouragement, is softer, lighter…

…Familiar.

"Ozzy, darling, maybe it's not here."

“Oh, no, no, dieses Arschloch hat es gestohlen, es muss hier sein-”

Henry steps out from his hiding place– and lowers his shotgun when he finally sees the speakers and recognises them. 

"Briars?" 

There, like thieves caught red-handed, are Kitty and her sorcerer, surrounded by piles of antiquities thrown on the floor. 

"Henry!" "The hunter!" they pipe up at the same time, and the scaly scarf around the sorcerer's neck uncoils and hisses. 

Of course the snake's here too. 

He'll write it off as burglars in the report tomorrow, or a couple of delinquents pulling a prank for Halloween. For now, though, he hopes there's a damn good explanation for this.

[katsukikitten]

I've fought with myself on how I would end this or if I would ever do an alternate ending but this is it. This is the ending. Maybe one day I'll do an alternate. Big warning, graphic violence depicted. Gonna slap gore on here just in case

Thanks to all of y'all who followed this series. Master list here

The smell of damp Earth and pungent chemicals assault your nostrils as your vision rapidly fades in and out.

As if you were watching an old film, images flickering by just fast enough to give it the effect of motion.

But this felt like a horror film.

Stomach twisted as disorination seeps into every fiber of muscle, seizing it up like a misplaced cog in the machine.

Breath comes quick and yet slow at the same time, shallow puffs of fog floating from your mouth before the large silhouette comes into view.

His lips stretched too thin over his wide smile. Green eyes gleaming with manic glee and almost glowing in the low light that came in beneath the black trash bags covering the windows.

"Finally my doll. You're awake." His voice sounds hoarse as if he's choked up, he clears his throat, presenting the folded black cloth that was in his ends. It unravels to full length and the horror that skates through your sluggish blood is deafening. It's a hero suit, your first hero suit. The one that was stolen by that scummy politician's son who threatened to black mail you. His hand points to the portion of the zipper by where your stomach would be, his eyebrows knit angrily together.

"It took me ages to get this stain out." He's frothing at the mouth, spit collecting in the corners as he raises his voice, "That fucking pig! Almost ruining this one of a kind piece! He claimed it was mint condition and when it wasn't when I got it. Well let's just say he isn't in mint condition anymore."

He laughs at his own joke, squatting down to lean closer. Tracing his finger over your bare skin, it is then you realize you are stark naked.

"He should have been a gentleman. He should have been more like me." He sighs, petting you as you shake from the cold, from rage.

From fear.

With no audience but the shining glass eyes that sparkle behind you and two hollow holes too large for pretty stained glass to sit in. You gag as he presses his lips to you and he smiles into the kiss.

"I promise I won't spill a drop, I'll make sure it all stays inside you." His rough hands grab for your breasts as you realize just exactly what his intentions are, "Then you will be my perfectly stuffed doll."

Rage outweighs the fear as your power burns in your palms. The normal subtle glow of your power illuminates the large space and your eyes glow as his contraption injects you with dose after dose of sedative. You send him flying into the wall, head cracking as blood drips down the cinder blocks. The walls shake from the pressure of your power.

No one is coming to save you, so you might as well save yourself. You'll bring this entire house down and kill both of you before you ever give this asshole the satisfaction.

Your vision blurs and it's becoming harder to pull the house towards you, a beam or two fall from the ceiling but the drug is catching up. Turning your blood to ice and the vibrance of your quirk is beginning to dull.

And he's beginning to regain consciousness.

He stands, spitting blood as his pupils blow wide. His arm stretches out and his flesh stinking of formaldehyde as it violates your nostril and mouth, meeting in your throat to ensure your airway is blocked.

"YOU STUPID BITCH!" He's so angry he's shaking, crying as he pulls you up with his arm still lodged in your throat, "You're just like the fucking rest of them. So...so ungrateful. I'm giving you what every stupid bitch dreams of. Immortalized beauty. You'll literally be a doll and still you...you fight me. I…"

He is at a loss for words for a moment, meanwhile your peripheral blackens, your once scratching nails go slack and your quirk doesn't answer when you call.

"I would have loved you forever. Just as you were but now…" He monologues on and you slip even further down into an inky black.

A crash overhead sounds out, someone's yelling but you can't make out who it is or what they are saying.

The last thing you see is the green eyed man panicking, whispering something and the last thing you feel is a mind numbing pain in your left eye competing with the burning in your lungs. Your heart beat slows.

Slower and slower until finally it doesn't beat at all. In your final moments you realize something horrifically true.

Sometimes there are no happy endings.